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This ae nighte, this ae nighte, —Every nighte and alle, Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule.
fleet] house-room.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
382. The Seven Virgins. A CAROL
ALL under the leaves and the leaves of life I met with virgins seven, And one of them was Mary mild, Our Lord's mother of Heaven.
'O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids, All under the leaves of life? Come tell, come tell, what seek you All under the leaves of life?'
'We're seeking for no leaves, Thomas, But for a friend of thine; We're seeking for sweet Jesus Christ, To be our guide and thine.'
'Go down, go down, to yonder town, And sit in the gallery, And there you'll see sweet Jesus Christ Nail'd to a big yew-tree.'
So down they went to yonder town As fast as foot could fall, And many a grievous bitter tear From the virgins' eyes did fall.
'O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother, Your weeping doth me grieve: I must suffer this,' He said, 'For Adam and for Eve.
'O Mother, take you John Evangelist All for to be your son, And he will comfort you sometimes, Mother, as I have done.'
'O come, thou John Evangelist, Thou'rt welcome unto me; But more welcome my own dear Son, Whom I nursed on my knee.'
Then He laid His head on His right shoulder, Seeing death it struck Him nigh— 'The Holy Ghost be with your soul, I die, Mother dear, I die.'
O the rose, the gentle rose, And the fennel that grows so green! God give us grace in every place To pray for our king and queen.
Furthermore for our enemies all Our prayers they should be strong: Amen, good Lord; your charity Is the ending of my song.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
383. Two Rivers
SAYS Tweed to Till— 'What gars ye rin sae still?' Says Till to Tweed— 'Though ye rin with speed And I rin slaw, For ae man that ye droon I droon twa.'
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
384. Cradle Song
O MY deir hert, young Jesus sweit, Prepare thy creddil in my spreit, And I sall rock thee in my hert And never mair from thee depart.
But I sall praise thee evermoir With sangis sweit unto thy gloir; The knees of my hert sall I bow, And sing that richt Balulalow!
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
385. The Call
MY blood so red For thee was shed, Come home again, come home again; My own sweet heart, come home again! You've gone astray Out of your way, Come home again, come home again!
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
386. The Bonny Earl of Murray
YE Highlands and ye Lawlands, O where hae ye been? They hae slain the Earl of Murray, And hae laid him on the green.
Now wae be to thee, Huntley! And whairfore did ye sae! I bade you bring him wi' you, But forbade you him to slay.
He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; Ana the bonny Earl of Murray, O he might hae been a king!
He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the ba'; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the flower amang them a'!
He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the gluve; And the bonny Earl of Murray, O he was the Queen's luve!
O lang will his Lady Look owre the Castle Downe, Ere she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding through the town!
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
387. Helen of Kirconnell
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 ye my heart was sair, When my Love dropp'd and spak nae mair! There did she swoon 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 hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.
O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll mak a garland o' 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'd be blest, Where thou lies low and taks thy rest, On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn owre my e'en, 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, For her sake that died for me.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
388. Waly, Waly
O WALY, waly, up the bank, And waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side, Where I and my Love wont to gae! I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree; But first it bow'd and syne it brak— Sae my true love did lichtlie me.
O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie 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 heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never lo'e me mair.
Now Arthur's Seat sall be my bed, The sheets sall ne'er be 'filed 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 weare.
'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 cam in by Glasgow toun, We were a comely sicht to see; My Love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lock'd my heart in a case o' gowd, And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. And O! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee; And I mysel were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!
cramasie] crimson.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
389. Barbara Allen's Cruelty
IN Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin', Made every youth cry Well-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin', Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man in to her then, To the town where she was dwellin', 'O haste and come to my master dear, If your name be Barbara Allen.'
So slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly she came nigh him, And when she drew the curtain by— 'Young man, I think you're dyin'.'
'O it 's I am sick and very very sick, And it 's all for Barbara Allen.' 'O the better for me ye'se never be, Tho' your heart's blood were a-spillin'!
'O dinna ye mind, young man,' says she, 'When the red wine ye were fillin', That ye made the healths go round and round, And slighted Barbara Allen?'
He turn'd his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealin': 'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allen!'
