E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,

E'en so we join'd; we both became entire;

No need for either to renew a suit,

For I was flax and he was flames of fire:

Our firm-united souls did more than twine;

So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.

If all those glittering Monarchs that command

The servile quarters of this earthly ball,

Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,

I would not change my fortunes for them all:

Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:

The world's but theirs; but my Belovéd's mine.

_F. Quarles_

CXXIV

_TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING_

Bid me to live, and I will live

Thy Protestant to be:

Or bid me love, and I will give

A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,

A heart as sound and free

As in the whole world thou canst find,

That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,

To honour thy decree:

Or bid it languish quite away,

And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep

While I have eyes to see:

And having none, yet I will keep

A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair,

Under that cypress tree:

Or bid me die, and I will dare

E'en Death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,

The very eyes of me,

And hast command of every part,

To live and die for thee.

_R. Herrick_

CXXV

Love not me for comely grace,

For my pleasing eye or face,

Nor for any outward part,

No, nor for my constant heart,--

For those may fail, or turn to ill,

So thou and I shall sever:

Keep therefore a true woman's eye,

And love me still, but know not why--

So hast thou the same reason still

To doat upon me ever!

_Anon._

CXXVI

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 thee

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 further store,

And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more,

'Tis easy to be true.

_Sir C. Sedley_

CXXVII

_TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON_

When Love with unconfinéd wings

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;

When I lie tangled in her hair

And fetter'd to her eye,

The Gods that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound,

Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free--

Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

When, (like committed linnets), I

With shriller throat shall sing

The sweetness, mercy, majesty

And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,

Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone, that soar above,

Enjoy such liberty.

_Colonel Lovelace_

CXXVIII

_TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS_

If to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that when I am gone

You or I were alone;

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale

To swell my sail,

Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage;

For whether he will let me pass

Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and land betwixt us both,

Our faith and troth,

Like separated souls,

All time and space controls:

Above the highest sphere we meet

Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate

Our after-fate,

And are alive i' the skies,

If thus our lips and eyes

Can speak like spirits unconfined

In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

_Colonel Lovelace_

CXXIX

_ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER_

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prythee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The D--l take her!

_Sir J. Suckling_

CXXX

_A SUPPLICATION_

Awake, awake, my Lyre!

And tell thy silent master's humble tale

In sounds that may prevail;

Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:

Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be

Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark, how the strings awake!

And, though the moving hand approach not near,

Themselves with awful fear

A kind of numerous trembling make.

Now all thy forces try;

Now all thy charms apply;

Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

Is useless here, since thou art only found

To cure, but not to wound,

And she to wound, but not to cure.

Too weak too wilt thou prove

My passion to remove;

Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!

For thou canst never tell my humble tale

In sounds that will prevail,

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;

All thy vain mirth lay by,

Bid thy strings silent lie,

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

_A. Cowley_

CXXXI

_THE MANLY HEART_

Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care

'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day

Or the flowery meads in May--

If she think not well of me

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my silly heart be pined

'Cause I see a woman kind;

Or a well disposed nature

Joinéd with a lovely feature?

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 well-deservings known

Make me quite forget mine own?

Be she with, that goodness blest

Which may merit name of Best;

If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,

Shall I play the fool and die?

She that bears a noble mind

If not outward helps she find,

Thinks what with them he would do

Who without them dares her woo;

And unless that mind I see,

What care I how 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?

_G. Wither_

CXXXII

_MELANCHOLY_

Hence, all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly:

There's nought in this life sweet

If man were wise to see't,

But only melancholy,

O sweetest Melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,

A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,

A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,

Places which pale passion loves!

Moonlight walks, when all the fowls

Are warmly housed save bats and owls!

A midnight bell, a parting groan!

These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

_J. Fletcher_

CXXXIII

_FORSAKEN_

O waly waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae,

And waly waly yon burn-side

Where I and my Love wont to gae!

I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;

But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,

Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly waly, but love be bonny

A little time while it is new;

But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld

And fades awa' like morning dew.

O wherefore should I busk my head?

Or wherefore should I kame my hair?

For my true Love has me forsook,

And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:

Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,

Since my true Love has forsaken me.

Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw

And shake the green leaves aff the tree?

O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?

For of my life I am wearíe.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;

'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town

We were a comely sight to see;

My Love was clad in the black velvét,

And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kist,

That love had been sae ill to win;

I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd

And pinn'd it with a siller pin.

And, O! if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,

And I mysell were dead and gane,

And the green grass growing over me!

_Anon._

CXXXIV

Upon my lap my sovereign sits

And sucks upon my breast;

Meantime his love maintains my life

And gives my sense her rest.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast,

Repose, my babe, on me;

So may thy mother and thy nurse

Thy cradle also be.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work

All that my wishing would,

Because I would not be to thee

But in the best I should.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may,

I must and will be thine,

Though all too little for thy self

Vouchsafing to be mine.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

_Anon._

CXXXV

_FAIR HELEN_

I wish I were where Helen lies;

Night and day on me she cries;

O that I were where Helen lies

On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,

And curst the hand that fired the shot,

When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succour me!

O think na but my heart was sair

When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!

I laid her down wi' meikle care

On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side,

None but my foe to be my guide,

None but my foe to be my guide,

On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,

I hackéd him in pieces sma',

I hackéd him in pieces sma',

For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!

I'll make a garland of thy hair

Shall bind my heart for evermair

Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies!

Night and day on me she cries;

Out of my bed she bids me rise,

Says, 'Haste and come to me!'

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!

If I were with thee, I were blest,

Where thou lies low and takes thy rest

On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,

A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,

And I in Helen's arms lying,

On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies;

Night and day on me she cries;

And I am weary of the skies,

Since my Love died for me.

_Anon._

CXXXVI

_THE TWA CORBIES_

As I was walking all alane

I heard twa corbies making a mane;

The tane unto the t'other say,

'Where sall we gang and dine today?'

'--In behint yon auld fail dyke,

I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;

And naebody kens that he lies there,

But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

'His hound is to the hunting gane,

His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,

His lady's ta'en another mate,

So we may mak our dinner sweet.

'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,

And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een:

Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair

We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

'Mony a one for him makes mane,

But nane sall ken where he is gane;

O'er his white banes, when they are bare,

The wind sall blaw for evermair.'

_Anon._

CXXXVII

_ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY_

It was a dismal and a fearful night,--

Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,

When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,

By something liker death possest.

