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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Golden Treasury
+       Selected from the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the
+       English Language and arranged with Notes
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Francis T. Palgrave
+
+Release Date: May 14, 2010 [EBook #32373]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Juliet Sutherland, and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                         Transcriber's Note:
+
+    The source of the Greek quote and its meaning are from the
+    1914 edition.
+
+
+                                 THE
+
+                           GOLDEN TREASURY
+
+               SELECTED FROM THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL
+                    POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
+                       AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES
+
+
+                                  BY
+
+                         FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE
+
+         LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
+
+
+
+
+                        _REVISED AND ENLARGED_
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                                London
+
+                      MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
+
+                   NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+
+                                 1902
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+ALFRED TENNYSON
+
+POET LAUREATE
+
+
+This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with
+whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English
+Literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts
+of Nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the
+rarest,--just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been
+hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have
+endeavoured to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to
+Henry Hallam. But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love
+and reverence; and I desire therefore to place before it a name united
+with his by associations which, while Poetry retains her hold on the
+minds of Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.
+
+Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn
+Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your
+advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second
+reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet,
+and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common
+value.
+
+Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be
+found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a
+source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten
+solitude itself with best society,--with the companionship of the wise
+and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music
+only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of
+delight to Labour and to Poverty,--if it teaches those indifferent to
+the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the
+aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully
+accomplished.
+
+F.T.P.
+
+MAY: 1861
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the
+attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and
+Songs in our language (save a very few regretfully omitted on account
+of length), by writers not living,--and none beside the best. Many
+familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be
+familiar:--the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who
+love Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known
+and valued.
+
+The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of
+Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision
+increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work,
+whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here
+held essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single
+thought, feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative,
+descriptive, and didactic poems,--unless accompanied by rapidity of
+movement, brevity, and the colouring of human passion,--have been
+excluded. Humourous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances
+where a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly
+personal, occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to
+the idea of the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with
+all pieces markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is
+commonly understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical
+conditions in treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it
+possible, that all readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some
+poems, as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and Penseroso, Wordsworth's Ruth
+or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice
+for a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference
+especially to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he
+has taken his utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.
+
+This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to
+question;--what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That
+a poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,--that it shall reach a
+perfection commensurate with its aim,--that we should require finish
+in proportion to brevity,--that passion, colour, and originality
+cannot atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity or
+truth,--that a few good lines do not make a good poem, that popular
+estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,--above
+all, that excellence should be looked for rather in the whole than in
+the parts,--such and other such canons have been always steadily
+regarded. He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger
+number rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and
+that he has been aided throughout by two friends of independent and
+exercised judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the
+Dedication. It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been
+freed from that one-sidedness which must beset individual
+decisions:--but for the final choice the Editor is alone responsible.
+
+Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible
+poets not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different
+periods, have been twice systematically read through: and it is hence
+improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are due to
+oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a very few
+instances where a stanza or passage has been omitted. These omissions
+have been risked only when the piece could be thus brought to a closer
+lyrical unity: and, as essentially opposed to this unity, extracts,
+obviously such, are excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of
+the book has appeared to justify the choice of the most poetical
+version, wherever more than one exists; and much labour has been given
+to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to
+the greatest advantage.
+
+In the arrangement, the most poetically-effective order has been
+attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and
+cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of
+Poetry, that a rapid passage between old and new, like rapid
+alteration of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always
+be wearisome and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been
+therefore distributed into Books corresponding, I to the ninety years
+closing about 1616, II thence to 1700, III to 1800, IV to the half
+century just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give
+each portion its distinctive character, they might be called the Books
+of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this
+respect, so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately
+reflects the natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly
+chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at
+instruction than at pleasure, and the wisdom which comes through
+pleasure:--within each book the pieces have therefore been arranged in
+gradations of feeling or subject. And it is hoped that the contents of
+this Anthology will thus be found to present a certain unity, 'as
+episodes,' in the noble language of Shelley, 'to that great Poem which
+all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have
+built up since the beginning of the world.'
+
+As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without
+egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame
+more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism,
+would confine judgments on Poetry to 'the selected few of many
+generations.' Not many appear to have gained reputation without some
+gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses
+by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more
+thought than mastery of expression, are printed in this volume, it
+should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much
+hesitation and regret,--far less that they have been slighted.
+Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few
+have been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill
+in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or
+seriousness in reflection, which render their works, although never
+perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence here
+required,--better worth reading than much of what fills the scanty
+hours that most men spare for self-improvement, or for pleasure in any
+of its more elevated and permanent forms.--And if this be true of even
+mediocre poetry, for how much more are we indebted to the best! Like
+the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a more various power, the
+magic of this Art can confer on each period of life its appropriate
+blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity Calm, on age,
+Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures 'more golden than gold,' leading
+us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world, and
+interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for
+herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success,
+may be heard throughout the following pages:--wherever the Poets of
+England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is
+spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.
+
+1861
+
+Some poems, especially in Book I, have been added:--either on better
+acquaintance;--in deference to critical suggestions;--or unknown to
+the Editor when first gathering his harvest. For aid in these
+after-gleanings he is specially indebted to the excellent reprints of
+rare early verse given us by Dr. Hannah, Dr. Grosart, Mr. Arber, Mr.
+Bullen, and others,--and (in regard to the additions of 1883) to the
+advice of that distinguished Friend, by whom the final choice has been
+so largely guided. The text has also been carefully revised from
+authoritative sources. It has still seemed best, for many reasons, to
+retain the original limit by which the selection was confined to those
+then no longer living. But the editor hopes that, so far as in him
+lies, a complete and definitive collection of our best Lyrics, to the
+central year of this fast-closing century, is now offered.
+
+1883-1890-1891
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+DEDICATION
+
+PREFACE                   PAGE
+
+BOOK I.                     1
+
+BOOK II.                   56
+
+BOOK III.                 133
+
+BOOK IV.                  197
+
+NOTES                     349
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS          371
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES      375
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+                    Εἰς τὸν λειμῶνα καθίσας,
+                    ἔδρεπεν ἕτερον ἐφ' ἑτέρῳ
+                    αἰρόμενος ἄγρευμ' ἀνθέων
+                    ἁδομένᾳ ψυχᾷ -- --
+
+                            [Eurip. frag. 754.]
+
+         ['He sat in the meadow and plucked
+           with glad heart the spoil of the
+           flowers, gathering them one by one.']
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book First
+
+
+I
+
+_SPRING_
+
+
+    Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
+    Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
+    Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+    The palm and may make country houses gay,
+    Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
+    And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
+
+    The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
+    Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
+    In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+          Spring! the sweet Spring!
+
+_T. Nash._
+
+
+II
+
+_THE FAIRY LIFE_
+
+1
+
+    Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
+    In a cowslip's bell I lie;
+    There I couch, when owls do cry:
+    On the bat's back I do fly
+    After summer merrily.
+        Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
+        Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!
+
+
+III
+
+2
+
+    Come unto these yellow sands,
+        And then take hands:
+    Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd
+        The wild waves whist,
+    Foot it featly here and there;
+    And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.
+          Hark, hark!
+              Bow-bow.
+          The watch-dogs bark:
+              Bow-wow.
+          Hark, hark! I hear
+    The strain of strutting chanticleer
+          Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+IV
+
+_SUMMONS TO LOVE_
+
+    Phoebus, arise!
+    And paint the sable skies
+    With azure, white, and red:
+    Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
+    That she may thy career with roses spread:
+    The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
+    Make an eternal Spring!
+    Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
+    Spread forth thy golden hair
+    In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
+    And emperor-like decore
+    With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
+    Chase hence the ugly night
+    Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
+
+    --This is that happy morn,
+    That day, long-wishéd day
+    Of all my life so dark,
+    (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
+    And fates my hopes betray),
+    Which, purely white, deserves
+    An everlasting diamond should it mark.
+    This is the morn should bring unto this grove
+    My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
+    Fair King, who all preserves,
+    But show thy blushing beams,
+    And thou two sweeter eyes
+    Shalt see than those which by Penéus' streams
+    Did once thy heart surprize.
+    Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
+    If that ye winds would hear
+    A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
+    Your furious chiding stay;
+    Let Zephyr only breathe,
+    And with her tresses play.
+    --The winds all silent are,
+    And Phoebus in his chair
+    Ensaffroning sea and air
+    Makes vanish every star:
+    Night like a drunkard reels
+    Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
+    The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
+    The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
+    Here is the pleasant place--
+    And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!
