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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 Thro' 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 slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A Fav'rite 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 wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold.
William Collins. 1721-1759
457. 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 and Pleasure's, nursed the pow'rs 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 wand'rings 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 flow'rs 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 laureate 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 bow'r, The passions own thy pow'r. 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, Faint 's 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.
William Collins. 1721-1759
458. How sleep the Brave
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 grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!
William Collins. 1721-1759
459. Ode to Evening
IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest 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 lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile, Or upland fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam.
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 show'rs, 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, rose-lipp'd Health Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy favourite name!
William Collins. 1721-1759
460. Fidele
TO fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The redbreast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved, till life can charm no more; And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.
Mark Akenside. 1721-1770
461. Amoret
IF rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fix'd in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell— What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet—she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen— We naught but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half the sunshine to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part; This gives the most unbounded sway; This shall enchant the subject heart When rose and lily fade away; And she be still, in spite of Time, Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
Mark Akenside. 1721-1770
462. The Complaint
AWAY! away! Tempt me no more, insidious Love: Thy soothing sway Long did my youthful bosom prove: At length thy treason is discern'd, At length some dear-bought caution earn'd: Away! nor hope my riper age to move.
I know, I see Her merit. Needs it now be shown, Alas! to me? How often, to myself unknown, The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid Have I admired! How often said— What joy to call a heart like hers one's own!
But, flattering god, O squanderer of content and ease In thy abode Will care's rude lesson learn to please? O say, deceiver, hast thou won Proud Fortune to attend thy throne, Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees?
Mark Akenside. 1721-1770
463. The Nightingale
TO-NIGHT retired, the queen of heaven With young Endymion stays; And now to Hesper it is given Awhile to rule the vacant sky, Till she shall to her lamp supply A stream of brighter rays.
Propitious send thy golden ray, Thou purest light above! Let no false flame seduce to stray Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm; But lead where music's healing charm May soothe afflicted love.
To them, by many a grateful song In happier seasons vow'd, These lawns, Olympia's haunts, belong: Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd, Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd, Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs That roofless tower invade, We came, while her enchanting Muse The radiant moon above us held: Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd, She fled the solemn shade.
But hark! I hear her liquid tone! Now Hesper guide my feet! Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, Through yon wild thicket next the plain, Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane Which leads to her retreat.
See the green space: on either hand Enlarged it spreads around: See, in the midst she takes her stand, Where one old oak his awful shade Extends o'er half the level mead, Enclosed in woods profound.
Hark! how through many a melting note She now prolongs her lays: How sweetly down the void they float! The breeze their magic path attends; The stars shine out; the forest bends; The wakeful heifers graze.
Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring To this sequester'd spot, If then the plaintive Siren sing, O softly tread beneath her bower And think of Heaven's disposing power, Of man's uncertain lot.
O think, o'er all this mortal stage What mournful scenes arise: What ruin waits on kingly rage; How often virtue dwells with woe; How many griefs from knowledge flow; How swiftly pleasure flies!
O sacred bird! let me at eve, Thus wandering all alone, Thy tender counsel oft receive, Bear witness to thy pensive airs, And pity Nature's common cares, Till I forget my own.
Tobias George Smollett. 1721-1771
464. To Leven Water
PURE stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course Devolving from thy parent lake A charming maze thy waters make By bowers of birch and groves of pine And edges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry embrown'd with toil, And hearts resolved and hands prepared The blessings they enjoy to guard.
Christopher Smart. 1722-1770
465. Song to David
SUBLIME—invention ever young, Of vast conception, tow'ring tongue To God th' eternal theme; Notes from yon exaltations caught, Unrivall'd royalty of thought O'er meaner strains supreme.
His muse, bright angel of his verse, Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, For all the pangs that rage; Blest light still gaining on the gloom, The more than Michal of his bloom, Th' Abishag of his age.
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.
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.
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.
The pillars of the Lord are seven, Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; His Wisdom drew the plan; His Word accomplish'd the design, From brightest gem to deepest mine; From Christ enthroned, to Man.
