Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright.

B. JONSON.



79. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS.

Whoe'er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth;

Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

—Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty, That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:

Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

A face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone command the rest:

A face made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright Or give down to the wings of night.

Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow:

Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night.

Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, "Welcome friend."

I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish—no more.

—Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.

'Tis She, and here Lo! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character.

Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions:—but her story.

R. CRASHAW.



80. THE GREAT ADVENTURER.

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 his way.

You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from 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 thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love, if so ye call him, 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, ye may move her To give o'er her prey; But you'll ne'er stop a lover: He will find out his way.

ANON.



81. CHILD AND MAIDEN.

Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit As unconcern'd as when Your infant beauty could beget No happiness or pain! When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the rising fire Would take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in a mine; Age from no face takes more away Than youth conceal'd in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest, So love as unperceived did fly, And center'd in my breast.

My passion with your beauty grew, While 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 C. SEDLEY.



82. COUNSEL TO GIRLS.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer, But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

R. HERRICK.



83. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.

COLONEL LOVELACE.



84. ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night, Which poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies, What are you, when the Moon shall rise?

Ye violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year As if the spring were all your own,— What are you, when the Rose is blown?

You curious chanters of the wood That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice doth raise?

So, when my Mistress shall be seen In sweetness of her looks and mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

SIR H. WOTTON.



85. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.

Daughter to that good earl, once President Of England's council and her treasury, Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content.

Till the sad breaking of that parliament Broke him, as that dishonest victory At Chaeronia, fatal to liberty, Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;—

Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you, Madam, methinks I see him living yet;

So well your words his noble virtues praise, That all both judge you to relate them true, And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.

J. MILTON.



86. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE.

It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:

Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:—

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,

These are but gauds: nay what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows there's nought within; They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Syren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never link'd with error find,—

One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose,—

My earthly Comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit wonn'd above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

ANON.



87. THE TRUE BEAUTY.

He that loves a rosy cheek Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires:— Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

T. CAREW.



88. TO DIANEME.

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free: Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the lovesick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone, When all your world of beauty's gone.

R. HERRICK.



89.

Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee: How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

E. WALLER.



90. TO CELIA.

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!

B. JONSON.



91. CHERRY-RIPE.

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow: Yet them no peer nor prince can buy Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, —Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!

ANON.



92. THE POETRY OF DRESS.

I.

A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness:— A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction,— An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher,— A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly,— A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat,— A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility;— Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.

R. HERRICK.



93.—II.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!

R. HERRICK.



94.—III.

My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, It doth so well become her; For every season she hath dressings fit, For Winter, Spring, and Summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone.

ANON.



95. ON A GIRDLE.

That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind: No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done.

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the Sun goes round.

E. WALLER.



96. TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING.

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honour thy decree: Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see: And having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree: Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en Death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.

R. HERRICK.



97.

Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a constant heart,— For these may fail, or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever: Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why— So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever!

ANON.



98.

Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest.

But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find— For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store, And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true.

SIR C. SEDLEY.



99. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free— Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confined, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

COLONEL LOVELACE.



100. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS.

If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.

Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

COLONEL LOVELACE.



101. ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prythee, why so pale? Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prythee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! This will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The D——l take her!

SIR J. SUCKLING.



102. A SUPPLICATION.

Awake, awake, my Lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: Though so exalted she And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark! how the strings awake: And, though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try; Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound, And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.

Sleep, sleep again my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

A. COWLEY.



103. THE MANLY HEART.

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or my cheeks make pale with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May— If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind; Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her merit's value known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of Best; If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do Who without them dare to woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?

G. WITHER.



104. MELANCHOLY.

Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly There's naught in this life sweet If men were wise to see't, But only melancholy, O sweetest Melancholy! Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

J. FLETCHER.



105. TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright As in that well-remember'd night When first thy mystic braid was wove, And first my Agnes whisper'd love.

Since then how often hast thou prest The torrid zone of this wild breast, Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell With the first sin that peopled hell; A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion! O if such clime thou canst endure Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, What conquest o'er each erring thought Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought! I had not wander'd far and wide With such an angel for my guide; Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me If she had lived, and lived to love me.