My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

And on my soul hung the dull weight

Of some intolerable fate.

What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!

My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,

Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,

Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?

O thou hast left me all alone!

Thy soul and body, when death's agony

Besieged around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part

Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,

Have ye not seen us walking every day?

Was there a tree about which did not know

The love betwixt us two?

Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,

Or your sad branches thicker join,

And into darksome shades combine,

Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er

Submitted to inform a body here;

High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,

But low and humble as his grave;

So high that all the virtues there did come

As to the chiefest seat

Conspicuous, and great;

So low that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,

As if for him knowledge had rather sought;

Nor did more learning ever crowded lie

In such a short mortality.

Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,

Still did the notions throng

About his eloquent tongue;

Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,

Yet never did his God or friends forget.

And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,

Retired, and gave to them their due.

For the rich help of books he always took,

Though his own searching mind before

Was so with notions written o'er,

As if wise Nature had made that her book.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety,

He always lived, as other saints do die.

Still with his soul severe account he kept,

Weeping all debts out ere he slept.

Then down in peace and innocence he lay,

Like the sun's laborious light,

Which still in water sets at night,

Unsullied with his journey of the day.

_A. Cowley_

CXXXVIII

_FRIENDS IN PARADISE_

They are all gone into the world of light!

And I alone sit lingering here;

Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear:--

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,

After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days:

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me,

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,

Shining no where, but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair well or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep;

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

And into glory peep.

_H. Vaughan_

CXXXIX

_TO BLOSSOMS_

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall 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 show your worth,

And lose you quite.

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.

_R. Herrick_

CXL

_TO DAFFODILS_

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon:

As yet the early-rising Sun

Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,

We 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.

_R. Herrick_

CXLI

_THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN_

With sweetest milk and sugar first

I it at my own fingers nursed;

And as it grew, so every day

It wax'd more white and sweet than they--

It had so sweet a breath! and oft

I blush'd to see its foot more soft

And white,--shall I say,--than my hand?

Nay, any lady's of the land!

It is a wondrous thing how fleet

'Twas on those little silver feet:

With what a pretty skipping grace

It oft would challenge me the race:--

And when 't had left me far away

'Twould stay, and run again, and stay:

For it was nimbler much than hinds,

And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown

And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness:

And all the spring-time of the year

It only lovéd to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie;

Yet could not, till itself would rise,

Find it, although before mine eyes:--

For in the flaxen lilies' shade

It like a bank of lilies laid.

Upon the roses it would feed,

Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed:

And then to me 'twould boldly trip,

And print those roses on my lip.

But all its chief delight was still

On roses thus itself to fill,

And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold:--

Had it lived long, it would have been

Lilies without--roses within.

_A. Marvell_

CXLII

_THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN_

How vainly men themselves amaze

To win the palm, the oak, or bays,

And their uncessant labours see

Crown'd from some single herb or tree,

Whose short and narrow-vergéd 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 hers exceed!

Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,

No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passions' heat

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 reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead!

Ripe apples drop about my head;

The 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 with flowers, I 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

While man there walk'd 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 'twere 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, th' industrious bee

Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours

Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!

_A. Marvell_

CXLIII

_FORTUNATI NIMIUM_

Jack and Joan, they think no ill,

But loving live, and merry still;

Do their week-day's work, and pray

Devoutly on the holy-day:

Skip and trip it on the green,

And help to choose the Summer Queen;

Lash out at a country feast

Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale,

And tell at large a winter tale;

Climb up to the apple loft,

And turn the crabs till they be soft.

Tib is all the father's joy,

And little Tom the mother's boy:--

All their pleasure is, Content,

And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows

And deck her windows with green boughs;

She can wreaths and tutties make,

And trim with plums a bridal cake.

Jack knows what brings gain or loss,

And his long flail can stoutly toss:

Makes the hedge which others break,

And ever thinks what he doth speak.

--Now, you courtly dames and knights,

That study only strange delights,

Though you scorn the homespun gray,

And revel in your rich array;

Though your tongues dissemble deep

And can your heads from danger keep;

Yet, for all your pomp and train,

Securer lives the silly swain!

_T. Campion_

CXLIV

_L'ALLEGRO_

Hence, loathéd Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born

In Stygian cave forlorn

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!

Find out some uncouth cell

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings

And the night-raven sings;

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou Goddess fair and free,

In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,

And by men, heart-easing Mirth,

Whom lovely Venus at a birth

With two sister Graces more

To ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore;

Or whether (as some sager sing)

The frolic wind that breathes the spring

Zephyr, with Aurora playing,

As he met her once a-Maying--

There on beds of violets blue

And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew

Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,

So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

Jest, and youthful jollity,

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Nods, and becks, and wreathéd smiles

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides:--

Come, and trip it as you go

On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee

The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;

And if I give thee honour due

Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee

In unreprovéd pleasures free;

To hear the lark begin his flight

And singing startle the dull night

From his watch-tower in the skies,

Till the dappled dawn doth rise;

Then to come, in spite of sorrow,

And at my window bid good-morrow

Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,

Or the twisted eglantine:

While the cock with lively din

Scatters the rear of darkness thin,

And to the stack, or the barn-door,

Stoutly struts his dames before:

Oft listening how the hounds and horn

Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,

From the side of some hoar hill,

Through the high wood echoing shrill:

Sometime walking, not unseen,

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,

Right against the eastern gate

Where the great Sun begins his state

Robed in flames and amber light,

The clouds in thousand liveries dight;

While the ploughman, near at hand,

Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,

And the milkmaid singeth blithe,

And the mower whets his scythe,

And every shepherd tells his tale

Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures

Whilst the landscape round it measures;

Russet lawns, and fallows gray,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray;

Mountains, on whose barren breast

The labouring clouds do often rest;

Meadows trim with daisies pied,

Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;

Towers and battlements it sees

Bosom'd high in tufted trees,

Where perhaps some Beauty lies,

The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes

From betwixt two aged oaks,

Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,

Are at their savoury dinner set

Of herbs, and other country messes

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;

And then in haste her bower she leaves

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;

Or, if the earlier season lead,

To the tann'd haycock in the mead.