For Adoration all the ranks Of Angels yield eternal thanks, And David in the midst; With God's good poor, which, last and least In man's esteem, Thou to Thy feast, O blessed Bridegroom, bidd'st!
For Adoration, David's Psalms Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; And he, who kneels and chants, Prevails his passions to control, Finds meat and medicine to the soul, Which for translation pants.
For Adoration, in the dome Of Christ, the sparrows find a home, And on His olives perch: The swallow also dwells with thee, O man of God's humility, Within his Saviour's church.
Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, And drops upon the leafy limes; Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: Sweet is the lily's silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell That watch for early prayer.
Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; Sweet, when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician's ardour beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flowers to hive.
Strong is the horse upon his speed; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game: Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; Strong through the turbulent profound Shoots Xiphias to his aim.
Strong is the lion—like a coal His eyeball,—like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes: Strong, the gier-eagle on his sail; Strong against tide th' enormous whale Emerges as he goes.
But stronger still, in earth and air, And in the sea, the man of prayer, And far beneath the tide: And in the seat to faith assign'd, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide.
Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere, Acceptable to God: And precious are the winning flowers, In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers Bound on the hallow'd sod.
Glorious the sun in mid career; Glorious th' assembled fires appear; Glorious the comet's train: Glorious the trumpet and alarm; Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; Glorious th' enraptured main:
Glorious the northern lights astream; Glorious the song, when God 's the theme; Glorious the thunder's roar: Glorious Hosanna from the den; Glorious the catholic Amen; Glorious the martyr's gore:
Glorious—more glorious—is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down, By meekness call'd thy Son: Thou that stupendous truth believed;— And now the matchless deed 's achieved, Determined, dared, and done!
glede] kite. Xiphias] sword-fish.
Jane Elliot. 1727-1805
466. A 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 daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
In hairst, 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 swankies are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 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, lie cauld in the clay.
We'll hear nae mair lilting at our 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.
loaning] lane, field-track. wede] weeded. bughts] sheep-folds. daffing] joking. leglin] milk-pail. hairst] harvest. bandsters] binders. lyart] gray-haired. runkled] wrinkled. fleeching] coaxing. swankies] lusty lads. bogle] bogy, hide-and-seek. dool] mourning.
Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774
467. Woman
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her tears away?
The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from ev'ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom is—to die.
Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774
468. Memory
O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe: And he who wants each other blessing In thee must ever find a foe.
Robert Cunninghame-Graham of Gartmore. 1735-1797
469. If Doughty Deeds
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 in 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 thysel', That voice that nane can match. Then tell me how to woo thee, Love...
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.
William Cowper. 1731-1800
470. 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.
William Cowper. 1731-1800
471. My Mary
THE twentieth year is wellnigh 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 press'd, 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 press'd 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!
James Beattie. 1735-1803
472. An Epitaph
LIKE thee I once have stemm'd the sea of life, Like thee have languish'd after empty joys, Like thee have labour'd in the stormy strife, Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys.
Forget my frailties; thou art also frail: Forgive my lapses; for thyself may'st fall: Nor read unmoved my artless tender tale— I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all.
Isobel Pagan. 1740-1821
473. Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes
CA' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie.
As I gaed down the water side, There I met my shepherd lad; He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, And he ca'd me his dearie.
'Will ye gang down the water side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide? The moon it shines fu' clearly.'
'I was bred up at nae sic school, My shepherd lad, to play the fool, And a' the day to sit in dool, And naebody to see me.'
'Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, And ye sall be my dearie.'
'If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, And ye may row me in your plaid, And I sall be your dearie.'
'While waters wimple to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e, Ye aye sall be my dearie!'
yowes] ewes. knowes] knolls, little hills. rows] rolls. row'd] rolled, wrapped. dool] dule, sorrow. lift] sky.
Anna Laetitia Barbauld. 1743-1825
474. Life
LIFE! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me 's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be As all that then remains of me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly? Where bend unseen thy trackless course? And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame From whence thy essence came Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter's base encumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank oblivious years th' appointed hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? O say, what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?
Life! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;— Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning!
Fanny Greville. 18th Cent.