+
+_W. Drummond of Hawthornden_
+
+
+V
+
+_TIME AND LOVE_
+
+1
+
+    When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+    The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
+    When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
+    And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
+
+    When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
+    Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
+    And the firm soil win of the watery main,
+    Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
+
+    When I have seen such interchange of state,
+    Or state itself confounded to decay,
+    Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate--
+    That Time will come and take my Love away:
+
+    --This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
+    But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+VI
+
+2
+
+    Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
+    But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
+    How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
+    Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
+
+    O how shall summer's honey breath hold out
+    Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
+    When rocks impregnable are not so stout
+    Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
+
+    O fearful meditation! where, alack!
+    Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
+    Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
+    Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
+
+    O! none, unless this miracle have might,
+    That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
+
+_W. Shakespeare._
+
+
+VII
+
+_THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    Come live with me and be my Love,
+    And we will all the pleasures prove
+    That hills and valleys, dale and field,
+    And all the craggy mountains yield.
+
+    There will we sit upon the rocks
+    And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
+    By shallow rivers, to whose falls
+    Melodious birds sing madrigals.
+
+    There will I make thee beds of roses
+    And a thousand fragrant posies,
+    A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
+    Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
+
+    A gown made of the finest wool,
+    Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
+    Fair linéd slippers for the cold,
+    With buckles of the purest gold.
+
+    A belt of straw and ivy buds
+    With coral clasps and amber studs:
+    And if these pleasures may thee move,
+    Come live with me and be my Love.
+
+    Thy silver dishes for thy meat
+    As precious as the gods do eat,
+    Shall on an ivory table be
+    Prepared each day for thee and me.
+
+    The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
+    For thy delight each May-morning:
+    If these delights thy mind may move,
+    Then live with me and be my Love.
+
+_C. Marlowe_
+
+
+VIII
+
+_OMNIA VINCIT_
+
+    Fain would I change that note
+    To which fond Love hath charm'd me
+    Long long to sing by rote,
+    Fancying that that harm'd me:
+    Yet when this thought doth come
+    'Love is the perfect sum
+        Of all delight,'
+    I have no other choice
+    Either for pen or voice
+        To sing or write.
+
+    O Love! they wrong thee much
+    That say thy sweet is bitter,
+    When thy rich fruit is such
+    As nothing can be sweeter.
+    Fair house of joy and bliss,
+    Where truest pleasure is,
+        I do adore thee:
+    I know thee what thou art,
+    I serve thee with my heart,
+        And fall before thee!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+IX
+
+_A MADRIGAL_
+
+    Crabbed Age and Youth
+    Cannot live together:
+    Youth is full of pleasance,
+    Age is full of care;
+    Youth like summer morn,
+    Age like winter weather,
+    Youth like summer brave,
+    Age like winter bare:
+    Youth is full of sport,
+    Age's breath is short,
+    Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
+    Youth is hot and bold,
+    Age is weak and cold,
+    Youth is wild, and Age is tame:--
+    Age, I do abhor thee,
+    Youth, I do adore thee;
+    O! my Love, my Love is young!
+    Age, I do defy thee--
+    O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
+    For methinks thou stay'st too long.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+X
+
+        Under the greenwood tree
+        Who loves to lie with me,
+        And turn his merry note
+        Unto the sweet bird's throat--
+    Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+            Here shall he see
+            No enemy
+    But winter and rough weather.
+
+        Who doth ambition shun
+        And loves to live i' the sun,
+        Seeking the food he eats
+        And pleased with what he gets--
+    Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+            Here shall he see
+            No enemy
+    But winter and rough weather.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XI
+
+    It was a lover and his lass
+      With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
+    That o'er the green corn-field did pass
+    In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+    When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+      Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+    Between the acres of the rye
+    These pretty country folks would lie:
+    This carol they began that hour,
+    How that life was but a flower:
+
+    And therefore take the present time
+      With a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!
+    For love is crowned with the prime
+    In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+    When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+      Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XII
+
+_PRESENT IN ABSENCE_
+
+    Absence, hear thou this protestation
+        Against thy strength,
+        Distance, and length;
+    Do what thou canst for alteration:
+      For hearts of truest mettle
+    Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.
+
+    Who loves a mistress of such quality,
+        His mind hath found
+        Affection's ground
+    Beyond time, place, and mortality.
+      To hearts that cannot vary
+    Absence is present, Time doth tarry.
+
+    By absence this good means I gain,
+        That I can catch her,
+        Where none can match her,
+    In some close corner of my brain:
+      There I embrace and kiss her;
+    And so I both enjoy and miss her.
+
+_J. Donne_
+
+
+XIII
+
+_VIA AMORIS_
+
+    High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,
+    And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
+    Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
+    More oft than to a chamber-melody,--
+
+    Now, blesséd you bear onward blesséd me
+    To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
+    My Muse and I must you of duty greet
+    With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;
+
+    Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;
+    By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;
+    Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
+    And that you know I envy you no lot
+
+    Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,--
+    Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XIV
+
+_ABSENCE_
+
+    Being your slave, what should I do but tend
+    Upon the hours and times of your desire?
+    I have no precious time at all to spend
+    Nor services to do, till you require:
+
+    Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour
+    Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
+    Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
+    When you have bid your servant once adieu:
+
+    Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
+    Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
+    But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
+    Save, where you are, how happy you make those;--
+
+    So true a fool is love, that in your will
+    Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XV
+
+    How like a winter hath my absence been
+    From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
+    What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
+    What old December's bareness every where!
+
+    And yet this time removed was summer's time:
+    The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
+    Bearing the wanton burden of the prime
+    Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
+
+    Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
+    But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
+    For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
+    And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
+
+    Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
+    That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVI
+
+_A CONSOLATION_
+
+    When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
+    I all alone beweep my outcast state,
+    And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
+    And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
+
+    Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+    Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
+    Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
+    With what I most enjoy contented least;
+
+    Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
+    Haply I think on Thee--and then my state,
+    Like to the lark at break of day arising
+    From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
+
+    For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings
+    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVII
+
+_THE UNCHANGEABLE_
+
+    O never say that I was false of heart,
+    Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
+    As easy might I from myself depart
+    As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;
+
+    That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
+    Like him that travels, I return again,
+    Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
+    So that myself bring water for my stain.
+
+    Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
+    All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
+    That it could so preposterously be stain'd
+    To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
+
+    For nothing this wide universe I call,
+    Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVIII
+
+    To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
+    For as you were when first your eye I eyed
+    Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
+    Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
+
+    Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
+    In process of the seasons have I seen,
+    Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
+    Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
+
+    Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
+    Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
+    So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
+    Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
+
+    For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,--
+    Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XIX
+
+_ROSALINE_
+
+    Like to the clear in highest sphere
+    Where all imperial glory shines,
+    Of selfsame colour is her hair
+    Whether unfolded, or in twines:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
+    Resembling heaven by every wink;
+    The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
+    And I do tremble when I think
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
+    That beautifies Aurora's face,
+    Or like the silver crimson shroud
+    That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Her lips are like two budded roses
+    Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
+    Within which bounds she balm encloses
+    Apt to entice a deity:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Her neck is like a stately tower
+    Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
+    To watch for glances every hour
+    From her divine and sacred eyes:
+      Heigh ho, for Rosaline!
+    Her paps are centres of delight,
+    Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
+    Where Nature moulds the dew of light
+    To feed perfection with the same:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    With orient pearl, with ruby red,
+    With marble white, with sapphire blue
+    Her body every way is fed,
+    Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Nature herself her shape admires;
+    The Gods are wounded in her sight;
+    And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
+    And at her eyes his brand doth light:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
+    The absence of fair Rosaline,
+    Since for a fair there's fairer none,
+    Nor for her virtues so divine:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;
+Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
+
+_T. Lodge_
+
+
+XX
+
+_COLIN_
+
+    Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+      Where fairest shades did hide her;
+    The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
+      The cool streams ran beside her.
+    My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
+      To see what was forbidden:
+    But better memory said, fie!
+      So vain desire was chidden:--
+                  Hey nonny nonny O!
+                  Hey nonny nonny!
+
+    Into a slumber then I fell,
+      When fond imagination
+    Seemed to see, but could not tell
+      Her feature or her fashion.
+    But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
+      And sometimes fall a-weeping,
+    So I awaked, as wise this while
+      As when I fell a-sleeping:---
+                  Hey nonny nonny O!
+                  Hey nonny nonny!
+
+_The Shepherd Tonie_
+
+
+XXI
+
+_A PICTURE_
+
+    Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,
+    Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:
+        Out of thy golden quiver
+        Take thou thy strongest arrow
+        That will through bone and marrow,
+    And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:--
+    But come behind, for if she look upon thee,
+    Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXII
+
+_A SONG FOR MUSIC_
+
+    Weep you no more, sad fountains:--
+        What need you flow so fast?
+    Look how the snowy mountains
+        Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
+          But my Sun's heavenly eyes
+              View not your weeping,
+              That now lies sleeping
+        Softly, now softly lies,
+                  Sleeping.