As she was walking o'er the fields, She heard the dead-bell knellin'; And every jow the dead-bell gave Cried 'Woe to Barbara Allen.'
'O mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and narrow: My love has died for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow.
'Farewell,' she said, 'ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.'
jow] beat, toll.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
390. Pipe and Can
I
THE Indian weed withered quite; Green at morn, cut down at night; Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high, Think thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
But when the pipe grows foul within, Think of thy soul defiled with sin, And that the fire doth it require: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
The ashes, that are left behind, May serve to put thee still in mind That unto dust return thou must: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
II
WHEN as the chill Charokko blows, And Winter tells a heavy tale; When pyes and daws and rooks and crows Sit cursing of the frosts and snows; Then give me ale.
Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, Such as will make grimalkin prate; Bids valour burgeon in tall men, Quickens the poet's wit and pen, Despises fate.
Ale, that the absent battle fights, And frames the march of Swedish drum, Disputes with princes, laws, and rights, What 's done and past tells mortal wights, And what 's to come.
Ale, that the plowman's heart up-keeps And equals it with tyrants' thrones, That wipes the eye that over-weeps, And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps Th' o'er-wearied bones.
Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus' daughter, Wine's emulous neighbour, though but stale, Ennobling all the nymphs of water, And filling each man's heart with laughter— Ha! give me ale!
Charokko] Scirocco.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
391. Love will find out the Way
OVER the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey, Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way.
When there is no place For the glow-worm to lie, When there is no space For receipt of a fly; When the midge dares not venture Lest herself fast she lay, If Love come, he will enter And will find out the way.
You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward for his flight; But if she whom Love doth honour Be conceal'd from the day— Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor heart! to be blind; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that ye may, Blind Love, if so ye call him, He will find out his way.
You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle The Phoenix of the east; The lioness, you may move her To give over her prey; But you'll ne'er stop a lover— He will find out the way.
If the earth it should part him, He would gallop it o'er; If the seas should o'erthwart him, He would swim to the shore; Should his Love become a swallow, Through the air to stray, Love will lend wings to follow, And will find out the way.
There is no striving To cross his intent; There is no contriving His plots to prevent; But if once the message greet him That his True Love doth stay, If Death should come and meet him, Love will find out the way!
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
392. Phillada flouts Me
O WHAT a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it. She so torments my mind That my strength faileth, And wavers with the wind As a ship saileth. Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day! Phillada flouts me.
At the fair yesterday She did pass by me; She look'd another way And would not spy me: I woo'd her for to dine, But could not get her; Will had her to the wine— He might entreat her. With Daniel she did dance, On me she look'd askance: O thrice unhappy chance! Phillada flouts me.
Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain me! I am my mother's joy: Sweet, entertain me! She'll give me, when she dies, All that is fitting: Her poultry and her bees, And her goose sitting, A pair of mattrass beds, And a bag full of shreds; And yet, for all this guedes, Phillada flouts me!
She hath a clout of mine Wrought with blue coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But i' faith, if she flinch She shall not wear it; To Tib, my t'other wench, I mean to bear it. And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part: Death strike me with his dart! Phillada flouts me.
Thou shalt eat crudded cream All the year lasting, And drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou lust, And bramble-berries, Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries. Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil's skin— Yet all 's not worth a pin! Phillada flouts me.
In the last month of May I made her posies; I heard her often say That she loved roses. Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly. But she did all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore 'tis flat and plain Phillada flouts me.
Fair maiden, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy-maid Laugh'd at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favours me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those? Phillada flouts me.
I cannot work nor sleep At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason. I 'gin to pine away In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penn'd in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me.
guedes] goods, property of any kind.
William Strode. 1602-1645
393. Chloris in the Snow
I SAW fair Chloris walk alone, When feather'd rain came softly down, As Jove descending from his Tower To court her in a silver shower: The wanton snow flew to her breast, Like pretty birds into their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thaw'd into a tear: Thence falling on her garments' hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.
Thomas Stanley. 1625-1678
394. The Relapse
O TURN away those cruel eyes, The stars of my undoing! Or death, in such a bright disguise, May tempt a second wooing.
Punish their blind and impious pride, Who dare contemn thy glory; It was my fall that deified Thy name, and seal'd thy story.