475. Prayer for Indifference
I ASK no kind return of love, No tempting charm to please; Far from the heart those gifts remove, That sighs for peace and ease.
Nor peace nor ease the heart can know, That, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But turning, trembles too.
Far as distress the soul can wound, 'Tis pain in each degree: 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound, Beyond is agony.
John Logan. 1748-1788
476. To the Cuckoo
HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome ring.
What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear: Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wand'ring through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year!
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring.
Lady Anne Lindsay. 1750-1825
477. Auld Robin Gray
WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at 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 urged me 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, tho' my heart was in 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 we tore ourselves 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.
Sir William Jones. 1746-1794
478. Epigram
ON parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled: So live, that sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep.
Thomas Chatterton. 1752-1770
479. Song from Aella
O SING unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holyday, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night, White his rode as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O he lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud: Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briers Round his holy corse to gre: Ouph and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
cryne] hair. rode] complexion. dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf.
George Crabbe. 1754-1832
480. Meeting
MY Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away! Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.
Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live But that we meet, and that we love.
George Crabbe. 1754-1832
481. Late Wisdom
WE'VE trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed: By long experience taught, we know— Can rightly judge of friends and foes; Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those.
Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell The wildest passions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage.— Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now This bold rebellious race are fled? When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead?
George Crabbe. 1754-1832
482. A Marriage Ring
THE ring, so worn as you behold, So thin, so pale, is yet of gold: The passion such it was to prove— Worn with life's care, love yet was love.
William Blake. 1757-1827
483. To the Muses
WHETHER on Ida's shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few.
William Blake. 1757-1827
484. To Spring
O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
William Blake. 1757-1827
485. Song
MY silks and fine array, My smiles and languish'd air, By Love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was 't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worshipp'd tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pass away!
William Blake. 1757-1827
486. Reeds of Innocence
PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:
'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again;' So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' So I sung the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.' So he vanish'd from my sight; And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.
William Blake. 1757-1827
487. The Little Black Boy
MY mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O, my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:
'Look at the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice, Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.
William Blake. 1757-1827
488. Hear the Voice
HEAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walk'd among the ancient trees;
Calling the lapsed soul, And weeping in the evening dew; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew!
'O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass.
'Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Is given thee till the break of day.'
William Blake. 1757-1827
489. The Tiger
TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake. 1757-1827
490. 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.
O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful night shall break.
William Blake. 1757-1827
491. Night
THE sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest. And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove, Where flocks have took delight: Where lambs have nibbled, silent move The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing And joy without ceasing On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm: If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep, Seeking to drive their thirst away And keep them from the sheep. But, if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold: Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness, And, by His health, sickness, Are driven away From our immortal day.
'And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep, Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee, and weep. For, wash'd in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold.'
William Blake. 1757-1827
492. 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.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
493. 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 blythely wad I bide the stour 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 arena Mary Morison.'
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wiltna gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.
stour] dust, turmoil.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
494. 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 monie 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.
airts] points of the compass. row] roll.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
495. Auld Lang Syne
SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?
We twa hae rin about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne.
And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.
gowans] daisies. fit] foot. dine] dinner-time. fiere] partner. guid-willie waught] friendly draught.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
496. My Bonnie Mary
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 ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it 's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o' war that 's heard afar— It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!
tassie] cup.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
497. John Anderson, my Jo
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 beld, 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 monie 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.
jo] sweetheart. brent] smooth, unwrinkled. beld] bald. pow] pate. canty] cheerful.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
498. The Banks o' Doon
YE flowery banks 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 wistna o' my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Upon a morn in June; And sae I flourish'd on the morn, And sae was pu'd or' noon.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Upon its thorny tree; But my fause luver staw my rose, And left the thorn wi' me.
or'] ere. staw] stole.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
499. Ae Fond Kiss
AE fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
wage] stake, plight.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
500. 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 couldna 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 themsel' 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!
scaith] harm. tent] watch. steer] molest.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
501. 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' monie 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.
drumlie] miry.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
502. O were my Love yon Lilac fair
O WERE my Love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.