+
+    Sleep is a reconciling,
+        A rest that peace begets:--
+    Doth not the sun rise smiling,
+        When fair at even he sets?
+            --Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!
+              Melt not in weeping!
+              While She lies sleeping
+          Softly, now softly lies,
+                  Sleeping!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXIII
+
+_TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
+    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
+    And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
+
+    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
+    And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
+    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
+    By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
+
+    But thy eternal summer shall not fade
+    Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
+    Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
+    When in eternal lines to time thou growest:--
+
+    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
+    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXIV
+
+_TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    When in the chronicle of wasted time
+    I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
+    And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
+    In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
+
+    Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
+    Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
+    I see their antique pen would have exprest
+    Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
+
+    So all their praises are but prophecies
+    Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;
+    And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
+    They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
+
+    For we, which now behold these present days,
+    Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXV
+
+_BASIA_
+
+        Turn back, you wanton flyer,
+        And answer my desire
+            With mutual greeting.
+        Yet bend a little nearer,--
+        True beauty still shines clearer
+            In closer meeting!
+        Hearts with hearts delighted
+        Should strive to be united,
+    Each other's arms with arms enchaining,--
+            Hearts with a thought,
+    Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.
+
+        What harvest half so sweet is
+        As still to reap the kisses
+            Grown ripe in sowing?
+        And straight to be receiver
+        Of that which thou art giver,
+            Rich in bestowing?
+        There is no strict observing
+        Of times' or seasons' swerving,
+    There is ever one fresh spring abiding;--
+        Then what we sow with our lips
+        Let us reap, love's gains dividing.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+XXVI
+
+_ADVICE TO A GIRL_
+
+    Never love unless you can
+    Bear with all the faults of man!
+    Men sometimes will jealous be
+    Though but little cause they see,
+    And hang the head as discontent,
+    And speak what straight they will repent.
+
+    Men, that but one Saint adore,
+    Make a show of love to more;
+    Beauty must be scorn'd in none,
+    Though but truly served in one:
+    For what is courtship but disguise?
+    True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
+
+    Men, when their affairs require,
+    Must awhile themselves retire;
+    Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
+    And not ever sit and talk:--
+    If these and such-like you can bear,
+    Then like, and love, and never fear!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+XXVII
+
+_LOVE'S PERJURIES_
+
+    On a day, alack the day!
+    Love, whose month is ever May,
+    Spied a blossom passing fair
+    Playing in the wanton air:
+    Through the velvet leaves the wind,
+    All unseen, 'gan passage find;
+    That the lover, sick to death,
+    Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
+    Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
+    Air, would I might triumph so!
+    But, alack, my hand is sworn
+    Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
+    Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
+    Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
+    Do not call it sin in me
+    That I am forsworn for thee:
+    Thou for whom Jove would swear
+    Juno but an Ethiope were,
+    And deny himself for Jove,
+    Turning mortal for thy love.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXVIII
+
+_A SUPPLICATION_
+
+    Forget not yet the tried intent
+    Of such a truth as I have meant;
+    My great travail so gladly spent,
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not yet when first began
+    The weary life ye know, since whan
+    The suit, the service none tell can;
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not yet the great assays,
+    The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
+    The painful patience in delays,
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not! O, forget not this,
+    How long ago hath been, and is
+    The mind that never meant amiss--
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not then thine own approved
+    The which so long hath thee so loved,
+    Whose steadfast faith yet never moved--
+                      Forget not this!
+
+_Sir T. Wyat_
+
+
+XXIX
+
+_TO AURORA_
+
+    O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,
+    And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;
+    Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast
+    And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
+
+    O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
+    What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!
+    For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,
+    Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;
+
+    Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
+    And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan
+    Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;
+    No, I would have my share in what were thine:
+
+    And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
+    This happy harmony would make them none.
+
+_W. Alexander, Earl of Sterline_
+
+
+XXX
+
+_IN LACRIMAS_
+
+        I saw my Lady weep,
+    And Sorrow proud to be advancéd so
+    In those fair eyes where all perfections keep,
+        Her face was full of woe,
+    But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
+    Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
+
+        Sorrow was there made fair,
+    And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;
+    Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:
+        She made her sighs to sing,
+    And all things with so sweet a sadness move
+    As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
+
+        O fairer than aught else
+    The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!
+    Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:
+        Tears kill the heart, believe.
+    O strive not to be excellent in woe,
+    Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXI
+
+_TRUE LOVE_
+
+    Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+    Admit impediments. Love is not love
+    Which alters when it alteration finds,
+    Or bends with the remover to remove:--
+
+    O no! it is an ever-fixéd mark
+    That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
+    It is the star to every wandering bark,
+    Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
+
+    Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
+    Within his bending sickle's compass come;
+    Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
+    But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--
+
+    If this be error, and upon me proved,
+    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXII
+
+_A DITTY_
+
+    My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
+    By just exchange one for another given:
+    I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
+    There never was a better bargain driven:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+    His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
+    My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
+    He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
+    I cherish his because in me it bides:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XXXIII
+
+_LOVE'S INSIGHT_
+
+    Though others may Her brow adore
+    Yet more must I, that therein see far more
+    Than any other's eyes have power to see:
+          She is to me
+    More than to any others she can be!
+    I can discern more secret notes
+    That in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes,
+    Than any else besides have art to read:
+          No looks proceed
+    From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXIV
+
+_LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE_
+
+    Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
+    And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
+    Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
+    Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
+
+    Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
+    And you, my Love, as humble and as low
+    As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
+    Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
+
+    Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
+    My love should shine on you like to the sun,
+    And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
+    Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
+
+    Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
+    Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
+
+_J. Sylvester_
+
+
+XXXV
+
+_CARPE DIEM_
+
+    O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+    O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
+        That can sing both high and low;
+    Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
+    Journeys end in lovers meeting--
+        Every wise man's son doth know.
+
+    What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
+    Present mirth hath present laughter;
+        What's to come is still unsure:
+    In delay there lies no plenty,--
+    Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
+        Youth's a stuff will not endure.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXVI
+
+_AN HONEST AUTOLYCUS_
+
+    Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,
+      Good penny-worths,--but money cannot move:
+    I keep a fair but for the Fair to view;
+      A beggar may be liberal of love.
+    Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true--
+                              The heart is true.
+
+    Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
+      My trifles come as treasures from my mind;
+    It is a precious jewel to be plain;
+      Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:--
+    Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
+                              Of me a grain!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXVII
+
+_WINTER_
+
+    When icicles hang by the wall
+      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
+    And Tom bears logs into the hall,
+      And milk comes frozen home in pail;
+    When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
+    Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                    Tu-whit!
+    Tu-who! A merry note!
+    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+    When all about the wind doth blow,
+      And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
+    And birds sit brooding in the snow,
+      And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
+    When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl--
+    Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                    Tu-whit!
+    Tu-who! A merry note!
+    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXVIII
+
+    That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+    When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
+    Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
+    Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:
+
+    In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
+    As after sunset fadeth in the west,
+    Which by and by black night doth take away,
+    Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:
+
+    In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
+    That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
+    As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
+    Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:
+
+    --This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
+    To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXIX
+
+_MEMORY_
+
+    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+    I summon up remembrance of things past,
+    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
+    And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste;
+
+    Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
+    For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
+    And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
+    And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
+
+    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
+    And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
+    The sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,
+    Which I new pay as if not paid before:
+
+    --But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend,
+    All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XL
+
+_SLEEP_
+
+    Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
+    The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
+    The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
+    Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
+
+    With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
+    Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
+    O make in me those civil wars to cease;
+    I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
+
+    Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
+    A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
+    A rosy garland and a weary head:
+    And if these things, as being thine in right,
+
+    Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
+    Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XLI
+
+_REVOLUTIONS_
+
+    Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+    So do our minutes hasten to their end;
+    Each changing place with that which goes before,
+    In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
+
+    Nativity, once in the main of light,
+    Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
+    Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
+    And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
+
+    Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
+    And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
+    Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
+    And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:--
+
+    And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
+    Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLII
+
+    Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
+    And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
+    The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
+    My bonds in thee are all determinate.
+
+    For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
+    And for that riches where is my deserving?
+    The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
+    And so my patent back again is swerving.
+
+    Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
+    Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
+    So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
+    Comes home again, on better judgment making.
+
+    Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;
+    In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIII
+
+_THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION_
+
+    They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
+    That do not do the thing they most do show,
+    Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
+    Unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,--
+
+    They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
+    And husband nature's riches from expense;
+    They are the lords and owners of their faces,
+    Others, but stewards of their excellence.
+
+    The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
+    Though to itself it only live and die;
+    But if that flower with base infection meet,
+    The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
+
+    For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
+    Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIV
+
+_THE LOVER'S APPEAL_
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay! for shame,
+    To save thee from the blame
+    Of all my grief and grame.