Yet no new sufferings can prepare A higher praise to crown thee; Though my first death proclaim thee fair, My second will unthrone thee.
Lovers will doubt thou canst entice No other for thy fuel, And if thou burn one victim twice, Both think thee poor and cruel.
Thomas D'Urfey. 1653-1723
395. Chloe Divine
CHLOE 's a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, A woman in my dreams.
Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivall'd in her voice, And Venus in her arms.
Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine: And yet 'tis flesh and blood alone That makes her so divine.
Charles Cotton. 1630-1687
396. To Coelia
WHEN, Coelia, must my old day set, And my young morning rise In beams of joy so bright as yet Ne'er bless'd a lover's eyes? My state is more advanced than when I first attempted thee: I sued to be a servant then, But now to be made free.
I've served my time faithful and true, Expecting to be placed In happy freedom, as my due, To all the joys thou hast: Ill husbandry in love is such A scandal to love's power, We ought not to misspend so much As one poor short-lived hour.
Yet think not, sweet! I'm weary grown, That I pretend such haste; Since none to surfeit e'er was known Before he had a taste: My infant love could humbly wait When, young, it scarce knew how To plead; but grown to man's estate, He is impatient now.
Katherine Philips ('Orinda'). 1631-1664
397. To One persuading a Lady to Marriage
FORBEAR, bold youth; all 's heaven here, And what you do aver To others courtship may appear, 'Tis sacrilege to her. She is a public deity; And were 't not very odd She should dispose herself to be A petty household god?
First make the sun in private shine And bid the world adieu, That so he may his beams confine In compliment to you: But if of that you do despair, Think how you did amiss To strive to fix her beams which are More bright and large than his.
John Dryden. 1631-1700
398. Ode To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy and Painting
THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race, Or, in procession fixt and regular, Mov'd with the heaven's majestic pace; Or, call'd to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, In no ignoble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given, To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heaven.
If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less, to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. But if thy pre-existing soul Was form'd at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And even the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother-angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clust'ring swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miracles Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.
O gracious God! how far have we Profan'd thy heavenly gift of Poesy! Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above, For tongues of angels and for hymns of love! O wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubrique and adulterate age (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own), To increase the streaming ordures of the stage? What can we say to excuse our second fall? Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all! Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil'd; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
Art she had none, yet wanted none, For Nature did that want supply: So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life, she read. And to be read herself she need not fear; Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear, Though Epictetus with his lamp were there. Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest) Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast, Light as the vapours of a morning dream; So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream....
Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much-lamented virgin lies. Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life and beauty too; But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride To work more mischievously slow, And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the relic, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died: Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home! No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, Thou hast already had her last embrace. But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far, Among the Pleiads a new kindl'd star, If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, The judging God shall close the book of Fate, And there the last assizes keep For those who wake and those who sleep; When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky; When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shalt go, As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.
John Dryden. 1631-1700
399. A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687
FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began: When nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay, And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, 'Arise, ye more than dead!' Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell, His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound: Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly, and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangour Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger, And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!
The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful dame.
But O, what art can teach, What human voice can reach, The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race; And trees unrooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher: When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appear'd Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
GRAND CHORUS.
As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the Blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky!
John Dryden. 1631-1700
400. Ah, how sweet it is to love!
AH, how sweet it is to love! Ah, how gay is young Desire! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach Love's fire! Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart: Ev'n the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart: Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death.
Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
Love, like spring-tides full and high, Swells in every youthful vein; But each tide does less supply, Till they quite shrink in again: If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
John Dryden. 1631-1700
401. Hidden Flame
I FEED a flame within, which so torments me That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, That I had rather die than once remove it.
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it; My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it. Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses, But they fall silently, like dew on roses.
Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel, My heart 's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel; And while I suffer this to give him quiet, My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me; While I conceal my love no frown can fright me. To be more happy I dare not aspire, Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
John Dryden. 1631-1700
402. Song to a Fair Young Lady, going out of the Town in the Spring
ASK not the cause why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year: Chloris is gone; and fate provides To make it Spring where she resides.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure?
Great God of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst plac'd such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs And every life but mine recall. I only am by Love design'd To be the victim for mankind.