Sometimes with secure delight

The upland hamlets will invite,

When the merry bells ring round,

And the jocund rebecks sound

To many a youth and many a maid,

Dancing in the chequer'd shade;

And young and old come forth to play

On a sunshine holyday,

Till the live-long day-light fail:

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,

With stories told of many a feat,

How Faery Mab the junkets eat:--

She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said;

And he, by Friar's lantern led;

Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat

To earn his cream-bowl duly set,

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,

His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn

That ten day-labourers could not end;

Then lies him down the lubber fiend,

And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,

Basks at the fire his hairy strength;

And crop-full out of doors he flings,

Ere the first cock his matin rings.

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,

By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.

Tower'd cities please us then

And the busy hum of men,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold,

In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes

Rain influence, and judge the prize

Of wit or arms, while both contend

To win her grace, whom all commend.

There let Hymen oft appear

In saffron robe, with taper clear,

And pomp, and feast, and revelry,

With mask, and antique pageantry;

Such sights as youthful poets dream

On summer eves by haunted stream.

Then to the well-trod stage anon,

If Jonson's learned sock be on,

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,

Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever against eating cares

Lap me in soft Lydian airs

Married to immortal verse,

Such as the meeting soul may pierce

In notes, with many a winding bout

Of linkéd sweetness long drawn out,

With wanton heed and giddy cunning,

The melting voice through mazes running,

Untwisting all the chains that tie

The hidden soul of harmony;

That Orpheus' self may heave his head

From golden slumber, on a bed

Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear

Such strains as would have won the ear

Of Pluto, to have quite set free

His half-regain'd Eurydice.

These delights if thou canst give,

Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

_J. Milton_

CXLV

_IL PENSEROSO_

Hence, vain deluding Joys,

The brood of Folly without father bred!

How little you bestead

Or fill the fixéd mind with all your toys!

Dwell in some idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess

As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,

Or likest hovering dreams,

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.

But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,

Hail, divinest Melancholy!

Whose saintly visage is too bright

To hit the sense of human sight,

And therefore to our weaker view

O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;

Black, but such as in esteem

Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,

Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove

To set her beauty's praise above

The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:

Yet thou art higher far descended:

Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,

To solitary Saturn bore;

His daughter she; in Saturn's reign

Such mixture was not held a stain:

Oft in glimmering bowers and glades

He met her, and in secret shades

Of woody Ida's inmost grove,

While yet there was no fear of Jove.

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,

Sober, steadfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain

Flowing with majestic train,

And sable stole of Cipres lawn

Over thy decent shoulders drawn:

Come, but keep thy wonted state,

With even step, and musing gait,

And looks commercing with the skies,

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:

There, held in holy passion still,

Forget thyself to marble, till

With a sad leaden downward cast

Thou fix them on the earth as fast:

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,

And hears the Muses in a ring

Aye round about Jove's altar sing:

And add to these retired Leisure

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:--

But first and chiefest, with thee bring

Him that yon soars on golden wing

Guiding the fiery-wheeléd throne,

The cherub Contemplatión;

And the mute Silence hist along,

'Less Philomel will deign a song

In her sweetest saddest plight

Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke

Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.

--Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,

Most musical, most melancholy!

Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among

I woo, to hear thy even-song;

And missing thee, I walk unseen

On the dry smooth-shaven green,

To behold the wandering Moon

Riding near her highest noon,

Like one that had been led astray

Through the heaven's wide pathless way,

And oft, as if her head she bow'd,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground

I hear the far-off Curfeu sound

Over some wide-water'd shore,

Swinging slow with sullen roar:

Or, if the air will not permit,

Some still removéd place will fit,

Where glowing embers through the room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;

Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

Or the bellman's drowsy charm

To bless the doors from nightly harm.

Or let my lamp at midnight hour

Be seen in some high lonely tower,

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear

With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere

The spirit of Plato, to unfold

What worlds or what vast regions hold

The immortal mind, that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook:

And of those demons that are found

In fire, air, flood, or under ground,

Whose power hath a true consent

With planet, or with element.

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy

In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,

Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,

Or the tale of Troy divine;

Or what (though rare) of later age

Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power

Might raise Musaeus from his bower,

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes as, warbled to the string,

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek

And made Hell grant what Love did seek!

Or call up him that left half-told

The story of Cambuscan bold,

Of Camball, and of Algarsife,

And who had Canacé to wife

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;

And of the wondrous horse of brass

On which the Tartar king did ride:

And if aught else great bards beside

In sage and solemn tunes have sung

Of turneys, and of trophies hung,

Of forests, and enchantments drear,

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited Morn appear,

Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont

With the Attic Boy to hunt,

But kercheft in a comely cloud

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or usher'd with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,

Ending on the rustling leaves

With minute drops from off the eaves.

And when the sun begins to fling

His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring

To archéd walks of twilight groves,

And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,

Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt

Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.

There in close covert by some brook

Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from day's garish eye,

While the bee with honey'd thigh

That at her flowery work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring,

With such consort as they keep

Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;

And let some strange mysterious dream

Wave at his wings in airy stream

Of lively portraiture display'd,

Softly on my eyelids laid:

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,

Or the unseen Genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail

To walk the studious cloister's pale,

And love the high-embowéd roof,

With antique pillars massy proof,

And storied windows richly dight

Casting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow

To the full-voiced quire below

In service high and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage,

The hairy gown and mossy cell

Where I may sit and rightly spell

Of every star that heaven doth shew,

And every herb that sips the dew;

Till old experience do attain

To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give,

And I with thee will choose to live.

_J. Milton_

CXLVI

_SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA_

Where the remote Bermudas ride

In the ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat that row'd along

The listening winds received this song.

'What should we do but sing His praise

That led us through the watery maze

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,

That lift the deep upon their backs,

Unto an isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own?

He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:

He gave us this eternal Spring

Which here enamels everything,

And sends the fowls to us in care

On daily visits through the air.

He hangs in shades the orange bright

Like golden lamps in a green night,

And does in the pomegranates close

Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:

He makes the figs our mouths to meet

And throws the melons at our feet;

But apples plants of such a price,

No tree could ever bear them twice.

With cedars chosen by His hand

From Lebanon He stores the land;

And makes the hollow seas that roar

Proclaim the ambergris on shore.

He cast (of which we rather boast)

The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;

And in these rocks for us did frame

A temple where to sound His name.

Oh! let our voice His praise exalt

Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,

Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may

Echo beyond the Mexique bay!'

--Thus sung they in the English boat

A holy and a cheerful note:

And all the way, to guide their chime,

With falling oars they kept the time.

_A. Marvell_

CXLVII

_AT A SOLEMN MUSIC_

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,

Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!

Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ,

Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;

And to our high-raised phantasy present

That undisturbéd Song of pure concent

Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne

To Him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;

Where the bright Seraphim in burning row

Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;

And the Cherubic host in thousand quires

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,

With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,

Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly:

That we on Earth, with undiscording voice

May rightly answer that melodious noise;

As once we did, till disproportion'd sin

Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din

Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd

In perfect diapason, whilst they stood

In first obedience, and their state of good.

O may we soon again renew that Song,

And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long

To His celestial consort us unite,

To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!

_J. Milton_

CXLVIII

_NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM_.

When I survey the bright

Celestial sphere:

So rich with jewels hung, that night

Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;

My soul her wings doth spread,

And heaven-ward flies,

The Almighty's mysteries to read

In the large volumes of the skies.

For the bright firmament

Shoots forth no flame

So silent, but is eloquent

In speaking the Creator's name.

No unregarded star

Contracts its light

Into so small a character,

Removed far from our human sight,

But if we steadfast look,

We shall discern

In it as in some holy book,

How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

It tells the Conqueror,

That far-stretch'd power

Which his proud dangers traffic for,

Is but the triumph of an hour.

That from the farthest North

Some nation may

Yet undiscover'd issue forth,

And o'er his new-got conquest sway.

Some nation yet shut in

With hills of ice,

May be let out to scourge his sin,

Till they shall equal him in vice.

And then they likewise shall

Their ruin have;

For as yourselves your Empires fall,

And every Kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires,

Though seeming mute,

The fallacy of our desires

And all the pride of life, confute.

For they have watch'd since first

The World had birth:

And found sin in itself accursed,

And nothing permanent on earth.

_W. Habington_

CXLIX

_HYMN TO DARKNESS_

Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!

What Muse is worthy thee to sing?

Thee, from whose pregnant universal womb

All things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come.

What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,

Thou first and greatest mystery?

Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?

Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible.

Before great Love this monument did raise,

This ample theatre of praise;

Before the folding circles of the sky

Were tuned by Him, Who is all harmony;

Before the morning Stars their hymn began,

Before the council held for man,

Before the birth of either time or place,

Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space.

Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,

But still half of the globe is thine.

Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand,

Like the best emperors thou dost command.

To thee the stars above their brightness owe,

And mortals their repose below:

To thy protection fear and sorrow flee,

And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.

_J. Norris of Bemerton_

CL

_A VISION_

I saw Eternity the other night,

Like a great ring of pure and endless light,

All calm, as it was bright:--

And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,

Driven by the spheres,

Like a vast shadow moved; in which the World

And all her train were hurl'd.

_H. Vaughan_

CLI

_ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC_

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son--

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne;

His valiant peers were placed around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,

(So should desert in arms be crown'd);

The lovely Thais by his side

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride

In flower of youth and beauty's pride:--

Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave

None but the brave

None but the brave deserves the fair!

Timotheus placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:

The trembling notes ascend the sky

And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove

Who left his blissful seats above--

Such is the power of mighty love!

A dragon's fiery form belied the god;

Sublime on radiant spires he rode

When he to fair Olympia prest,

And while he sought her snowy breast,

Then round her slender waist he curl'd,

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.

--The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;

A present deity! they shout around:

A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:

With ravish'd ears

The monarch hears,

Assumes the god;

Affects to nod

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,

Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:

The jolly god in triumph comes;

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!

Flush'd with a purple grace

He shows his honest face:

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!

Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain;

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;

Fought all his battles o'er again,

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!

The master saw the madness rise,

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;

And while he Heaven and Earth defied

Changed his hand and check'd his pride.

He chose a mournful Muse

Soft pity to infuse:

He sung Darius great and good,

By too severe a fate

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,

Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood;

Deserted at his utmost need

By those his former bounty fed;

On the bare earth exposed he lies

With not a friend to close his eyes.

--With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,

Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of Chance below;

And now and then a sigh he stole,

And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled to see

That love was in the next degree;

'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,

For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures

Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble,

Honour but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,

Fighting still, and still destroying;

If the world be worth thy winning,

Think, O think, it worth enjoying:

Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee!

--The many rend the skies with loud applause

So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,

Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:

At length with love and wine at once opprest

The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again:

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!

Break his bands of sleep asunder

And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark, hark! the horrid sound

Has raised up his head:

As awaked from the dead

And amazed he stares around.

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,

See the Furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain

And unburied remain

Inglorious on the plain:

Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew!

Behold how they toss their torches on high,

How they point to the Persian abodes

And glittering temples of their hostile gods.

--The princes applaud with a furious joy:

And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way

To light him to his prey,

And like another Helen, fired another Troy!

--Thus, long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,

While organs yet were mute,

Timotheus, to his breathing flute

And sounding lyre

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire

At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before

--Let old Timotheus yield the prize

Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies;

She drew an angel down!

_J. Dryden_

The Golden Treasury

Book Third

CLII

_ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE_

Now the golden Morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,

With vermeil cheek and whisper soft

She woos the tardy Spring:

Till April starts, and calls around

The sleeping fragrance from the ground,

And lightly o'er the living scene

Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,

Frisking ply their feeble feet;

Forgetful of their wintry trance

The birds his presence greet:

But chief, the sky-lark warbles high

His trembling thrilling ecstasy;

And lessening from the dazzled sight,

Melts into air and liquid light.

Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;

Mute was the music of the air,

The herd stood drooping by:

Their raptures now that wildly flow

No yesterday nor morrow know;

'Tis Man alone that joy descries

With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past misfortune's brow

Soft reflection's hand can trace,

And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw

A melancholy grace;

While hope prolongs our happier hour,

Or deepest shades, that dimly lour

And blacken round our weary way,

Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy pleasure leads,

See a kindred grief pursue;

Behind the steps that misery treads

Approaching comfort view:

The hues of bliss more brightly glow

Chastised by sabler tints of woe,

And blended form, with artful strife,

The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has tost

On the thorny bed of pain,

At length repair his vigour lost

And breathe and walk again:

The meanest floweret of the vale,

The simplest note that swells the gale,

The common sun, the air, the skies,

To him are opening Paradise.

_T. Gray_

CLIII

_ODE TO SIMPLICITY_

O Thou, by Nature taught

To breathe her genuine thought

In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;

Who first, on mountains wild,

In Fancy, loveliest child,

Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!