O gin my Love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'; O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
503. A Red, Red Rose
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 a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
504. 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 blin's her e'e: '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 e'e! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For monie a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.'
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
505. The Farewell
IT was a' for our rightfu' King We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' King We e'er saw Irish land, My dear— We e'er saw Irish land.
Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My love and native land, farewell, For I maun cross the main, My dear— For I maun cross the main.
He turn'd him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With, Adieu for evermore, My dear— With, Adieu for evermore!
The sodger frae the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear— Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep, I think on him that 's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear— The lee-lang night, and weep.
lee-lang] livelong.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
506. Hark! the Mavis
CA' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie.
Hark! the mavis' evening sang Sounding Clouden's woods amang, Then a-faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie.
We'll gae down by Clouden side, Through the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly.
Yonder Clouden's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours O'er the dewy bending flowers Fairies dance sae cheery.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die—but canna part, My bonnie dearie.
While waters wimple to the sea; While day blinks in the lift sae hie; Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, Ye shall be my dearie.
Ca' the yowes to the knowes...
lift] sky.
Henry Rowe. 1750-1819
507. Sun
ANGEL, king of streaming morn; Cherub, call'd by Heav'n to shine; T' orient tread the waste forlorn; Guide aetherial, pow'r divine; Thou, Lord of all within!
Golden spirit, lamp of day, Host, that dips in blood the plain, Bids the crimson'd mead be gay, Bids the green blood burst the vein; Thou, Lord of all within!
Soul, that wraps the globe in light; Spirit, beckoning to arise; Drives the frowning brow of night, Glory bursting o'er the skies; Thou, Lord of all within!
Henry Rowe. 1750-1819
508. Moon
THEE too, modest tressed maid, When thy fallen stars appear; When in lawn of fire array'd Sov'reign of yon powder'd sphere; To thee I chant at close of day, Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Throned in sapphired ring supreme, Pregnant with celestial juice, On silver wing thy diamond stream Gives what summer hours produce; While view'd impearl'd earth's rich inlay, Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Glad, pale Cynthian wine I sip, Breathed the flow'ry leaves among; Draughts delicious wet my lip; Drown'd in nectar drunk my song; While tuned to Philomel the lay, Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Dew, that od'rous ointment yields, Sweets, that western winds disclose, Bathing spring's more purpled fields, Soft 's the band that winds the rose; While o'er thy myrtled lawns I stray Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
William Lisle Bowles. 1762-1850
509. Time and Grief
O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile: As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:— Yet ah! how much must this poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
Joanna Baillie. 1762-1851
510. The Outlaw's Song
THE chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wild-fire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray; Uprouse ye then, my merry men! It is our op'ning day.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And closed is every flower, And winking tapers faintly peep High from my lady's bower; Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd ken Shrink on their murky way; Uprouse ye then, my merry men! It is our op'ning day.
Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof nor latched door, Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow To bless a good man's store; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day; Uprouse ye then, my merry men! And use it as ye may.
Mary Lamb. 1765-1847
511. A Child
A CHILD 's a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space— Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itself All seasons could control; That would have mock'd the sense of pain Out of a grieved soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms, Young climber-up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways Then life and all shall cease.
Carolina, Lady Nairne. 1766-1845
512. The Land o' the Leal
I'M wearin' awa', John Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There 's nae sorrow there, John, There 's neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn 's there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John; And O! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy 's a-coming fast, John, The joy that 's aye to last In the land o' the leal.
Sae dear 's the joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. O, dry your glistening e'e, John! My saul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal.
O, haud ye leal and true, John! Your day it 's wearin' through, John, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain, In the land o' the leal.
James Hogg. 1770-1835
513. A Boy's Song
WHERE the pools are bright and deep, Where the grey trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea, That 's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That 's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That 's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That 's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That 's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and over the lea, That 's the way for Billy and me.
James Hogg. 1770-1835
514. Kilmeny
BONNIE Kilmeny gaed up the glen; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree; For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', But lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw; Lang the laird o' Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!
When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mess for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the bedesman had pray'd and the dead bell rung, Late, late in gloamin' when all was still, When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, The reek o' the cot hung over the plain, Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane; When the ingle low'd wi' an eiry leme, Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame!
'Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? Lang hae we sought baith holt and den; By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree, Yet you are halesome and fair to see. Where gat you that joup o' the lily scheen? That bonnie snood of the birk sae green? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?'
Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her e'e, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been, she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew. But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue, When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, And a land where sin had never been; A land of love and a land of light, Withouten sun, or moon, or night; Where the river swa'd a living stream, And the light a pure celestial beam; The land of vision, it would seem, A still, an everlasting dream.
In yon green-wood there is a waik, And in that waik there is a wene, And in that wene there is a maike, That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane; And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane.
In that green wene Kilmeny lay, Her bosom happ'd wi' flowerets gay; But the air was soft and the silence deep, And bonnie Kilmeny fell sound asleep. She kenn'd nae mair, nor open'd her e'e, Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye.
She 'waken'd on a couch of the silk sae slim, All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim; And lovely beings round were rife, Who erst had travell'd mortal life; And aye they smiled and 'gan to speer, 'What spirit has brought this mortal here?'—
'Lang have I journey'd, the world wide,' A meek and reverend fere replied; 'Baith night and day I have watch'd the fair, Eident a thousand years and mair. Yes, I have watch'd o'er ilk degree, Wherever blooms femenitye; But sinless virgin, free of stain In mind and body, fand I nane. Never, since the banquet of time, Found I a virgin in her prime, Till late this bonnie maiden I saw As spotless as the morning snaw: Full twenty years she has lived as free As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye: I have brought her away frae the snares of men, That sin or death she never may ken.'—
They clasp'd her waist and her hands sae fair, They kiss'd her cheek and they kemed her hair, And round came many a blooming fere, Saying, 'Bonnie Kilmeny, ye're welcome here! Women are freed of the littand scorn: O blest be the day Kilmeny was born! Now shall the land of the spirits see, Now shall it ken what a woman may be! Many a lang year, in sorrow and pain, Many a lang year through the world we've gane, Commission'd to watch fair womankind, For it 's they who nurice the immortal mind. We have watch'd their steps as the dawning shone, And deep in the green-wood walks alone; By lily bower and silken bed, The viewless tears have o'er them shed; Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep, Or left the couch of love to weep. We have seen! we have seen! but the time must come, And the angels will weep at the day of doom!
'O would the fairest of mortal kind Aye keep the holy truths in mind, That kindred spirits their motions see, Who watch their ways with anxious e'e, And grieve for the guilt of humanitye! O, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer, And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair! And dear to Heaven the words of truth, And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth! And dear to the viewless forms of air, The minds that kyth as the body fair!
'O bonnie Kilmeny! free frae stain, If ever you seek the world again, That world of sin, of sorrow and fear, O tell of the joys that are waiting here; And tell of the signs you shall shortly see; Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be.'— They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, And she walk'd in the light of a sunless day; The sky was a dome of crystal bright, The fountain of vision, and fountain of light: The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, And the flowers of everlasting blow. Then deep in the stream her body they laid, That her youth and beauty never might fade; And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie In the stream of life that wander'd bye. And she heard a song, she heard it sung, She kenn'd not where; but sae sweetly it rung, It fell on the ear like a dream of the morn: 'O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born! Now shall the land of the spirits see, Now shall it ken what a woman may be! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrow'd gleid frae the fountain of light; And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun, Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. But lang, lang after baith night and day, When the sun and the world have elyed away; When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!'—
They bore her away, she wist not how, For she felt not arm nor rest below; But so swift they wain'd her through the light, 'Twas like the motion of sound or sight; They seem'd to split the gales of air, And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. Unnumber'd groves below them grew, They came, they pass'd, and backward flew, Like floods of blossoms gliding on, In moment seen, in moment gone. O, never vales to mortal view Appear'd like those o'er which they flew! That land to human spirits given, The lowermost vales of the storied heaven; From thence they can view the world below, And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow, More glory yet unmeet to know.