Charles Webbe. c. 1678
403. Against Indifference
MORE love or more disdain I crave; Sweet, be not still indifferent: O send me quickly to my grave, Or else afford me more content! Or love or hate me more or less, For love abhors all lukewarmness.
Give me a tempest if 'twill drive Me to the place where I would be; Or if you'll have me still alive, Confess you will be kind to me. Give hopes of bliss or dig my grave: More love or more disdain I crave.
Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691
404. Song
LADIES, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue, Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest Love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair: The Boy did not his Mother spare. Beauty 's but an offensive dart: It is no armour for the heart.
Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691
405. To a Lady asking him how long he would love her
IT is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste; The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.
Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure past: Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die?
Thomas Traherne. 1637?-1674
406. News
NEWS from a foreign country came As if my treasure and my wealth lay there; So much it did my heart inflame, 'Twas wont to call my Soul into mine ear; Which thither went to meet The approaching sweet, And on the threshold stood To entertain the unknown Good. It hover'd there As if 'twould leave mine ear, And was so eager to embrace The joyful tidings as they came, 'Twould almost leave its dwelling-place To entertain that same.
As if the tidings were the things, My very joys themselves, my foreign treasure— Or else did bear them on their wings— With so much joy they came, with so much pleasure. My Soul stood at that gate To recreate Itself with bliss, and to Be pleased with speed. A fuller view It fain would take, Yet journeys back would make Unto my heart; as if 'twould fain Go out to meet, yet stay within To fit a place to entertain And bring the tidings in.
What sacred instinct did inspire My soul in childhood with a hope so strong? What secret force moved my desire To expect my joys beyond the seas, so young? Felicity I knew Was out of view, And being here alone, I saw that happiness was gone From me! For this I thirsted absent bliss, And thought that sure beyond the seas, Or else in something near at hand— I knew not yet—since naught did please I knew—my Bliss did stand.
But little did the infant dream That all the treasures of the world were by: And that himself was so the cream And crown of all which round about did lie. Yet thus it was: the Gem, The Diadem, The ring enclosing all That stood upon this earthly ball, The Heavenly eye, Much wider than the sky, Wherein they all included were, The glorious Soul, that was the King Made to possess them, did appear A small and little thing!
Thomas Flatman. 1637-1688
407. The Sad Day
O THE sad day! When friends shall shake their heads, and say Of miserable me— 'Hark, how he groans! Look, how he pants for breath! See how he struggles with the pangs of death!' When they shall say of these dear eyes— 'How hollow, O how dim they be! Mark how his breast doth rise and swell Against his potent enemy!' When some old friend shall step to my bedside, Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide.
But—when his next companions say 'How does he do? What hopes?'—shall turn away, Answering only, with a lift-up hand— 'Who can his fate withstand?'
Then shall a gasp or two do more Than e'er my rhetoric could before: Persuade the world to trouble me no more!
Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 1638-1706
408. Song Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the night before an Engagement.
TO all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind?— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
To pass our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play; But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note As if it sigh'd with each man's care For being so remote, Think then how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honour lose Our certain happiness: All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears: Let 's hear of no inconstancy— We have too much of that at sea— With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701
409. To Chloris
AH, Chloris! that I now could sit As unconcern'd as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure, nor no pain! When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in the mine; Age from no face took more away Than youth conceal'd in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest, Fond love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest.
My passion with your beauty grew, And Cupid at my heart, Still as his mother favour'd you, Threw a new flaming dart: Each gloried in their wanton part; To make a lover, he Employ'd the utmost of his art— To make a beauty, she.
Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701
410. To Celia
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!
Aphra Behn. 1640-1689
411. Song
LOVE in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he show'd: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurl'd; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have arm'd And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harm'd, Whilst thine the victor is, and free!
Aphra Behn. 1640-1689
412. The Libertine
A THOUSAND martyrs I have made, All sacrificed to my desire, A thousand beauties have betray'd That languish in resistless fire: The untamed heart to hand I brought, And fix'd the wild and wand'ring thought.
I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain, But both, tho' false, were well received; The fair are pleased to give us pain, And what they wish is soon believed: And tho' I talk'd of wounds and smart, Love's pleasures only touch'd my heart.