Not then this world's wild joys had been To me one savage hunting scene, My sole delight the headlong race, And frantic hurry of the chase; To start, pursue, and bring to bay, Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, Then—from the carcase turn away! Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, And soothed each wound which pride inflamed:— Yes, God and man might now approve me If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me!

SIR W. SCOTT.



106. THE FORSAKEN BRIDE.

O waly waly, up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side Where I and my Love wont to gae! I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly waly, but love be bonny A little time while it is new; But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed; The sheets sall ne'er be prest by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town We were a comely sight to see; My Love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. And O! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysell were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!

ANON.



107. FAIR HELEN.

I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirconnell lea.

Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me!

O think na but my heart was sair, When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! I laid her down wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw, I 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 make a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I were blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, Since my Love died for me.

ANON.



108. THE TWA CORBIES.

As I was walking all alane I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"

"—In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain Knight; And naebody kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet.

"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pick out his bonny blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

"Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken where he is gane; O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."

ANON.



109. TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.

What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight; And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.

R. HERRICK.



110. TO DAFFODILS.

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again.

R. HERRICK.



111. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of Repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow: Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passions' heat, Love hither makes his best retreat: The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises are in one, To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!

A. MARVELL.



112. L'ALLEGRO.

Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night-raven sings; There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore: Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying— There, on beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides:— Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise: Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweetbriar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures; Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied; Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some Beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sun-shine holy-day, Till the live-long day-light fail: Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How faery Mab the junkets eat; She was pinch'd and pull'd, she said; And he, by friar's lantern led, Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber, on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regain'd Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

J. MILTON.



113. IL PENSEROSO.

Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.

But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. Yet thou art higher far descended: Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she; in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain: Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypres lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn: Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast: And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:— But first, and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustom'd oak. —Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song; And, missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground I hear the far-off curfeu sound, Over some wide-water'd shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshy nook: And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptr'd pall come sweeping by Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine; Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek And made Hell grant what Love did seek! Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife That own'd the virtuous ring and glass; And of the wondrous horse of brass On which the Tartar king did ride; And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung Of tourneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont With the Attic Boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in close covert by some brook Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honey'd thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep. And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in aery stream Of lively portraiture display'd, Softly on my eyelids laid: And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high-embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth show, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.

J. MILTON.



114. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.

Where the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that row'd along The listening woods received this song.

"What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage: He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. O let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which then perhaps rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay!" —Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

A. MARVELL.



115. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Verse, Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce, And to our high-raised phantasy present That undisturbed Song of pure concent, Ay sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne To Him that sits thereon, With saintly shout and solemn jubilee; Where the bright Seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow; And the Cherubic host in thousand quires Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms Hymns devout and holy psalms Singing everlastingly: That we on earth, with undiscording voice May rightly answer that melodious noise; As once we did, till disproportion'd sin Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din Broke the fair music that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd In perfect diapason, whilst they stood In first obedience, and their state of good. O may we soon again renew that Song, And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long To His celestial consort us unite, To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!

J. MILTON.



116. ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son— Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (So should desert in arms be crown'd). The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride:— Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave None but the brave None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus placed on high Amid the tuneful quire With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above— Such is the power of mighty love! A dragon's fiery form belied the god; Sublime on radiant spires he rode When he to fair Olympia prest, And while he sought her snowy breast; Then round her slender waist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. —The listening crowd admire the lofty sound! A present deity! they shout around: A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound! With ravish'd ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god; Affects to nod And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung: Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young: The jolly god in triumph comes! Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! Flush'd with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he Heaven and Earth defied Changed his hand and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood; Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed; On the bare earth exposed he lies With not a friend to close his eyes. —With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his alter'd soul The various turns of Chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole; And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree; 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble, Honour but an empty bubble, Never ending, still beginning; Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee! —The many rend the skies with loud applause; So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again: At length, with love and wine at once opprest The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again: A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head: As awaked from the dead, And amazed he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise! See the snakes that they rear How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew! Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes And glittering temples of their hostile gods. —The princes applaud with a furious joy: And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And like another Helen, fired another Troy!

—Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. —Let old Timotheus yield the prize Or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down!

J. DRYDEN.



THIRD BOOK.

SUMMARY.

It is more difficult to characterise the English Poetry of the eighteenth century than that of any other. For it was an age not only of spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment: it includes not only such divergences of thought as distinguished the "Rape of the Lock" from the "Parish Register," but such vast contemporaneous differences as lie between Pope and Collins, Burns and Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace three leading moods or tendencies:—the aspects of courtly or educated life represented by Pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; the poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a cultivated, and at the same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins and Gray:—lastly, the study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural description, begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued by Burns and others in the north, and established in England by Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. Great varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim: poets could not always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart; and the union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited most conspicuously by Burns, has given a tone to the poetry of that century which is better explained by reference to its historical origin than by naming it, in the common criticism of our day, artificial. There is again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict sense manly, excellence in many of the writers:—nor can that period be justly termed tame and wanting in originality, which produced poems such as Pope's Satires, Gray's Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey, the songs of Burns and Cowper. In truth Poetry at this as at all times was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age; and the brave and admirable spirit of Enquiry which made the eighteenth century the turning-time in European civilisation is reflected faithfully in its verse. An intelligent reader will find the influence of Newton as markedly in the poems of Pope, as of Elizabeth in the plays of Shakespeare. On this great subject, however, these indications must here be sufficient.



117. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE.

Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, With vermeil cheek and whisper soft She woos the tardy Spring: Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground, And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance, Frisking ply their feeble feet; Forgetful of their wintry trance The birds his presence greet: But chief, the sky-lark warbles high His trembling thrilling ecstasy; And lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light.

Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by: Their raptures now that wildly flow No yesterday nor morrow know; 'Tis Man alone that joy descries With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past Misfortune's brow Soft Reflection's hand can trace, And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw A melancholy grace; While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lour And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, See a kindred Grief pursue; Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has tost On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost And breathe and walk again: The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening Paradise.

T. GRAY.



118. SOLITUDE.

Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mix'd; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

A. POPE.



119. THE BLIND BOY.

O say what is that thing call'd Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy: Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.

C. CIBBER.



120. ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes— She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple, to the view Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw; A whisker first, and then a claw With many an ardent wish She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize— What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between— Malignant Fate sat by and smiled— The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mew'd to every watery God Some speedy aid to send:— No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard— A favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glisters, gold!

T. GRAY.



121. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.

Timely blossom, Infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song. Lavish of a heedless tongue; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandon'd to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush, Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat; Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest:— This thy present happy lot This, in time will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee.

A. PHILIPS.



122. RULE BRITANNIA.

When Britain first at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule Brittania! Brittania rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair:— Rule Britannia! Brittania rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves!

J. THOMSON.



123. THE BARD.

Pindaric Ode.

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" —Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array:— Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: "Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue That hush'd the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries— No more I weep; They do not sleep; On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit; They linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

"Weave the warp and weave the woof The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"Mighty Victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? —Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes: Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame, With many 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 the 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;) Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:— All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings.

"The verse adorn again, Fierce War and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; To triumph and to die are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

T. GRAY.



124. ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their Country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit, there!

W. COLLINS.



125. 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 blink's her ee: Drumossie moor—Drumossie day— A waefu' day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see: And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's ee! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou hast made sair That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

R. BURNS.



126. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie— The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order, sent out lads to the border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

J. ELLIOTT.



127. THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover! For ever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!

He promised me a milk-white steed To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,— The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;— Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him; Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.

His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look— Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid; Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow— I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. —The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

J. LOGAN.



128. WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW.

Down in yon garden sweet and gay Where bonnie grows the lily, I heard a fair maid sighing say "My wish be wi' sweet Willie!

"Willie's rare, and Willie's fair, And Willie's wondrous bonny; And Willie hecht to marry me Gin e'er he married ony.

"O gentle wind, that bloweth south, From where my Love repaireth, Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth And tell me how he fareth!

"O tell sweet Willie to come doon And hear the mavis singing, And see the birds on ilka bush And leaves around them hinging.