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    That hath loved thee so long
+    In wealth and woe among:
+    And is thy heart so strong
+    As for to leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    That hath given thee my heart
+    Never for to depart
+    Neither for pain nor smart:
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    And have no more pity
+    Of him that loveth thee?
+    Alas! thy cruelty!
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+_Sir T. Wyat_
+
+
+XLV
+
+_THE NIGHTINGALE_
+
+    As it fell upon a day
+    In the merry month of May,
+    Sitting in a pleasant shade
+    Which a grove of myrtles made,
+    Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
+    Trees did grow and plants did spring;
+    Every thing did banish moan
+    Save the Nightingale alone.
+    She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
+    Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
+    And there sung the dolefull'st ditty
+    That to hear it was great pity.
+    Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
+    Teru, teru, by and by:
+    That to hear her so complain
+    Scarce I could from tears refrain;
+    For her griefs so lively shown
+    Made me think upon mine own.
+    --Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
+    None takes pity on thy pain:
+    Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
+    Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
+    King Pandion, he is dead,
+    All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
+    All thy fellow birds do sing
+    Careless of thy sorrowing:
+    Even so, poor bird, like thee
+    None alive will pity me.
+
+_R. Barnefield_
+
+
+XLVI
+
+    Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
+    Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
+    Relieve my languish, and restore the light;
+    With dark forgetting of my care return.
+
+    And let the day be time enough to mourn
+    The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:
+    Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
+    Without the torment of the night's untruth.
+
+    Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
+    To model forth the passions of the morrow;
+    Never let rising Sun approve you liars,
+    To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
+
+    Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
+    And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
+
+_S. Daniel_
+
+
+XLVII
+
+    The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
+      Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
+    While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
+      Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
+        And mournfully bewailing,
+        Her throat in tunes expresseth
+        What grief her breast oppresseth
+    For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
+
+    O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
+    That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
+          Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
+    Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
+
+    Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish
+      But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,
+    Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
+      Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
+        But I, who, daily craving,
+        Cannot have to content me,
+        Have more cause to lament me,
+    Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
+
+    O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
+    That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
+          Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
+    Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XLVIII
+
+_FRUSTRA_
+
+    Take, O take those lips away
+    That so sweetly were forsworn,
+    And those eyes, the break of day,
+    Lights that do mislead the morn:
+    But my kisses bring again,
+              Bring again--
+    Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
+              Seal'd in vain!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIX
+
+_LOVE'S FAREWELL_
+
+    Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,--
+    Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
+    And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
+    That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
+
+    Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
+    And when we meet at any time again,
+    Be it not seen in either of our brows
+    That we one jot of former love retain.
+
+    Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
+    When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
+    When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
+    And innocence is closing up his eyes,
+
+    --Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
+    From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
+
+_M. Drayton_
+
+
+L
+
+_IN IMAGINE PERTRANSIT HOMO_
+
+    Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
+      Though thou be black as night
+      And she made all of light,
+    Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
+
+    Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!
+      Though here thou liv'st disgraced,
+      And she in heaven is placed,
+    Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
+
+    Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,
+      That so have scorchéd thee
+      As thou still black must be
+    Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
+
+    Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!
+      There comes a luckless night
+      That will dim all her light;
+    --And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
+
+    Follow still, since so thy fates ordainéd!
+      The sun must have his shade,
+      Till both at once do fade,--
+    The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainéd.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LI
+
+_BLIND LOVE_
+
+    O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head
+    Which have no correspondence with true sight:
+    Or if they have, where is my judgment fled
+    That censures falsely what they see aright?
+
+    If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
+    What means the world to say it is not so?
+    If it be not, then love doth well denote
+    Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,
+
+    How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
+    That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
+    No marvel then though I mistake my view:
+    The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
+
+    O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
+    Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LII
+
+    Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!
+      For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?
+    It shall suffice me here to sit and see
+      Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke:
+    What sight can more content a lover's mind
+    Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?
+
+    My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps,
+      Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;
+    And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:
+      Dreams often more than waking passions move.
+    Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:
+    That she in peace may wake and pity me.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LIII
+
+_THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS_
+
+    While that the sun with his beams hot
+    Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,
+    Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
+    Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
+      In shadow of a green oak tree
+      Upon his pipe this song play'd he:
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    So long as I was in your sight
+    I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
+    And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
+    Burning in flames beyond all measure:
+      --Three days endured your love to me,
+      And it was lost in other three!
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    Another Shepherd you did see
+    To whom your heart was soon enchainéd;
+    Full soon your love was leapt from me,
+    Full soon my place he had obtainéd.
+      Soon came a third, your love to win,
+      And we were out and he was in.
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    Sure you have made me passing glad
+    That you your mind so soon removéd,
+    Before that I the leisure had
+    To choose you for my best belovéd:
+      For all your love was past and done
+      Two days before it was begun:--
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LIV
+
+_ADVICE TO A LOVER_
+
+    The sea hath many thousand sands,
+    The sun hath motes as many;
+    The sky is full of stars, and Love
+    As full of woes as any:
+    Believe me, that do know the elf,
+    And make no trial by thyself!
+
+    It is in truth a pretty toy
+    For babes to play withal:--
+    But O! the honeys of our youth
+    Are oft our age's gall!
+    Self-proof in time will make thee know
+    He was a prophet told thee so;
+
+    A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
+    Tells truth without belief;
+    For headstrong Youth will run his race,
+    Although his goal be grief:--
+    Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,
+    Proves Care's Confessor at the last.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LV
+
+_A RENUNCIATION_
+
+    Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,
+      For all those rosy ornaments in thee,--
+    Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,
+      Nor fair, nor sweet--unless thou pity me!
+    I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove
+    That beauty is no beauty without love.
+
+    --Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure
+      My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine:
+    Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,
+      I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine:
+    --Now show it, if thou be a woman right--
+    Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LVI
+
+            Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
+            Thou art not so unkind
+            As man's ingratitude;
+            Thy tooth is not so keen
+            Because thou art not seen,
+            Although thy breath be rude.
+    Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+            Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+            This life is most jolly.
+
+            Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
+            Thou dost not bite so nigh
+            As benefits forgot:
+            Though thou the waters warp,
+            Thy sting is not so sharp
+            As friend remember'd not.
+    Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+            Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+            This life is most jolly.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LVII
+
+_A SWEET LULLABY_
+
+    Come little babe, come silly soul,
+    Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
+    Born as I doubt to all our dole,
+    And to thy self unhappy chief:
+        Sing Lullaby and lap it warm,
+        Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
+
+    Thou little think'st and less dost know,
+    The cause of this thy mother's moan,
+    Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
+    And I myself am all alone:
+        Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
+        And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.
+
+    Come little wretch, ah silly heart,
+    Mine only joy, what can I more?
+    If there be any wrong thy smart
+    That may the destinies implore:
+        'Twas I, I say, against my will,
+        I wail the time, but be thou still.
+
+    And dost thou smile, oh thy sweet face!
+    Would God Himself He might thee see,
+    No doubt thou would'st soon purchase grace,
+    I know right well, for thee and me:
+        But come to mother, babe, and play,
+        For father false is fled away.
+
+    Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance,
+    Thy father home again to send,
+    If death do strike me with his lance,
+    Yet mayst thou me to him commend:
+        If any ask thy mother's name,
+        Tell how by love she purchased blame.
+
+    Then will his gentle heart soon yield,
+    I know him of a noble mind,
+    Although a Lion in the field,
+    A Lamb in town thou shalt him find:
+        Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,
+        His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
+
+    Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
+    Although in woe I seem to moan,
+    Thy father is no rascal lad,
+    A noble youth of blood and bone:
+        His glancing looks, if he once smile,
+        Right honest women may beguile.
+
+    Come, little boy, and rock asleep,
+    Sing lullaby and be thou still,
+    I that can do nought else but weep;
+    Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
+        God bless my babe, and lullaby
+        From this thy father's quality!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LVIII
+
+    With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
+    How silently, and with how wan a face!
+    What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place
+    That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
+
+    Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
+    Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
+    I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,
+    To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
+
+    Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
+    Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
+    Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
+    Do they above love to be loved, and yet
+
+    Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
+    Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+LIX
+
+_O CRUDELIS AMOR_
+
+    When thou must home to shades of underground,
+    And there arrived, a new admired guest,
+    The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
+    White Iopé, blithe Helen, and the rest,
+    To hear the stories of thy finish'd love
+    From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
+
+    Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
+    Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
+    Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights,
+    And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
+    When thou hast told' these honours done to thee,
+    Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LX
+
+_SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD_
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
+        Mother's wag, pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy;
+        When thy father first did see
+        Such a boy by him and me,
+        He was glad, I was woe,
+        Fortune changed made him so,
+        When he left his pretty boy
+        Last his sorrow, first his joy.