Alone the glory and the spoil I always laughing bore away; The triumphs without pain or toil, Without the hell the heaven of joy; And while I thus at random rove Despise the fools that whine for love.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680
413. Return
ABSENT from thee, I languish still; Then ask me not, When I return? The straying fool 'twill plainly kill To wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, That my fantastic mind may prove The torments it deserves to try, That tears my fix'd heart from my love.
When, wearied with a world of woe, To thy safe bosom I retire, Where love, and peace, and truth does flow, May I contented there expire!
Lest, once more wandering from that heaven, I fall on some base heart unblest; Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven— And lose my everlasting rest.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680
414. Love and Life
ALL my past life is mine no more; The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone.
The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment 's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I by miracle can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680
415. Constancy
I CANNOT change as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you For you alone was born. No, Phillis, no; your heart to move A surer way I'll try; And, to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on and die.
When kill'd with grief Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall— That welcome hour, that ends this smart, Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful tender heart Can never break in vain.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680
416. To His Mistress (After Quarles)
WHY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?
Without thy light what light remains in me? Thou art my life; my way, my light 's in thee; I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my life—if thou but turn away My life 's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way— Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.
My light thou art—without thy glorious sight My eyes are darken'd with eternal night. My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly. Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I! Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die.
My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see: To whom or whither should my darkness flee, But to that light?—and who 's that light but thee?
If I have lost my path, dear lover, say, Shall I still wander in a doubtful way? Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray?
My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray; I cannot go, nor can I safely stay; Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me! And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me! Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me?
Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye, The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely: If I but them remove, I surely die.
Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay! See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray! —O thou that art my life, my light, my way!
Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee, My reason shall obey, my wings shall be Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee!
John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720
417. The Reconcilement
COME, let us now resolve at last To live and love in quiet; We'll tie the knot so very fast That Time shall ne'er untie it.
The truest joys they seldom prove Who free from quarrels live: 'Tis the most tender part of love Each other to forgive.
When least I seem'd concern'd, I took No pleasure nor no rest; And when I feign'd an angry look, Alas! I loved you best.
Own but the same to me—you'll find How blest will be our fate. O to be happy—to be kind— Sure never is too late!
John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720
418. On One who died discovering her Kindness
SOME vex their souls with jealous pain, While others sigh for cold disdain: Love's various slaves we daily see— Yet happy all compared with me!
Of all mankind I loved the best A nymph so far above the rest That we outshined the Blest above; In beauty she, as I in love.
And therefore They, who could not bear To be outdone by mortals here, Among themselves have placed her now, And left me wretched here below.
All other fate I could have borne, And even endured her very scorn; But oh! thus all at once to find That dread account—both dead and kind! What heart can hold? If yet I live, 'Tis but to show how much I grieve.
Thomas Otway. 1652-1685
419. The Enchantment
I DID but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power.
To sigh and wish is all my ease; Sighs which do heat impart Enough to melt the coldest ice, Yet cannot warm your heart.
O would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, 'Twould learn of yours the winning art, And quickly steal the rest.
John Oldham. 1653-1683
420. A Quiet Soul
THY soul within such silent pomp did keep, As if humanity were lull'd asleep; So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath, Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise, Or the soft journey which a planet goes: Life seem'd all calm as its last breath. A still tranquillity so hush'd thy breast, As if some Halcyon were its guest, And there had built her nest; It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.
John Cutts, Lord Cutts. 1661-1707
421. Song
ONLY tell her that I love: Leave the rest to her and Fate: Some kind planet from above May perhaps her pity move: Lovers on their stars must wait.— Only tell her that I love!
Why, O why should I despair! Mercy 's pictured in her eye: If she once vouchsafe to hear, Welcome Hope and farewell Fear! She 's too good to let me die.— Why, O why should I despair?
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
422. The Question to Lisetta
WHAT nymph should I admire or trust, But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just? What nymph should I desire to see, But her who leaves the plain for me? To whom should I compose the lay, But her who listens when I play? To whom in song repeat my cares, But her who in my sorrow shares? For whom should I the garland make, But her who joys the gift to take, And boasts she wears it for my sake? In love am I not fully blest? Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.