Thou, who with hermit heart,

Disdain'st the wealth of art,

And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,

But com'st, a decent maid

In Attic robe array'd,

O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!

By all the honey'd store

On Hybla's thymy shore,

By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;

By her whose love-lorn woe

In evening musings slow

Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:

By old Cephisus deep,

Who spread his wavy sweep

In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat;

On whose enamell'd side,

When holy Freedom died,

No equal haunt allured thy future feet:--

O sister meek of Truth,

To my admiring youth

Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!

The flowers that sweetest breathe,

Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,

Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.

While Rome could none esteem

But Virtue's patriot theme,

You loved her hills, and led her laureat band;

But stay'd to sing alone

To one distinguish'd throne;

And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.

No more, in hall or bower,

The Passions own thy power;

Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:

For thou hast left her shrine;

Nor olive more, nor vine,

Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

Though taste, though genius, bless

To some divine excess,

Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;

What each, what all supply

May court, may charm our eye;

Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!

Of these let others ask

To aid some mighty task;

I only seek to find thy temperate vale;

Where oft my reed might sound

To maids and shepherds round,

And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.

_W. Collins_

CLIV

_SOLITUDE_

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 mixt, 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.

_A. Pope_

CLV

_THE BLIND BOY_

O say what is that thing call'd 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;

I 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 always day.

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.

_C. Cibber_

CLVI

_ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES_

'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 purr'd 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

Through richest purple, to the view

Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:

A whisker first, and then a claw

With many an ardent wish

She stretch'd, 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 stretch'd, 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 mew'd 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 glisters, gold!

_T. Gray_

CLVII

_TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY_

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, blithe 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 abandon'd 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.

_A. Philips_

CLVIII

_RULE BRITANNIA_

When Britain first at Heaven's command

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of her land,

And guardian angels sung the strain:

Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!

Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee

Must in their turn to tyrants fall,

Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free

The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;

As the loud blast that tears the skies

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;

All their attempts to bend thee down

Will but arouse thy generous flame,

And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;

All thine shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair;

Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd

And manly hearts to guard the fair:--

Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!

Britons never shall be slaves!

_J. Thomson_

CLIX

_THE BARD_

_Pindaric Ode_

'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!

Confusion on thy banners wait;

Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing

They mock the air with idle state.

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'

--Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,

As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array:--

Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;

'To arms!', cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe

With haggard eyes the Poet stood;

(Loose his beard and hoary hair

Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)

And with a master's hand and prophet's fire

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:

'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!

O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main:

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:

Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie

Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:

Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;

The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,

Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries--

No more I weep; They do not sleep;

On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,

I see them sit; They linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

_Weave the warp and weave the woof

The winding sheet of Edward's race:

Give ample room and verge enough

The characters of hell to trace.

Mark the year, and mark the night,

When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,

Shrieks of an agonizing king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

The scourge of heaven! What terrors round him wait!

Amazement in his van, with flight combined,

And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind._

_'Mighty victor, mighty lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

No pitying heart, no eye, afford

A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.

The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?

--Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes:

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:

Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,

That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey._

_'Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest,

Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havock urge their destined course,

And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,

With many afoul and midnight murder fed,

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,

And spare the meek usurpers holy head!

Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:

The bristled boar in infant-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom,

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom._

_'Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof; The thread is spun;)

Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove; The work is done.)_

--Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:

In yon bright track that fires the western skies

They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:--

All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

'Girt with many a baron bold

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old

In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line:

Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face

Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,

What strains of vocal transport round her play?

Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,

Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings.

'The verse adorn again

Fierce war, and faithful love,

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures move

Pale grief, and pleasing pain,

With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice as of the cherub-choir

Gales from blooming Eden bear,

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud

Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign:

Be thine despair and sceptred care,

To triumph and to die are mine,'

--He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height

Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

_T. Gray_

CLX

_ODE WRITTEN IN 1746_

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest

By all their country's wishes blest!

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,

She there shall dress a sweeter sod

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,

By forms unseen their dirge is sung:

There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay;

And Freedom shall awhile repair

To dwell a weeping hermit there!

_W. Collins_

CLXI

_LAMENT FOR CULLODEN_

The lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;

For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!

And aye the saut tear blins her ee:

Drumossie moor--Drumossie day--

A waefu' day it was to me!

For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,

Their graves are growing green to see:

And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's ee!

Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,

A bluidy man I trow thou be;

For mony a heart thou hast made sair

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.

_R. Burns_

CLXII

_LAMENT FOR FLODDEN_

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,

Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;

Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;

At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;

But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie--

The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,

The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;

Women and bairns are heartless and wae;

Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

_J. Elliott_

CLXIII

_THE BRAES OF YARROW_

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,

When first on them I met my lover;

Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,

When now thy waves his body cover!

For ever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;

For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!

He promised me a milk-white steed

To bear me to his father's bowers;

He promised me a little page

To squire me to his father's towers;

He promised me a wedding-ring,--

The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;--

Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met;

My passion I as freely told him;

Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought

That I should never more behold him!

Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;

It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;

Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.

His mother from the window look'd

With all the longing of a mother;

His little sister weeping walk'd

The greenwood path to meet her brother;

They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough;

They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look--

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!

No longer walk, thou lovely maid;

Alas, thou hast no more a brother!

No longer seek him east or west

And search no more the forest thorough;

For, wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow--

I'll seek thy body in the stream,

And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.

--The tear did never leave her cheek,

No other youth became her marrow;

She found his body in the stream,

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

_J. Logan_

CLXIV

_WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW_

Down in yon garden sweet and gay

Where bonnie grows the lily,

I heard a fair maid sighing say,

'My wish be wi' sweet Willie!

'Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,

And Willie's wondrous bonny;

And Willie hecht to marry me

Gin e'er he married ony.

'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,

From where my Love repaireth,

Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth

And tell me how he fareth!

'O tell sweet Willie to come doun

And hear the mavis singing,

And see the birds on ilka bush

And leaves around them hinging.

'The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast

And gentle throat sae narrow;

There's sport eneuch for gentlemen

On Leader haughs and Yarrow.

'O Leader haughs are wide and braid

And Yarrow haughs are bonny;

There Willie hecht to marry me

If e'er he married ony.

'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,

And does not hear me weeping;

Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e

When other maids are sleeping.

'Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,

The night I'll mak' it narrow,

For a' the live-lang winter night

I lie twined o' my marrow.

'O came ye by yon water-side?

Pou'd you the rose or lily?

Or came you by yon meadow green,

Or saw you my sweet Willie?'