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
+        Streaming tears that never stint,
+        Like pearl drops from a flint,
+        Fell by course from his eyes,
+        That one another's place supplies;
+        Thus he grieved in every part,
+        Tears of blood fell from his heart,
+        When he left his pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy.
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
+        The wanton smiled, father wept,
+        Mother cried, baby leapt;
+        More he crow'd, more we cried,
+        Nature could not sorrow hide:
+        He must go, he must kiss
+        Child and mother, baby bless,
+        For he left his pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy.
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
+
+_R. Greene_
+
+
+LXI
+
+_A LAMENT_
+
+    My thoughts hold mortal strife;
+    I do detest my life,
+    And with lamenting cries
+    Peace to my soul to bring
+    Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:
+    --But he, grim grinning King,
+    Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,
+    Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
+    Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXII
+
+_DIRGE OF LOVE_
+
+      Come away, come away, Death,
+    And in sad cypres let me be laid;
+      Fly away, fly away, breath;
+    I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
+    My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
+          O prepare it!
+    My part of death, no one so true
+          Did share it.
+
+      Not a flower, not a flower sweet
+    On my black coffin let there be strown;
+      Not a friend, not a friend greet
+    My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
+    A thousand thousand sighs to save,
+          Lay me, O where
+    Sad true lover never find my grave,
+          To weep there.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXIII
+
+_TO HIS LUTE_
+
+    My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
+    With thy green mother in some shady grove,
+    When immelodious winds but made thee move,
+    And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
+
+    Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
+    Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
+    Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
+    What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
+
+    Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
+    But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
+    Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
+    For which be silent as in woods before:
+
+    Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
+    Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXIV
+
+_FIDELE_
+
+    Fear no more the heat o' the sun
+        Nor the furious winter's rages;
+    Thou thy worldly task hast done,
+        Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;
+    Golden lads and girls all must,
+    As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
+
+    Fear no more the frown o' the great,
+        Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
+    Care no more to clothe and eat;
+        To thee the reed is as the oak:
+    The sceptre, learning, physic, must
+    All follow this, and come to dust.
+
+    Fear no more the lightning-flash
+        Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
+    Fear not slander, censure rash;
+        Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
+    All lovers young, all lovers must
+    Consign to thee, and come to dust.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXV
+
+_A SEA DIRGE_
+
+    Full fathom five thy father lies:
+        Of his bones are coral made;
+    Those are pearls that were his eyes:
+        Nothing of him that doth fade,
+    But doth suffer a sea-change
+    Into something rich and strange.
+    Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
+      Hark! now I hear them,--
+          Ding, dong, bell.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXVI
+
+_A LAND DIRGE_
+
+    Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
+    Since o'er shady groves they hover
+    And with leaves and flowers do cover
+    The friendless bodies of unburied men.
+    Call unto his funeral dole
+    The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
+    To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
+    And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
+    But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
+    For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
+
+_J. Webster_
+
+
+LXVII
+
+_POST MORTEM_
+
+    If Thou survive my well-contented day
+    When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
+    And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
+    These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;
+
+    Compare them with the bettering of the time,
+    And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
+    Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
+    Exceeded by the height of happier men.
+
+    O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought--
+    'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
+    A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
+    To march in ranks of better equipage:
+
+    But since he died, and poets better prove,
+    Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXVIII
+
+_THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH_
+
+    No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+    Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
+    Give warning to the world, that I am fled
+    From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
+
+    Nay, if you read this line, remember not
+    The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
+    That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
+    If thinking on me then should make you woe.
+
+    O if, I say, you look upon this verse
+    When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
+    Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
+    But let your love even with my life decay;
+
+    Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
+    And mock you with me after I am gone.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXIX
+
+_YOUNG LOVE_
+
+    Tell me where is Fancy bred,
+    Or in the heart, or in the head?
+    How begot, how nourishéd?
+          Reply, reply.
+
+    It is engender'd in the eyes;
+    With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
+    In the cradle where it lies:
+    Let us all ring Fancy's knell;
+    I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
+          --Ding, dong, bell.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXX
+
+_A DILEMMA_
+
+      Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting
+        Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
+        And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,
+      My eyes present me with a double doubting:
+    For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes
+    Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LXXI
+
+_ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL_
+
+    Love in my bosom, like a bee,
+                Doth suck his sweet;
+    Now with his wings he plays with me,
+                Now with his feet.
+        Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
+        His bed amidst my tender breast;
+        My kisses are his daily feast,
+        And yet he robs me of my rest:
+                Ah! wanton, will ye?
+
+    And if I sleep, then percheth he
+                With pretty flight,
+    And makes his pillow of my knee
+                The livelong night.
+        Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
+        He music plays if so I sing;
+        He lends me every lovely thing,
+        Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
+                Whist, wanton, will ye?
+
+    Else I with roses every day
+                Will whip you hence,
+    And bind you, when you long to play,
+                For your offence;
+        I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;
+        I'll make you fast it for your sin;
+        I'll count your power not worth a pin;
+        --Alas! what hereby shall I win,
+                If he gainsay me?
+
+    What if I beat the wanton boy
+                With many a rod?
+    He will repay me with annoy,
+                Because a god.
+        Then sit thou safely on my knee,
+        And let thy bower my bosom be;
+        Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
+        O Cupid! so thou pity me,
+                Spare not, but play thee!
+
+_T. Lodge_
+
+
+LXXII
+
+_CUPID AND CAMPASPE_
+
+    Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+    At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
+    He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
+    His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
+    Loses them too; then down he throws
+    The coral of his lip, the rose
+    Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
+    With these, the crystal of his brow,
+    And then the dimple on his chin;
+    All these did my Campaspe win:
+    And last he set her both his eyes--
+    She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
+        O Love! has she done this to thee?
+        What shall, alas! become of me?
+
+_J. Lylye_
+
+
+LXXIII
+
+    Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
+      With night we banish sorrow;
+    Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
+      To give my Love good-morrow!
+    Wings from the wind to please her mind
+      Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
+    Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
+      To give my Love good-morrow;
+          To give my Love good-morrow
+          Notes from them both I'll borrow.
+
+    Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,
+      Sing, birds, in every furrow;
+    And from each hill, let music shrill
+      Give my fair Love good-morrow!
+    Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
+      Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
+    You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
+      Sing my fair Love good-morrow;
+          To give my Love good-morrow
+          Sing, birds, in every furrow!
+
+_T. Heywood_
+
+
+LXXIV
+
+_PROTHALAMION_
+
+    Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+    Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play--
+    A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
+    Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
+    When I, (whom sullen care,
+    Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
+    In princes' court, and expectation vain
+    Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
+    Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
+    Walk'd forth to ease my pain
+    Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
+    Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
+    Was painted all with variable flowers,
+    And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
+    Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
+    And crown their paramours
+    Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    There in a meadow by the river's side
+    A flock of nymphs I chancéd to espy,
+    All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
+    With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
+    As each had been a bride;
+    And each one had a little wicker basket
+    Made of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously.
+    In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
+    And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
+    The tender stalks on high.
+    Of every sort which in that meadow grew
+    They gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,
+    The little daisy that at evening closes,
+    The virgin lily and the primrose true,
+    With store of vermeil roses,
+    To deck their bridegrooms' posies
+    Against the bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    With that I saw two Swans of goodly hue
+    Come softly swimming down along the Lee;
+    Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
+    The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow
+    Did never whiter show,
+    Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
+    For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
+    Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
+    Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
+    So purely white they were
+    That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
+    Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare
+    To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
+    Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
+    And mar their beauties bright
+    That shone as Heaven's light
+    Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
+    Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
+    As they came floating on the crystal flood;
+    Whom when they saw, they stood amazéd still
+    Their wondering eyes to fill;
+    Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair
+    Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem
+    Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
+    Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;
+    For sure they did not seem
+    To be begot of any earthly seed,
+    But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed;
+    Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,
+    In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
+    The earth did fresh array;
+    So fresh they seem'd as day,
+    Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
+    Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
+    That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
+    All which upon those goodly birds they threw
+    And all the waves did strew,
+    That like old Peneus' waters they did seem
+    When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore
+    Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
+    That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,
+    Like a bride's chamber-floor.
+    Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound
+    Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
+    The which presenting all in trim array,
+    Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd;
+    Whilst one did sing this lay
+    Prepared against that day,
+    Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.
+
+    'Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
+    And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
+    Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
+    Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content
+    Of your love's couplement;
+    And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
+    With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
+    Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
+    All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
+    For ever to assoil.
+    Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
+    And blesséd plenty wait upon your board;
+    And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
+    That fruitful issue may to you afford
+    Which may your foes confound,
+    And make your joys redound
+    Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.'
+
+    So ended she; and all the rest around
+    To her redoubled that her undersong,
+    Which said their bridal day should not be long:
+    And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
+    Their accents did resound.