LISETTA'S REPLY
Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair, Deserves to be your only care; But, when you and she to-day Far into the wood did stray, And I happen'd to pass by, Which way did you cast your eye? But, when your cares to her you sing, You dare not tell her whence they spring: Does it not more afflict your heart, That in those cares she bears a part? When you the flowers for Chloe twine, Why do you to her garland join The meanest bud that falls from mine? Simplest of swains! the world may see Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
423. To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty
LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fire, and look The power they have to be obey'd.
Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby's hair;
She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.
For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordain'd (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
424. Song
THE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre, Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; When Chloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; But with my numbers mix my sighs: And while I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.
Fair Chloe 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.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
425. On My Birthday, July 21
I, MY dear, was born to-day— So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born to pain and woe; To thy denial, to thy scorn, Better I had ne'er been born: I wish to die, even whilst I say— 'I, my dear, was born to-day.' I, my dear, was born to-day: Shall I salute the rising ray, Well-spring of all my joy and woe? Clotilda, thou alone dost know. Shall the wreath surround my hair? Or shall the music please my ear? Shall I my comrades' mirth receive, And bless my birth, and wish to live? Then let me see great Venus chase Imperious anger from thy face; Then let me hear thee smiling say— 'Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.'
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
426. The Lady who offers her Looking-Glass to Venus
VENUS, take my votive glass: Since I am not what I was, What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
427. A Letter to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child
MY noble, lovely, little Peggy, Let this my First Epistle beg ye, At dawn of morn, and close of even, To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. In double duty say your prayer: Our Father first, then Notre Pere.
And, dearest child, along the day, In every thing you do and say, Obey and please my lord and lady, So God shall love and angels aid ye.
If to these precepts you attend, No second letter need I send, And so I rest your constant friend.
Matthew Prior. 1664-1721
428. For my own Monument
AS doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.
Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears, In a life parti-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!
Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not—yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.
William Walsh. 1663-1708
429. Rivals
OF all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are curst; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst! By partners in each other kind Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are labouring in my breast, I beg not you would favour me, Would you but slight the rest! How great soe'er your rigours are, With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope.
Lady Grisel Baillie. 1665-1746
430. Werena my Heart's licht I wad dee
THERE ance was a may, and she lo'ed na men; She biggit her bonnie bow'r doun in yon glen; But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day! Come doun the green gait and come here away!
When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea, He said he saw naething sae lovely as me; He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things— And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
He had a wee titty that lo'ed na me, Because I was twice as bonnie as she; She raised sic a pother 'twixt him and his mother That werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
The day it was set, and the bridal to be: The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee; She maned and she graned out o' dolour and pain, Till he vow'd he never wad see me again.
His kin was for ane of a higher degree, Said—What had he do wi' the likes of me? Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie— And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
They said I had neither cow nor calf, Nor dribbles o' drink rins thro' the draff, Nor pickles o' meal rins thro' the mill-e'e— And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
His titty she was baith wylie and slee: She spied me as I cam owre the lea; And then she ran in and made a loud din— Believe your ain e'en, an ye trow not me.
His bonnet stood ay fu' round on his brow, His auld ane look'd ay as well as some's new: But now he lets 't wear ony gait it will hing, And casts himsel dowie upon the corn bing.
And now he gaes daund'ring about the dykes, And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes: The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks his e'e— And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.
Were I but young for thee, as I hae been, We should hae been gallopin' doun in yon green, And linkin' it owre the lily-white lea— And wow, gin I were but young for thee!
may] maid. biggit] built. gait] way, path. hecht] promised. titty] sister. dwam] sudden illness. appose] suppose. pickles] small quantities. hing] hang. dowie] dejectedly. hund the tykes] direct the dogs. steeks] closes. linkin'] tripping.
William Congreve. 1670-1729
431. False though She be
FALSE though she be to me and love, I'll ne'er pursue revenge; For still the charmer I approve, Though I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met: They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past.
William Congreve. 1670-1729
432. A Hue and Cry after Fair Amoret
FAIR Amoret is gone astray— Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover; I'll tell the signs by which you may The wand'ring Shepherdess discover.