She sought him up, she sought him down,

She sought him braid and narrow;

Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,

She found him drown'd in Yarrow!

_Anon._

CLXV

_LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE_

Toll for the Brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave

Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds

And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;

His last sea-fight is fought,

His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak,

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,

His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

--Weigh the vessel up

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tears that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again

Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

_W. Cowper_

CLXVI

_BLACK-EYED SUSAN_

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,

The streamers waving in the wind,

When black-eyed Susan came aboard;

'O! where shall I my true-love find?

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true

If my sweet William sails among the crew.'

William, who high upon the yard

Rock'd with the billow to and fro,

Soon as her well-known voice he heard

He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,

And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast

If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,

And drops at once into her nest:--

The noblest captain in the British fleet

Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,

My vows shall ever true remain;

Let me kiss off that falling tear;

We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be

The faithful compass that still points to thee.

'Believe not what the landmen say

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:

They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,

In every port a mistress find:

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,

For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

'If to fair India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,

Thy skin is ivory so white.

Thus every beauteous object that I view

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

'Though battle call me from thy arms

Let not my pretty Susan mourn;

Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms

William shall to his Dear return.

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,

Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosom spread

No longer must she stay aboard;

They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.

Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;

'Adieu!' she cries; and waved her lily hand.

_J. Gay_

CLXVII

_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,

And 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.

Of all the days that's in the week

I dearly love 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 lurch

As soon as text is named;

I leave the church in sermon-time

And slink away to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again

O then I 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!

_H. Carey_

CLXVIII

_A FAREWELL_

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,

An' fill it in a silver tassie;

That I may drink before I go

A service to my bonnie lassie:

The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are rankéd ready;

The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;

But it's not the roar o' sea or shore

Wad make me langer wish to tarry;

Nor shout o' war that's heard afar--

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

_R. Burns_

CLXIX

If doughty deeds my lady please

Right soon I'll mount my steed;

And strong his arm, and fast his seat

That bears frae me the meed.

I'll wear thy colours in my cap

Thy picture at my heart;

And he that bends not to thine eye

Shall rue it to his smart!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take

Tho' ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye

I'll dight me in array;

I'll tend thy chamber door all night,

And squire thee all the day.

If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,

These sounds I'll strive to catch;

Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,

That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,

I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,

I never loved but you.

For you alone I ride the ring,

For you I wear the blue;

For you alone I strive to sing,

O tell me how to woo!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,

Tho' ne'er another trow me.

_R. Graham of Gartmore_

CLXX

_TO A YOUNG LADY_

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid--

Silent and chaste she steals along,

Far from the world's gay busy throng:

With gentle yet prevailing force,

Intent upon her destined course;

Graceful and useful all she does,

Blessing and blest where'er she goes;

Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,

And Heaven reflected in her face.

_W. Cowper_

CLXXI

_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY_

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile--

Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,

Thy rosy lips still wear a smile

And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks

And mantle o'er her neck of snow:

Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks

What most I wish--and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!

Her fair hands folded on her breast:

--And now, how like a saint she sleeps!

A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:

And may the secret of thy soul

Remain within its sanctuary!

_S. Rogers_

CLXXII

For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove

An unrelenting foe to Love,

And when we meet a mutual heart

Come in between, and bid us part?

Bid us sigh on from day to day,

And wish and wish the soul away;

Till youth and genial years are flown,

And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy, still art thou,

To bind the loveless joyless vow,

The heart from pleasure to delude,

To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,

And I absolve thy future care;

All other blessings I resign,

Make but the dear Amanda mine.

_J. Thomson_

CLXXIII

The merchant, to secure his treasure,

Conveys it in a borrow'd name:

Euphelia serves to grace my measure,

But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay--

When Cloe 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 Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:

I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:

And Venus to the Loves around

Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

_M. Prior_

CLXXIV

_LOVE'S SECRET_

Never seek to tell thy love,

Love that never told can be;

For the gentle wind doth move

Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,

I told her all my heart,

Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears:--

Ah! she did depart.

Soon after she was gone from me

A traveller came by,

Silently, invisibly:

He took her with a sigh.

_W. Blake_

CLXXV

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?

The 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.

_O. Goldsmith_

CLXXVI

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon

How can ye blume sae fair!

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird

That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird

That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon

To see the woodbine twine,

And ilka bird sang o' its love;

And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Frae aff its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

_R. Burns_

CLXXVII

_THE PROGRESS OF POESY_

_A Pindaric Ode_

Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.

From Helicon's harmonious springs

A thousand rills their mazy progress take;

The laughing flowers that round them blow

Drink life and fragrance as they flow.

Now the rich stream of music winds along

Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;

Now rolling down the steep amain

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:

The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,

Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,

Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares

And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul

On Thracia's hills the Lord of War

Has curb'd the fury of his car

And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.

Perching on the sceptred hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king

With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:

Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie

The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey

Temper'd to thy warbled lay.

O'er Idalia's velvet-green

The rosy-crownéd Loves are seen

On Cytherea's day;

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,

Frisking light in frolic measures;

Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops they meet:

To brisk notes in cadence beating

Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:

Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay:

With arms sublime that float upon the air

In gliding state she wins her easy way:

O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move

The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Man's feeble race what ills await!

Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,

Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!

The fond complaint, my song, disprove,

And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?

Night, and all her sickly dews,

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry

He gives to range the dreary sky:

Till down the eastern cliffs afar

Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

In climes beyond the solar road

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,

The Muse has broke the twilight gloom

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.

And oft, beneath the odorous shade

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat

In loose numbers wildly sweet

Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.

Her track, where'er the goddess roves,

Glory pursue, and generous Shame,

Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,

Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,

Fields that cool Ilissus laves,

Or where Maeander's amber waves

In lingering labyrinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish,

Mute, but to the voice of anguish!

Where each old poetic mountain

Inspiration breathed around;

Every shade and hallow'd fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:

Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.

Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

They sought, oh Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.

Far from the sun and summer-gale

In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,

What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty Mother did unveil

Her awful face: the dauntless child

Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.

'This pencil take' (she said), 'whose colours clear

Richly paint the vernal year:

Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!

This can unlock the gates of joy;

Of horror that, and thrilling fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'

Nor second He, that rode sublime

Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy

The secrets of the abyss to spy:

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:

The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze

Where angels tremble while they gaze,

He saw; but blasted with excess of light,

Closed his eyes in endless night.

Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

Two coursers of ethereal race,

With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,

Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

But ah! 'tis heard no more--

Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit

Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,

That the Theban eagle bear,

Sailing with supreme dominion

Thro' the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run

Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray

With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:

Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.

_T. Gray_

CLXXVIII

_THE PASSIONS_

_An Ode for Music_

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Throng'd around her magic cell

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,

Possest beyond the Muse's painting;

By turns they felt the glowing mind

Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:

'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,

Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round

They snatch'd her instruments of sound,

And, as they oft had heard apart

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each (for Madness ruled the hour)

Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,

And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings, own'd his secret stings;

In one rude clash he struck the lyre

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair,

Low sullen sounds, his grief beguiled;

A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure?

Still it whisper'd promised pleasure

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale

She call'd on Echo still through all the song;

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;--

And longer had she sung:--but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose:

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;

And with a withering look

The war-denouncing trumpet took

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:

Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:

They would have thought who heard the strain

They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids

Amidst the festal-sounding shades

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,

Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,

Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!

Why, goddess! why, to us denied,

Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?

As in that loved Athenian bower

You learn'd an all-commanding power,

Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,

Can well recall what then it heard.

Where is thy native simple heart

Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?

Arise, as in that elder time,

Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!

Thy wonders, in that god-like age,

Fill thy recording Sister's page;--

'Tis said, and I believe the tale,

Thy humblest reed could more prevail,

Had more of strength, diviner rage,

Than all which charms this laggard age:

E'en all at once together found,

Cecilia's mingled world of sound:--

O bid our vain endeavours cease:

Revive the just designs of Greece:

Return in all thy simple state!

Confirm the tales her sons relate!

_W. Collins_

CLXXIX

_THE SONG OF DAVID_

He sang of God, the mighty source

Of all things, the stupendous force

On which all strength depends:

From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,

All period, power, and enterprise

Commences, reigns, and ends.

The world, the clustering spheres He made,

The glorious light, the soothing shade,

Dale, champaign, grove and hill:

The multitudinous abyss,

Where secrecy remains in bliss,

And wisdom hides her skill.

Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said

To Moses: while Earth heard in dread,

And, smitten to the heart,

At once, above, beneath, around,

All Nature, without voice or sound,

Replied, 'O Lord, THOU ART.'

_C. Smart_

CLXXX

_INFANT JOY_

'I have no name;

I am but two days old.'

--What shall I call thee?

'I happy am;

Joy is my name.'

--Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!

Sweet joy, but two days old;

Sweet joy I call thee:

Thou dost smile:

I sing the while,

Sweet joy befall thee!

_W. Blake_

CLXXXI

_A CRADLE SONG_

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,

Dreaming in the joys of night;

Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep

Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face

Soft desires I can trace,

Secret joys and secret smiles,

Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel,

Smiles as of the morning steal

O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast

Where thy little heart doth rest.

Oh the cunning wiles that creep

In thy little heart asleep!

When thy little heart doth wake,

Then the dreadful light shall break.

_W. Blake_

CLXXXII

_ODE ON THE SPRING_

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,

Fair Venus' train, appear,

Disclose the long-expecting flowers

And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat

Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring:

While, whispering pleasure as they fly,

Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky

Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade,

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech

O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink

With me the Muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclined in rustic state)

How vain the ardour of the crowd,

How low, how little are the proud,

How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;

The panting herds repose:

Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!

The insect-youth are on the wing,

Eager to taste the honied spring

And float amid the liquid noon:

Some lightly o'er the current skim,

Some show their gaily-gilded trim

Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of Man:

And they that creep, and they that

Shall end where they began.

Alike the Busy and the Gay

But flutter thro' life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours drest:

Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,

Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply:

Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,

No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,

No painted plumage to display:

On hasty wings thy youth is flown;

Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone--

We frolic while 'tis May.

_T. Gray_

CLXXXIII

_THE POPLAR FIELD_

The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade

And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;

The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,

Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view

Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:

And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!

The blackbird has fled to another retreat

Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;

And the scene where his melody charm'd me before

Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,

Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

The change both my heart and my fancy employs;

I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys:

Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,

Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

_W. Cowper_

CLXXXIV

_TO A MOUSE_

_On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785_

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,

O what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin:

And naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin'

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste

An' weary winter comin' fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble

An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o mice an' men

Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But, Och! I backward cast my e'e

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

_R. Burns_

CLXXXV

_A WISH_

Mine be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing

In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,

Where first our marriage-vows were given,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze

And point with taper spire to Heaven.

_S. Rogers_

CLXXXVI

_ODE TO EVENING_

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song

May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

O Nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed;

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat

With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises midst the twilight path,

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,--

Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some soften'd strain

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit;

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return.

For when thy folding-star arising shows

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;

Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds or driving rain

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut

That, from the mountain's side,

Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;

And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

_W. Collins_

CLXXXVII

_ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD_

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:--

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or waked to extasy the living lyre:

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,--

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

'The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,--

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth

A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;

Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth

And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

_T. Gray_

CLXXXVIII

_MARY MORISON_

O Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!

Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser's treasure poor:

How blithely wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun,

Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',

To thee my fancy took its wing,--

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,

And yon the toast of a' the town,

I sigh'd, and said amang them a',

'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?

Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee?

If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown;

A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

_R. Burns_

CLXXXIX

_BONNIE LESLEY_

O saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border?

She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;

For Nature made her what she is,

And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee;

Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee;

He'd look into thy bonnie face,

And say 'I canna wrang thee!'

The Powers aboon will tent thee;

Misfortune sha' na steer thee;

Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, Fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie!

That we may brag we hae a lass

There's nane again sae bonnie.

_R. Burns_

CXC

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June:

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!

And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

_R. Burns_

CXCI

_HIGHLAND MARY_

Ye banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasp'd her to my bosom!

The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o'er me and my dearie;

For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace

Our parting was fu' tender;

And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly;

And mouldering now in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

_R. Burns_

CXCII

_AULD ROBIN GRAY_

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a hame,

And a' the warld to rest are gane,

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,

While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;

But saving a croun he had naething else beside:

To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;

And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,

When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;

My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--

And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;

I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;

Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e

Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!

My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

His ship it was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee?

Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?

My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;

But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:

They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;

Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,

When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he

Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.

O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;

We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;

I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;

And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;

I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,

For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

_Lady A. Lindsay._

CXCIII

_DUNCAN GRAY_

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

On blythe Yule night when we were fou,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Maggie coost her head fu' high,

Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't!