+    So forth those joyous birds did pass along
+    Adown the Lee that to them murmur'd low,
+    As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue;
+    Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
+    Making his stream run slow.
+    And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
+    'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
+    The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
+    The lesser stars. So they, enrangéd well,
+    Did on those two attend,
+    And their best service lend
+    Against their wedding day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    At length they all to merry London came,
+    To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
+    That to me gave this life's first native source,
+    Though from another place I take my name,
+    An house of ancient fame:
+    There when they came whereas those bricky towers
+    The which on Thames' broad agéd back do ride,
+    Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
+    There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
+    Till they decay'd through pride;
+    Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
+    Where oft I gainéd gifts and goodly grace
+    Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
+    Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;
+    But ah! here fits not well
+    Old woes, but joys to tell
+    Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
+    Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,
+    Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,
+    And Hercules' two pillars standing near
+    Did make to quake and fear:
+    Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!
+    That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame
+    Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
+    And endless happiness of thine own name
+    That promiseth the same;
+    That through thy prowess and victorious arms
+    Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
+    And great Elisa's glorious name may ring
+    Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,
+    Which some brave Muse may sing
+    To ages following:
+    Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    From those high towers this noble lord issúing
+    Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
+    In th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair,
+    Descended to the river's open viewing
+    With a great train ensuing.
+    Above the rest were goodly to be seen
+    Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
+    Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
+    With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
+    Fit for so goodly stature,
+    That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight
+    Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
+    They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
+    Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
+    Which, at th' appointed tide,
+    Each one did make his bride
+    Against their bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+_E. Spenser_
+
+
+LXXV
+
+_THE HAPPY HEART_
+
+    Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+              O sweet content!
+    Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
+              O punishment!
+    Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd
+    To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
+    O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+      Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+      Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+    Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+    Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?
+              O sweet content!
+    Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
+              O punishment!
+    Then he that patiently want's burden bears
+    No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
+    O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+      Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+      Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+    Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+_T. Dekker_
+
+
+LXXVI
+
+_SIC TRANSIT_
+
+    Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
+      For while thou view'st me with thy fading light
+    Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
+      And I still onward haste to my last night:
+    Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly--
+    So every day we live a day we die.
+
+    But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest,
+      How are my days deprived of life in you
+    When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,
+      By feignéd death life sweetly to renew!
+    Part of my life, in that, you life deny:
+    So every day we live, a day we die.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LXXVII
+
+    This Life, which seems so fair,
+    Is like a bubble blown up in the air
+    By sporting children's breath,
+    Who chase it everywhere
+    And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
+    And though it sometimes seem of its own might
+    Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
+    And firm to hover in that empty height,
+    That only is because it is so light.
+    --But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
+    For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
+    Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXVIII
+
+_SOUL AND BODY_
+
+    Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
+    [Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,
+    Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
+    Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
+
+    Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
+    Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
+    Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
+    Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
+
+    Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
+    And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
+    Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
+    Within be fed, without be rich no more:--
+
+    So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
+    And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXXIX
+
+    The man of life upright,
+      Whose guiltless heart is free
+    From all dishonest deeds,
+      Or thought of vanity;
+
+    The man whose silent days
+      In harmless joys are spent,
+    Whom hopes cannot delude
+      Nor sorrow discontent:
+
+    That man needs neither towers
+      Nor armour for defence,
+    Nor secret vaults to fly
+      From thunder's violence:
+
+    He only can behold
+      With unaffrighted eyes
+    The horrors of the deep
+      And terrors of the skies.
+
+    Thus scorning all the cares
+      That fate or fortune brings,
+    He makes the heaven his book,
+      His wisdom heavenly things;
+
+    Good thoughts his only friends,
+      His wealth a well-spent age,
+    The earth his sober inn
+      And quiet pilgrimage.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LXXX
+
+_THE LESSONS OF NATURE_
+
+    Of this fair volume which we World do name
+    If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
+    Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
+    We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
+
+    Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
+    His providence extending everywhere,
+    His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
+    In every page, no period of the same.
+
+    But silly we, like foolish children, rest
+    Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
+    Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
+    On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
+
+    Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
+    It is some picture on the margin wrought.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXXI
+
+    Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+    Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
+    Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
+    Are these your influences, Powers above?
+
+    Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,
+    Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
+    And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,
+    Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.
+
+    Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all
+    Why should best minds groan under most distress?
+    Or why should pride humility make thrall,
+    And injuries the innocent oppress?
+
+    Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
+    When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXXII
+
+_THE WORLD'S WAY_
+
+    Tired with all these, for restful death I cry--
+    As, to behold desert a beggar born,
+    And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
+    And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
+
+    And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
+    And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
+    And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
+    And strength by limping sway disabled,
+
+    And art made tongue-tied by authority,
+    And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
+    And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
+    And captive Good attending captain Ill:--
+
+    --Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
+    Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXXXIII
+
+_A WISH_
+
+    Happy were he could finish forth his fate
+    In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure
+    From all society, from love and hate
+    Of worldly folk, there should he sleep secure;
+
+    Then wake again, and yield God ever praise;
+    Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry;
+    In contemplation passing still his days,
+    And change of holy thoughts to make him merry:
+
+    Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bush
+    Where harmless robin resteth with the thrush:
+              --Happy were he!
+
+_R. Devereux, Earl of Essex_
+
+
+LXXXIV
+
+_SAINT JOHN BAPTIST_
+
+    The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+    Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
+    Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
+    Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.
+
+    His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
+    With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
+    Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
+    Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
+
+    There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
+    On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
+    Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
+    --Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
+
+    Only the echoes, which he made relent,
+    Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Second
+
+LXXXV
+
+_ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY_
+
+    This is the month, and this the happy morn
+    Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
+    Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
+    Our great redemption from above did bring;
+    For so the holy sages once did sing
+    That He our deadly forfeit should release,
+    And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
+
+    That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
+    And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
+    Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
+    To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
+    He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
+    Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
+    And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
+
+    Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
+    Afford a present to the Infant God?
+    Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain
+    To welcome Him to this His new abode,
+    Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
+    Hath took no print of the approaching light,
+    And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
+
+    See how from far, upon the eastern road,
+    The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
+    O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
+    And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;
+    Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
+    And join thy voice unto the Angel quire
+    From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
+
+
+_THE HYMN_
+
+    It was the winter wild
+    While the heaven-born Child
+    All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
+    Nature in awe to Him
+    Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
+    With her great Master so to sympathize:
+    It was no season then for her
+    To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
+
+    Only with speeches fair
+    She woos the gentle air
+    To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
+    And on her naked shame,
+    Pollute with sinful blame,
+    The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
+    Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
+    Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
+
+    But He, her fears to cease,
+    Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;
+    She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
+    Down through the turning sphere,
+    His ready harbinger,
+    With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
+    And waving wide her myrtle wand,
+    She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
+
+    No war, or battle's sound
+    Was heard the world around:
+    The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
+    The hookéd chariot stood
+    Unstain'd with hostile blood;
+    The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng;
+    And kings sat still with awful eye,
+    As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
+
+    But peaceful was the night
+    Wherein the Prince of Light
+    His reign of peace upon the earth began:
+    The winds, with wonder whist,
+    Smoothly the waters kist
+    Whispering new joys to the mild oceán--
+    Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
+    While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave.
+
+    The stars, with deep amaze,
+    Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
+    Bending one way their precious influence;
+    And will not take their flight
+    For all the morning light,
+    Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
+    But in their glimmering orbs did glow
+    Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.
+
+    And though the shady gloom
+    Had given day her room,
+    The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
+    And hid his head for shame,
+    As his inferior flame
+    The new-enlighten'd world no more should need;
+    He saw a greater Sun appear
+    Than his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear.
+
+    The shepherds on the lawn
+    Or ere the point of dawn
+    Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
+    Full little thought they than
+    That the mighty Pan
+    Was kindly come to live with them below;
+    Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep
+    Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:--
+
+    When such music sweet
+    Their hearts and ears did greet
+    As never was by mortal finger strook--
+    Divinely-warbled voice
+    Answering the stringéd noise,
+    As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
+    The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
+    With thousand echoes, still prolongs each heavenly close.
+
+    Nature, that heard such sound
+    Beneath the hollow round
+    Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling.
+    Now was almost won
+    To think her part was done,
+    And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
+    She knew such harmony alone
+    Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union,
+
+    At last surrounds their sight
+    A globe of circular light
+    That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
+    The helméd Cherubim
+    And sworded Seraphim
+    Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
+    Harping in loud and solemn quire
+    With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
+
+    Such music (as 'tis said)
+    Before was never made
+    But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
+    While the Creator great
+    His constellations set
+    And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;
+    And cast the dark foundations deep,
+    And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep,
+
+    Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
+    Once bless our human ears,
+    If ye have power to touch our senses so;
+    And let your silver chime
+    Move in melodious time;
+    And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;
+    And with your ninefold harmony
+    Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
+
+    For if such holy song
+    Enwrap our fancy long,
+    Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;
+    And speckled Vanity
+    Will sicken soon and die,
+    And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
+    And Hell itself will pass away,
+    And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
+
+    Yea, Truth and Justice then
+    Will down return to men,
+    Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
+    Mercy will sit between
+    Throned in celestial sheen,
+    With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
+    And Heaven, as at some festival,
+    Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.