"The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast And gentle throat sae narrow; There's sport eneuch for gentlemen On Leader haughs and Yarrow.

"O Leader haughs are wide and braid And Yarrow haughs are bonny; There Willie hecht to marry me If e'er he married ony.

"But Willie's gone, whom I thought on, And does not hear me weeping; Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e When other maids are sleeping.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, The night I'll mak' it narrow, For a' the live-lang winter night I lie twined o' my marrow.

"O came ye by yon water-side? Pou'd you the rose or lily? Or came you by yon meadow green, Or saw you my sweet Willie?"

She sought him up, she sought him down, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne, in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drown'd in Yarrow!

ANON.



129. LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Toll for the Brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone: His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfeld went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfeld is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

W. COWPER.



130. BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard; "O! where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew."

William, who high upon the yard Rock'd with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below; The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest:— The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

"Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

"If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

"Though battle call me from thy arms Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his Dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."

The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard; They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.

J. GAY.



131. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em; But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely— But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day— And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley; But when my seven long years are out O then I'll marry Sally,— O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, But not in our alley!

H. CAREY.



132. A FAREWELL.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, And 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 of 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 not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar— It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

R. BURNS.



133.

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 thysell, That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me.

GRAHAM OF GARTMORE.



134. TO A YOUNG LADY.

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid— Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face.

W. COWPER.



135. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile— Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow: Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish—and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast: —And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: And may the secret of thy soul Remain within its sanctuary!

S. ROGERS.



136.

For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to Love, And when we meet a mutual heart Come in between, and bid us part?

Bid us sigh on from day to day, And wish and wish the soul away; Till youth and genial years are flown, And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy, still art thou, To bind the loveless joyless vow, The heart from pleasure to delude, To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer, And I absolve thy future care; All other blessings I resign, Make but the dear Amanda mine.

J. THOMSON.



137.

The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay— When Cloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs: And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

M. PRIOR.



138.

When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray,— What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover And wring his bosom, is—to die.

O. GOLDSMITH.



139.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon How can ye blume sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

R. BURNS.



140. 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, Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign; Now rolling down the steep amain Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

O Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curb'd the fury of his car And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day, With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow-melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay: With arms sublime that float upon the air In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

In climes beyond the solar road Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight gloom To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep, Fields that cool Ilissus laves Or where Maeander's amber waves In lingering lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish! Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around; Every shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, 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 the Abyss to spy: He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze Where Angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.

Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— 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.

T. GRAY.



141. THE PASSIONS.

An Ode for Music.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined: 'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound, And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair— Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, A solemn strange and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promised pleasure And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close: And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;— And longer had she sung:—but with a frown Revenge impatient rose: He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; And with a withering look The war-denouncing trumpet took And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And, though sometimes, each each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd: Sad proof of thy distressful state! Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest: But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: They would have thought who heard the strain They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids Amidst the festal-sounding shades To some unwearied minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the stings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! Sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! Why, goddess, why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that loved Athenian bower You learn'd an all-commanding power, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd! Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders, in that god-like age, Fill thy recording Sister's page;— 'Tis said and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age, E'en all at once together found Cecilia's mingled world of sound:— O bid our vain endeavours cease: Revive the just designs of Greece: Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate!

W. COLLINS.



142. ODE ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little, are the Proud, How indigent the Great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter thro' life's little day, In Fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low, The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— We frolic while 'tis May.

T. GRAY.



143. THE POPLAR FIELD.

The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew: And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charm'd me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie lowly as they, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

W. COWPER.



144. TO A FIELD-MOUSE.

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion, Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! And bleak December's winds ensuin' Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley, And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e. On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear.

R. BURNS.



145. A WISH.

Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.

S. ROGERS.



146. 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 dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return.

For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams.

Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side Views wilds and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires; And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name!

W. COLLINS.



147. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour:— The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to 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 listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade 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 tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in those 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 noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

The next with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

T. GRAY.



148. 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 stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,— I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

R. BURNS.



149. BONNIE LESLEY.

O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say "I canna wrang thee!"

The Powers aboon will tent thee, Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.

R. BURNS.



150.

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.

R. BURNS.



151. 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.