They bore her far to a mountain green, To see what mortal never had seen; And they seated her high on a purple sward, And bade her heed what she saw and heard, And note the changes the spirits wrought, For now she lived in the land of thought. She look'd, and she saw nor sun nor skies, But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes: She look'd, and she saw nae land aright, But an endless whirl of glory and light: And radiant beings went and came, Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame. She hid her e'en frae the dazzling view; She look'd again, and the scene was new.
She saw a sun on a summer sky, And clouds of amber sailing bye; A lovely land beneath her lay, And that land had glens and mountains gray; And that land had valleys and hoary piles, And marled seas, and a thousand isles. Its fields were speckled, its forests green, And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray; Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung, On every shore they seem'd to be hung; For there they were seen on their downward plain A thousand times and a thousand again; In winding lake and placid firth, Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth.
Kilmeny sigh'd and seem'd to grieve, For she found her heart to that land did cleave; She saw the corn wave on the vale, She saw the deer run down the dale; She saw the plaid and the broad claymore, And the brows that the badge of freedom bore; And she thought she had seen the land before.
She saw a lady sit on a throne, The fairest that ever the sun shone on! A lion lick'd her hand of milk, And she held him in a leish of silk; And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee, With a silver wand and melting e'e; Her sovereign shield till love stole in, And poison'd all the fount within.
Then a gruff untoward bedesman came, And hundit the lion on his dame; And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless e'e, She dropp'd a tear, and left her knee; And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled, Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead; A coffin was set on a distant plain, And she saw the red blood fall like rain; Then bonnie Kilmeny's heart grew sair, And she turn'd away, and could look nae mair.
Then the gruff grim carle girn'd amain, And they trampled him down, but he rose again; And he baited the lion to deeds of weir, Till he lapp'd the blood to the kingdom dear; And weening his head was danger-preef, When crown'd with the rose and clover leaf, He gowl'd at the carle, and chased him away To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray. He gowl'd at the carle, and geck'd at Heaven, But his mark was set, and his arles given. Kilmeny a while her e'en withdrew; She look'd again, and the scene was new.
She saw before her fair unfurl'd One half of all the glowing world, Where oceans roll'd, and rivers ran, To bound the aims of sinful man. She saw a people, fierce and fell, Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell; Their lilies grew, and the eagle flew; And she herked on her ravening crew, Till the cities and towers were wrapp'd in a blaze, And the thunder it roar'd o'er the lands and the seas. The widows they wail'd, and the red blood ran, And she threaten'd an end to the race of man; She never lened, nor stood in awe, Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. O, then the eagle swink'd for life, And brainyell'd up a mortal strife; But flew she north, or flew she south, She met wi' the gowl o' the lion's mouth.
With a mooted wing and waefu' maen, The eagle sought her eiry again; But lang may she cower in her bloody nest, And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast, Before she sey another flight, To play wi' the norland lion's might.
But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, So far surpassing nature's law, The singer's voice wad sink away, And the string of his harp wad cease to play. But she saw till the sorrows of man were bye, And all was love and harmony; Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, Like flakes of snaw on a winter day.
Then Kilmeny begg'd again to see The friends she had left in her own countrye; To tell of the place where she had been, And the glories that lay in the land unseen; To warn the living maidens fair, The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, That all whose minds unmeled remain Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane.
With distant music, soft and deep, They lull'd Kilmeny sound asleep; And when she awaken'd, she lay her lane, All happ'd with flowers, in the green-wood wene. When seven lang years had come and fled, When grief was calm, and hope was dead; When scarce was remember'd Kilmeny's name, Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came hame! And O, her beauty was fair to see, But still and steadfast was her e'e! Such beauty bard may never declare, For there was no pride nor passion there; And the soft desire of maiden's e'en In that mild face could never be seen. Her seymar was the lily flower, And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower; And her voice like the distant melodye, That floats along the twilight sea. But she loved to raike the lanely glen, And keeped afar frae the haunts of men; Her holy hymns unheard to sing, To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. But wherever her peaceful form appear'd, The wild beasts of the hill were cheer'd; The wolf play'd blythly round the field, The lordly byson low'd and kneel'd; The dun deer woo'd with manner bland, And cower'd aneath her lily hand. And when at even the woodlands rung, When hymns of other worlds she sung In ecstasy of sweet devotion, O, then the glen was all in motion! The wild beasts of the forest came, Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, And goved around, charm'd and amazed; Even the dull cattle croon'd and gazed, And murmur'd and look'd with anxious pain For something the mystery to explain. The buzzard came with the throstle-cock; The corby left her houf in the rock; The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew; The hind came tripping o'er the dew; The wolf and the kid their raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; The hawk and the hern attour them hung, And the merle and the mavis forhooy'd their young; And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd; It was like an eve in a sinless world!