+
+    But wisest Fate says No;
+    This must not yet be so;
+    The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
+    That on the bitter cross
+    Must redeem our loss;
+    So both Himself and us to glorify:
+    Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep
+    The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
+
+    With such a horrid clang
+    As on Mount Sinai rang
+    While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
+    The aged Earth aghast
+    With terror of that blast
+    Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
+    When, at the world's last sessión,
+    The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
+
+    And then at last our bliss
+    Full and perfect is,
+    But now begins; for from this happy day
+    The old Dragon under ground,
+    In straiter limits bound,
+    Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway;
+    And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
+    Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
+
+    The Oracles are dumb;
+    No voice or hideous hum
+    Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving.
+    Apollo from his shrine
+    Can no more divine,
+    With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:
+    No nightly trance or breathéd spell
+    Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
+
+    The lonely mountains o'er
+    And the resounding shore
+    A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
+    From haunted spring and dale
+    Edged with poplar pale
+    The parting Genius is With sighing sent;
+    With flower-inwoven tresses torn
+    The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
+
+    In consecrated earth
+    And on the holy hearth
+    The Lars and Lemurés moan with midnight plaint;
+    In urns, and altars round
+    A drear and dying sound
+    Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
+    And the chill marble seems to sweat,
+    While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.
+
+    Peor and Baalim
+    Forsake their temples dim,
+    With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;
+    And moonéd Ashtaroth
+    Heaven's queen and mother both,
+    Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
+    The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:
+    In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
+
+    And sullen Moloch, fled,
+    Hath left in shadows dread
+    His burning idol all of blackest hue;
+    In vain with cymbals' ring
+    They call the grisly king,
+    In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
+    The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
+    Isis; and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
+
+    Nor is Osiris seen
+    In Memphian grove, or green,
+    Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
+    Nor can he be at rest
+    Within his sacred chest;
+    Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
+    In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
+    The sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
+
+    He feels from Juda's land
+    The dreaded Infant's hand;
+    The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
+    Nor all the gods beside
+    Longer dare abide,
+    Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
+    Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,
+    Can in His swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.
+
+    So, when the sun in bed
+    Curtain'd with cloudy red
+    Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
+    The flocking shadows pale
+    Troop to the infernal jail,
+    Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
+    And the yellow-skirted fays
+    Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
+
+    But see! the Virgin blest
+    Hath laid her Babe to rest;
+    Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:
+    Heaven's youngest-teeméd star
+    Hath fix'd her polish'd car,
+    Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
+    And all about the courtly stable
+    Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+LXXXVI
+
+_SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687_
+
+    From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+        This universal frame began:
+      When Nature underneath a heap
+        Of jarring atoms lay
+      And could not heave her head,
+    The tuneful voice was heard from high,
+        Arise, ye more than dead!
+    Then cold and hot and moist and dry
+    In order to their stations leap,
+        And Music's power obey.
+    From harmony, from heavenly harmony
+        This universal frame began:
+        From harmony to harmony
+    Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
+    The diapason closing full in Man.
+
+    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+        When Jubal struck the chorded shell
+      His listening brethren stood around,
+      And, wondering, on their faces fell
+      To worship that celestial sound.
+    Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
+        Within the hollow of that shell
+        That spoke so sweetly and so well.
+    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+
+    The trumpet's loud clangor
+      Excites us to arms,
+    With shrill notes of anger
+      And mortal alarms.
+    The double double double beat
+      Of the thundering drum
+      Cries 'Hark! the foes come;
+    Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'
+
+      The soft complaining flute
+        In dying notes discovers
+      The woes of hopeless lovers,
+    Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
+
+      Sharp violins proclaim
+    Their jealous pangs and desperation,
+    Fury, frantic indignation,
+    Depth of pains, and height of passion
+      For the fair disdainful dame.
+
+    But oh! what art can teach,
+    What human voice can reach
+      The sacred organ's praise?
+    Notes inspiring holy love,
+    Notes that wing their heavenly ways
+      To mend the choirs above.
+
+    Orpheus could lead the savage race,
+    And trees unrooted left their place
+      Sequacious of the lyre:
+    But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
+    When to her Organ vocal breath was given
+    An Angel heard, and straight appear'd--
+      Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
+
+_Grand Chorus_
+
+    As from the power of sacred lays
+      The spheres began to move,
+    And sung the great Creator's praise
+      To all the blest above;
+    So when the last and dreadful hour
+    This crumbling pageant shall devour,
+    The trumpet shall be heard on high,
+    The dead shall live, the living die,
+    And Music shall untune the sky.
+
+_J. Dryden_
+
+
+LXXXVII
+
+_ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT_
+
+    Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
+    Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
+    Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
+    When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,
+
+    Forget not: In Thy book record their groans
+    Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
+    Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd
+    Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
+
+    The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
+    To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
+    O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
+
+    The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
+    A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,
+    Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+LXXXVIII
+
+_HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND_
+
+    The forward youth that would appear,
+    Must now forsake his Muses dear,
+        Nor in the shadows sing
+        His numbers languishing.
+
+    'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
+    And oil the unuséd armour's rust,
+        Removing from the wall
+        The corslet of the hall.
+
+    So restless Cromwell could not cease
+    In the inglorious arts of peace,
+        But through adventurous war
+        Urgéd his active star:
+
+    And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
+    Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
+        Did thorough his own Side
+        His fiery way divide:
+
+    For 'tis all one to courage high,
+    The emulous, or enemy;
+        And with such, to enclose
+        Is more than to oppose;
+
+    Then burning through the air he went
+    And palaces and temples rent;
+        And Caesar's head at last
+        Did through his laurels blast.
+
+    'Tis madness to resist or blame
+    The face of angry heaven's flame;
+        And if we would speak true,
+        Much to the Man is due
+
+    Who, from his private gardens, where
+    He lived reservéd and austere,
+        (As if his highest plot
+        To plant the bergamot,)
+
+    Could by industrious valour climb
+    To ruin the great work of time,
+        And cast the Kingdoms old
+        Into another mould;
+
+    Though Justice against Fate complain,
+    And plead the ancient Rights in vain--
+        But those do hold or break
+        As men are strong or weak;
+
+    Nature, that hateth emptiness,
+    Allows of penetration less,
+        And therefore must make room
+        Where greater spirits come.
+
+    What field of all the civil war
+    Where his were not the deepest scar?
+        And Hampton shows what part
+        He had of wiser art,
+
+    Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
+    He wove a net of such a scope
+        That Charles himself might chase
+        To Carisbrook's narrow case,
+
+    That thence the Royal actor borne
+    The tragic scaffold might adorn:
+        While round the arméd bands
+        Did clap their bloody hands.
+
+    He nothing common did or mean
+    Upon that memorable scene,
+        But with his keener eye
+        The axe's edge did try;
+
+    Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,
+    To vindicate his helpless right;
+        But bow'd his comely head
+        Down, as upon a bed.
+
+    --This was that memorable hour
+    Which first assured the forcéd power:
+        So when they did design
+        The Capitol's first line,
+
+    A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
+    Did fright the architects to run;
+        And yet in that the State
+        Foresaw its happy fate!
+
+    And now the Irish are ashamed
+    To see themselves in one year tamed:
+        So much one man can do
+        That does both act and know.
+
+    They can affirm his praises best,
+    And have, though overcome, confest
+        How good he is, how just
+        And fit for highest trust.
+
+    Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
+    But still in the Republic's hand--
+        How fit he is to sway
+        That can so well obey!
+
+    He to the Commons' feet presents
+    A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
+        And (what he may) forbears
+        His fame, to make it theirs:
+
+    And has his sword and spoils ungirt
+    To lay them at the Public's skirt.
+       So when the falcon high
+       Falls heavy from the sky,
+
+    She, having kill'd, no more doth search
+    But on the next green bough to perch,
+        Where, when he first does lure,
+        The falconer has her sure.
+
+    --What may not then our Isle presume
+    While victory his crest does plume?
+        What may not others fear
+        If thus he crowns each year?
+
+    As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
+    To Italy an Hannibal,
+        And to all States not free
+        Shall climacteric be.
+
+    The Pict no shelter now shall find
+    Within his parti-colour'd mind,
+        But from this valour sad
+        Shrink underneath the plaid--
+
+    Happy, if in the tufted brake
+    The English hunter him mistake,
+        Nor lay his hounds in near
+        The Caledonian deer.