Coquette and coy at once her air, Both studied, tho' both seem neglected; Careless she is, with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart ev'ry glance, Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them, For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Tho' certain aim and art direct them.
She likes herself, yet others hates For that which in herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing hat she despises.
Joseph Addison. 1672-1719
433. Hymn
THE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. Th' unwearied Sun from day to day Does his Creator's power display; And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; And nightly to the listening Earth Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all Move round the dark terrestrial ball; What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found? In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing as they shine, 'The Hand that made us is divine.'
Isaac Watts. 1674-1748
434. The Day of Judgement
WHEN the fierce North-wind with his airy forces Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury; And the red lightning with a storm of hail comes Rushing amain down;
How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble, While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet, Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters Quick to devour them.
Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder (If things eternal may be like these earthly), Such the dire terror when the great Archangel Shakes the creation;
Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven, Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes, Sees the graves open, and the bones arising, Flames all around them.
Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches! Lively bright horror and amazing anguish Stare thro' their eyelids, while the living worm lies Gnawing within them.
Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings, And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds the Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance Rolling afore him.
Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver, While devils push them to the pit wide-yawning Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong Down to the centre!
Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid Doleful ideas!) come, arise to Jesus, How He sits God-like! and the saints around Him Throned, yet adoring!
O may I sit there when He comes triumphant, Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory, While our Hosannas all along the passage Shout the Redeemer.
Isaac Watts. 1674-1748
435. A Cradle Hymn
HUSH! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment: All thy wants are well supplied.
How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended And became a child like thee!
Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay.
Blessed babe! what glorious features— Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must He dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight?
Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford To receive the heavenly stranger? Did they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard; 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, And her arms shall be thy guard.
Yet to read the shameful story How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of Glory, Makes me angry while I sing.
See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky! Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His Virgin mother by.
See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hush'd the holy child.
Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the horned oxen fed: Peace, my darling; here 's no danger, Here 's no ox anear thy bed.
'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came.
May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell for ever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise!
Thomas Parnell. 1670-1718
436. Song
WHEN thy beauty appears In its graces and airs All bright as an angel new dropp'd from the sky, At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears: So strangely you dazzle my eye!
But when without art Your kind thoughts you impart, When your love runs in blushes through every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again.
There 's a passion and pride In our sex (she replied), And thus, might I gratify both, I would do: Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you.
Allan Ramsay. 1686-1758
437. Peggy
MY Peggy is a young thing, Just enter'd in her teens Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay; My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm not very auld, Yet well I like to meet her at The wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair of a' that's rare; My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld, But she gars a' my spirits glow At wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love, That I look down on a' the town, That I look down upon a crown; My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blyth and bauld, And naething gi'es me sic delight As wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly When on my pipe I play, By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest, that she sings best; My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld With innocence the wale of sense, At wawking of the fauld.
wawking] watching. lave] rest. wale] choice, best.
William Oldys. 1687-1761
438. On a Fly drinking out of his Cup
BUSY, curious, thirsty fly! Drink with me and drink as I: Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up: Make the most of life you may, Life is short and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine Hastening quick to their decline: Thine 's a summer, mine 's no more, Though repeated to threescore. Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one!
John Gay. 1688-1732
439. Song
O RUDDIER than the cherry! O sweeter than the berry! O nymph more bright Than moonshine night, Like kidlings blithe and merry! Ripe as the melting cluster! No lily has such lustre; Yet hard to tame As raging flame, And fierce as storms that bluster!
Alexander Pope. 1688-1744
440. On a certain Lady at Court
I KNOW a thing that 's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour; Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humour And sensible soft melancholy.
'Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?' Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear.
Alexander Pope. 1688-1744
441. Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? O, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those who greatly think, or bravely die? Why bade ye else, ye Pow'rs! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of angels and of gods; Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And close confined to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below, So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good! Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of Death: Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall; On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herses shall besiege your gates. There passengers shall stand, and pointing say (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way), 'Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steel'd And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.' Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe! What can atone (O ever-injured shade!) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier. By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground now sacred by thy reliques made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How loved, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from this closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
Alexander Pope. 1688-1744
442. The Dying Christian to his Soul
VITAL spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, O the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister Spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears! Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting?
George Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe. 1691?-1762
443. Shorten Sail
LOVE thy country, wish it well, Not with too intense a care; 'Tis enough that, when it fell, Thou its ruin didst not share.
Envy's censure, Flattery's praise, With unmoved indifference view: Learn to tread Life's dangerous maze With unerring Virtue's clue.
Void of strong desire and fear, Life's wide ocean trust no more; Strive thy little bark to steer With the tide, but near the shore.
Thus prepared, thy shorten'd sail Shall, whene'er the winds increase, Seizing each propitious gale, Waft thee to the port of Peace.
Keep thy conscience from offence And tempestuous passions free, So, when thou art call'd from hence, Easy shall thy passage be.
—Easy shall thy passage be, Cheerful thy allotted stay, Short the account 'twixt God and thee, Hope shall meet thee on thy way.
Henry Carey. 1693?-1743
444. 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 neighbors all Make gave 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!
Henry Carey. 1693?-1743
445. A Drinking-Song
BACCHUS must now his power resign— I am the only God of Wine! It is not fit the wretch should be In competition set with me, Who can drink ten times more than he.
Make a new world, ye powers divine! Stock'd with nothing else but Wine: Let Wine its only product be, Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea— And let that Wine be all for me!
William Broome. ?-1745
446. The Rosebud
QUEEN of fragrance, lovely Rose, The beauties of thy leaves disclose! —But thou, fair Nymph, thyself survey In this sweet offspring of a day. That miracle of face must fail, Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail: Swift as the short-lived flower they fly, At morn they bloom, at evening die: Though Sickness yet a while forbears, Yet Time destroys what Sickness spares: Now Helen lives alone in fame, And Cleopatra's but a name: Time must indent that heavenly brow, And thou must be what they are now.
William Broome. ?-1745
447. Belinda's Recovery from Sickness
THUS when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth; Our moulder'd frame rebuilt assumes New beauty, and for ever blooms, And, crown'd with youth's immortal pride, We angels rise, who mortals died.
James Thomson. 1700-1748
448. On the Death of a particular Friend
AS those we love decay, we die in part, String after string is sever'd from the heart; Till loosen'd life, at last but breathing clay, Without one pang is glad to fall away.
Unhappy he who latest feels the blow! Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low, Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death, Till, dying, all he can resign is—breath.
George Lyttelton, Lord Lyttelton. 1709-1773
449. Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love
WHEN Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear No other voice than hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before— The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784
450. One-and-Twenty
LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty, Ling'ring year, at length is flown: Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great * * * * * * *, are now your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell.
Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There the gamester, light and jolly, There the lender, grave and sly.
Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill.
When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high— What are acres? What are houses? Only dirt, or wet or dry.
Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste, Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother;— You can hang or drown at last!
Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784
451. On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet, a Practiser in Physic
CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts or slow decline Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year, See Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nature call'd for aid, And hov'ring death prepared the blow, His vig'rous remedy display'd The power of art without the show.
In Misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely Want retired to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride; The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure th' Eternal Master found The single talent well employ'd.
The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm—his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.
Richard Jago. 1715-1781
452. Absence
WITH leaden foot Time creeps along While Delia is away: With her, nor plaintive was the song, Nor tedious was the day.
Ah, envious Pow'r! reverse my doom; Now double thy career, Strain ev'ry nerve, stretch ev'ry plume, And rest them when she 's here!
Thomas Gray. 1716-1771
453. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman 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 tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 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 twitt'ring 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 pow'r, 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 Flatt'ry 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 ecstasy 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 list'ning 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 forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through 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 tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n 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 ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n 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 inquire 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 noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring 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 fav'rite 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, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('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.
Thomas Gray. 1716-1771
454. The Curse upon Edward
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 roofs 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 Heav'n. 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 havoc urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's 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 th' accursed 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.)
Thomas Gray. 1716-1771
455. 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 rebellow to the roar.
O 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 dropp'd 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-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports, 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 giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her sceptres 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 glitt'ring 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 shiv'ring native's dull abode, And oft, beneath the od'rous 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 lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around: Ev'ry 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, O 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 Ecstasy, The secrets of th' 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—— O 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.
Thomas Gray. 1716-1771
456. 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. |
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