When a month and a day had come and gane. Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene; There laid her down on the leaves sae green, And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. But O, the words that fell from her mouth Were words of wonder, and words of truth! But all the land were in fear and dread, For they kendna whether she was living or dead. It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain; She left this world of sorrow and pain, And return'd to the land of thought again.
yorlin] the yellow-hammer. hindberrye] bramble. minny] mother. greet] mourn. westlin] western. its lane] alone, by itself. low'd] flamed. eiry leme] eery gleam. linn] waterfall. joup] mantle. swa'd] swelled. waik] a row of deep damp grass. wene] ?whin, a furze-bush. maike] a mate, match, equal. his lane] alone, by himself. happ'd] covered. speer] inquire. fere] fellow. eident] unintermittently. kemed] combed. kyth] show, appear. gleid] spark, glow. elyed] vanished. marled] variegated, parti-coloured. leifu'] lone, wistful. girn'd] snarled. weir] war. gowl'd] howled. geck'd] mocked. arles] money paid on striking a bargain; fig. a beating. lened] crouched. swink'd] laboured. brainyell'd] stirred, beat. mooted] moulted. sey] essay. unmeled] unblemished. her lane] alone, by herself. seymar]=cymar, a slight covering. raike] range, wander. bughts] milking-pens. goved] stared, gazed. corby] raven. houf] haunt. raike] ramble. tod] fox. attour] out over. forhooy'd] neglected.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
515. Lucy i
STRANGE fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.
When she I loved look'd every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; And, as we climb'd the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopp'd: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropp'd.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! 'O mercy!' to myself I cried, 'If Lucy should be dead!'
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
516. Lucy ii
SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
517. Lucy iii
I TRAVELL'D among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
518. Lucy iv
THREE years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own.
"Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.
'She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.
'The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy.
'The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
'And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.'
Thus Nature spake—The work was done— How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
519. Lucy v
A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
520. Upon Westminster Bridge
EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
521. Evening on Calais Beach
IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder—everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
522. On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, 1802
ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee; And was the safeguard of the West: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And, when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is pass'd away.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
523. England, 1802 i
O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: The wealthiest man among us is the best: No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
524. England, 1802 ii
MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; O raise us up, return to us again, And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power! Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
525. England, 1802 iii
GREAT men have been among us; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom—better none: The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who call'd Milton friend. These moralists could act and comprehend: They knew how genuine glory was put on; Taught us how rightfully a nation shone In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change! No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road; But equally a want of books and men!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
526. England, 1802 iv
IT is not to be thought of that the flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flow'd, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,' Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands,— That this most famous stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.—In everything we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
527. England, 1802 v
WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country!—am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; And I by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
528. The Solitary Reaper
BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?— Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;— I listen'd, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
529. Perfect Woman
SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
530. Daffodils
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
531. Ode to Duty
STERN Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love, Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts! without reproach or blot; Who do thy work, and know it not: O, if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control; But in the quietness of thought. Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires; My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Yet not the less would I throughout Still act according to the voice Of my own wish; and feel past doubt That my submissiveness was choice: Not seeking in the school of pride For 'precepts over dignified,' Denial and restraint I prize No farther than they breed a second Will more wise.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; O, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
532. The Rainbow
MY heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
533. The Sonnet i
NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room, And hermits are contented with their cells, And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest peak of Furness fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison unto which we doom Ourselves no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
534. The Sonnet ii
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camens sooth'd an exile's grief; The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
535. The World
THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
536. Ode Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;— Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, And the children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! —But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. |
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