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,

Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',

Spak o' lowpin ower a linn!

Time and chance are but a tide,

Slighted love is sair to bide;

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,

For a haughty hizzie dee?

She may gae to--France for me!

How it comes let doctors tell,

Meg grew sick--as he grew well;

Something in her bosom wrings,

For relief a sigh she brings;

And O, her een, they spak sic things!

Duncan was a lad o' grace;

Maggie's was a piteous case;

Duncan couldna be her death,

Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;

Now they're crouse and canty baith:

Ha, ha, the wooing o't!

_R. Burns_

CXCIV

_THE SAILOR'S WIFE_

And are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel;

Is this the time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;

For I maun tell the baillie's wife

That Colin's in the town.

My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

My stockins pearly blue;

It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,

Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown

And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been long awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop

Been fed this month and mair;

Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in't

As he comes up the stair--

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave:

And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave:

And will I see his face again,

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa'.

_W. J. Mickle_

CXCV

_ABSENCE_

When I think on the happy days

I spent wi' you, my dearie;

And now what lands between us lie,

How can I be but eerie!

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,

As ye were wae and weary!

It was na sae ye glinted by

When I was wi' my dearie.

_Anon._

CXCVI

_JEAN_

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.

What sighs and vows amang the knowes

Hae pass'd atween us twa!

How fond to meet, how wae 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!

_R. Burns_

CXCVII

_JOHN ANDERSON_

John Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent

Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;

But now your brow is bald, John,

Your locks are like the snow;

But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither,

And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither:

Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo.

_R. Burns_

CXCVIII

_THE LAND O' THE LEAL_

I'm wearing awa', Jean,

Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,

I'm wearing awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean,

There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,

The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,

Your task's ended noo, Jean,

And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,

She was baith guid and fair, Jean;

O we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal!

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,

My soul langs to be free, Jean,

And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.

Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,

This warld's care is vain, Jean;

We'll meet and aye be fain

In the land o' the leal.

_Lady Nairn_

CXCIX

_ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE_

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers

That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!

Ah fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing

My weary soul they seem to soothe,

And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race

Disporting on thy margent green

The paths of pleasure trace;

Who foremost now delight to cleave

With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral?

What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed

Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent

Their murmuring labours ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign

And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind,

They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast:

Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,

Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigour born;

The thoughtless day, the easy night,

The spirits pure, the slumbers light

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom

The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come

Nor care beyond to-day:

Yet see how all around 'em wait

The ministers of human fate

And black Misfortune's baleful train!

Ah show them where in ambush stand

To seize their prey, the murderous band!

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,

The vultures of the mind,

Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that sculks behind;

Or pining Love shall waste their youth,

Or Jealousy with rankling tooth

That inly gnaws the secret heart,

And Envy wan, and faded Care,

Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high

To bitter Scorn a sacrifice

And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try

And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defiled,

And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

A griesly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen:

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

That every labouring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the soul with icy hand,

And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,

Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies?

Thought would destroy their paradise.

No more;--where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise.

_T. Gray_

CC

_THE SHRUBBERY_

O happy shades! to me unblest!

Friendly to peace, but not to me!

How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree!

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,

Those alders quivering to the breeze,

Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,

And please, if anything could please.

But fix'd unalterable Care

Foregoes not what she feels within,

Shows the same sadness everywhere,

And slights the season and the scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn

While Peace possess'd these silent bowers,

Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers.

The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley, musing, slow,

They seek like me the secret shade,

But not, like me, to nourish woe!

Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam;

These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

_W. Cowper_

CCI

_HYMN TO ADVERSITY_

Daughter of Jove, relentless power,

Thou tamer of the human breast,

Whose iron scourge and torturing hour

The bad affright, afflict the best!

Bound in thy adamantine chain

The proud are taught to taste of pain,

And purple tyrants vainly groan

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy Sire to send on earth

Virtue, his darling child, design'd,

To thee he gave the heavenly birth

And bade to form her infant mind.

Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore

With patience many a year she bore;

What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,

And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,

Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,

And leave us leisure to be good.

Light they disperse, and with them go

The summer friend, the flattering foe;

By vain Prosperity received,

To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

Wisdom in sable garb array'd

Immersed in rapturous thought profound,

And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,

Still on thy solemn steps attend:

Warm Charity, the general friend,

With Justice, to herself severe,

And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head

Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!

Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band

(As by the impious thou art seen)

With thundering voice, and threatening mien,

With screaming Horror's funeral cry,

Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;--

Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,

Thy milder influence impart,

Thy philosophic train be there

To soften, not to wound my heart.

The generous spark extinct revive,

Teach me to love and to forgive,

Exact my own defects to scan,

What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.

_T. Gray_

CCII

_THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK_

I am monarch of all I survey;

My right there is none to dispute;

From the centre all round to the sea

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,

Never hear the sweet music of speech;

I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts that roam over the plain

My form with indifference see;

They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love

Divinely bestow'd upon man,

Oh, had I the wings of a dove

How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth,

Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more:

My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight,

The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land

In a moment I seem to be there;

But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair;

Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.

There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought!

Gives even affliction a grace

And reconciles man to his lot.

_W. Cowper_

CCIII

_TO MARY UNWIN_

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new

And undebased by praise of meaner things,

That ere through age or woe I shed my wings

I may record thy worth with honour due,

In verse as musical as thou art true,

And that immortalizes whom it sings:--

But thou hast little need. There is a Book

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,

On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright--

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;

And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

_W. Cowper_

CCIV

_TO THE SAME_

The twentieth year is well-nigh past

Since first our sky was overcast;

Ah would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow--

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

Now rust disused, and shine no more;

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil

The same kind office for me still,

Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,

And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language utter'd in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,

Are still more lovely in my sight

Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,

What sight worth seeing could I see?

The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline

Thy hands their little force resign;

Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st

That now at every step thou mov'st

Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill,

In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know

How oft the sadness that I show

Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast

With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last--

My Mary!

_W. Cowper_

CCV

_THE CASTAWAY_

Obscurest night involved the sky,

The Atlantic billows roar'd,

When such a destined wretch as I,

Wash'd headlong from on board,

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,

His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast

Than he with whom he went,

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast

With warmer wishes sent.

He loved them both, but both in vain,

Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,

Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

Or courage die away;

But waged with death a lasting strife,

Supported by despair of life.