+
+    But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
+    March indefatigably on;
+        And for the last effect
+        Still keep the sword erect:
+
+    Besides the force it has to fright
+    The spirits of the shady night,
+        The same arts that did gain
+        A power, must it maintain.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+LXXXIX
+
+_LYCIDAS_
+
+_Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel 1637_
+
+    Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+    Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
+    I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
+    And with forced fingers rude
+    Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
+    Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
+    Compels me to disturb your season due:
+    For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
+    Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
+    Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
+    Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
+    He must not float upon his watery bier
+    Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
+    Without the meed of some melodious tear.
+
+      Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well
+    That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
+    Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
+    Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
+    So may some gentle Muse
+    With lucky words favour my destined urn;
+    And as he passes, turn
+    And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
+
+      For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
+    Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:
+    Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
+    Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
+    We drove a-field, and both together heard
+    What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
+    Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
+    Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
+    Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
+    Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
+    Temper'd to the oaten flute,
+    Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
+    From the glad sound would not be absent long;
+    And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
+
+      But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
+    Now thou art gone, and never must return!
+    Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves
+    With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
+    And all their echoes, mourn:
+    The willows and the hazel copses green
+    Shall now no more be seen
+    Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:--
+    As killing as the canker to the rose,
+    Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
+    Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear
+    When first the white-thorn blows;
+    Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
+
+      Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
+    Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
+    For neither were ye playing on the steep
+    Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
+    Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
+    Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
+    Ay me! I fondly dream--
+    Had ye been there ... For what could that have done?
+    What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
+    The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
+    Whom universal nature did lament,
+    When by the rout that made the hideous roar
+    His gory visage down the stream was sent,
+    Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
+
+      Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
+    To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade
+    And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
+    Were it not better done, as others use,
+    To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
+    Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
+    Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
+    (That last infirmity of noble mind)
+    To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
+    But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
+    And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
+    Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears
+    And slits the thin-spun life.  'But not the praise'
+    Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
+    'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
+    Nor in the glistering foil
+    Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
+    But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
+    And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
+    As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
+    Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'
+
+      O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
+    Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
+    That strain I heard was of a higher mood.
+    But now my oat proceeds,
+    And listens to the herald of the sea
+    That came in Neptune's plea;
+    He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
+    What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
+    And question'd every gust of rugged wings
+    That blows from off each beaked promontory:
+    They knew not of his story;
+    And sage Hippotadés their answer brings,
+    That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
+    The air was calm, and on the level brine
+    Sleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd.
+    It was that fatal and perfidious bark
+    Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
+    That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
+
+      Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
+    His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge
+    Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
+    Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:
+    'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge!'
+    Last came, and last did go
+    The Pilot of the Galilean lake;
+    Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
+    (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
+    He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
+    'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
+    Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake
+    Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!
+    Of other care they little reckoning make
+    Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast.
+    And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
+    Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
+    A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least
+    That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
+    What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
+    And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
+    Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
+    The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
+    But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw
+    Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
+    Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
+    Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
+    --But that two-handed engine at the door
+    Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'
+
+      Return, Alphéus; the dread voice is past
+    That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
+    And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
+    Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
+    Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
+    Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
+    On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
+    Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
+    That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers
+    And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
+    Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
+    The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
+    The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
+    The glowing violet,
+    The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
+    With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
+    And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
+    Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,
+    And daffadillies fill their cups with tears
+    To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
+    For so to interpose a little ease,
+    Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:--
+    Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
+    Wash far away,--where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
+    Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
+    Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
+    Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
+    Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
+    Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
+    Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
+    Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,
+    --Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
+    --And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!
+
+      Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
+    For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
+    Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor:
+    So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
+    And yet anon repairs his drooping head
+    And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
+    Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
+    So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high
+    Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;
+    Where, other groves and other streams along,
+    With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
+    And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
+    In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
+    There entertain him all the Saints above
+    In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
+    That sing, and singing, in their glory move,
+    And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
+    Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
+    Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore
+    In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
+    To all that wander in that perilous flood.
+
+      Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
+    While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
+    He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
+    With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
+    And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
+    And now was dropt into the western bay:
+    At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
+    To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XC
+
+_ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY_
+
+    Mortality, behold and fear
+    What a change of flesh is here!
+    Think how many royal bones
+    Sleep within these heaps of stones;
+    Here they lie, had realms and lands,
+    Who now want strength to stir their hands,
+    Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
+    They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
+    Here's an acre sown indeed
+    With the richest royallest seed
+    That the earth did e'er suck in
+    Since the first man died for sin:
+    Here the bones of birth have cried
+    'Though gods they were, as men they died!'
+    Here are sands, ignoble things,
+    Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
+    Here's a world of pomp and state
+    Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
+
+_F. Beaumont_
+
+
+XCI
+
+_THE LAST CONQUEROR_
+
+    Victorious men of earth, no more
+      Proclaim how wide your empires are;
+    Though you bind-in every shore
+      And your triumphs reach as far
+          As night or day,
+      Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
+    And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
+    Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
+
+    Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
+      Each able to undo mankind,
+    Death's servile emissaries are;
+      Nor to these alone confined,
+          He hath at will
+      More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
+    A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
+    Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
+
+_J. Shirley_
+
+
+XCII
+
+_DEATH THE LEVELLER_
+
+    The glories of our blood and state
+        Are shadows, not substantial things;
+    There is no armour against fate;
+        Death lays his icy hand on kings:
+            Sceptre and Crown
+            Must tumble down,
+    And in the dust be equal made
+    With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
+
+    Some men with swords may reap the field,
+        And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
+    But their strong nerves at last must yield;
+        They tame but one another still:
+            Early or late
+            They stoop to fate,
+    And must give up their murmuring breath
+    When they, pale captives, creep to death.
+
+    The garlands wither on your brow;
+        Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
+    Upon Death's purple altar now
+        See where the victor-victim bleeds:
+            Your heads must come
+            To the cold tomb;
+    Only the actions of the just
+    Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
+
+_J. Shirley_
+
+
+XCIII
+
+_WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY_
+
+    Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,
+    Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
+    If deed of honour did thee ever please,
+    Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
+
+    He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
+    That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
+    And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
+    Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
+
+    Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
+    The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
+    The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
+
+    Went to the ground: and the repeated air
+    Of sad Electra's poet had the power
+    To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XCIV
+
+_ON HIS BLINDNESS_
+
+    When I consider how my light is spent
+    Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
+    And that one talent which is death to hide
+    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
+
+    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
+    My true account, lest He returning chide,--
+    Doth God exact day labour, light denied?
+    I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent
+
+    That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need
+    Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best
+    Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
+
+    Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
+    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:--
+    They also serve who only stand and wait.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XCV
+
+_CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE_
+
+    How happy is he born and taught
+    That serveth not another's will;
+    Whose armour is his honest thought
+    And simple truth his utmost skill!
+
+    Whose passions not his masters are,
+    Whose soul is still prepared for death,
+    Untied unto the world by care
+    Of public fame, or private breath;
+
+    Who envies none that chance doth raise
+    Nor vice; Who never understood
+    How deepest wounds are given by praise;
+    Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
+
+    Who hath his life from rumours freed,
+    Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
+    Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
+    Nor ruin make oppressors great;
+
+    Who God doth late and early pray
+    More of His grace than gifts to lend;
+    And entertains the harmless day
+    With a religious book or friend;
+
+    --This man is freed from servile bands
+    Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
+    Lord of himself, though not of lands;
+    And having nothing, yet hath all.
+
+_Sir H. Wotton_
+
+
+XCVI
+
+_THE NOBLE NATURE_
+
+        It is not growing like a tree
+        In bulk, doth make Man better be;
+    Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
+    To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
+            A lily of a day
+            Is fairer far in May,
+        Although it fall and die that night--
+        It was the plant and flower of Light.
+    In small proportions we just beauties see;
+    And in short measures life may perfect be.
+
+_B. Jonson_
+
+
+XCVII
+
+_THE GIFTS OF GOD_
+
+            When God at first made Man,
+    Having a glass of blessings standing by;
+    Let us (said He) pour on him all we can:
+    Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie,
+            Contract into a span.
+
+            So strength first made a way;
+    Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
+    When almost all was out, God made a stay,
+    Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure,
+            Rest in the bottom lay.
+
+          For if I should (said He)
+    Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
+    He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
+    And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature,
+          So both should losers be.
+
+          Yet let him keep the rest,
+    But keep them with repining restlessness:
+    Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
+    If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
+          May toss him to My breast.
+
+_G. Herbert_
+
+
+XCVIII
+
+_THE RETREAT_
+
+    Happy those early days, when I
+    Shined in my Angel-infancy!
+    Before I understood this place
+    Appointed for my second race,
+    Or taught my soul to fancy aught
+    But a white, celestial thought;
+    When yet I had not walk'd above
+    A mile or two from my first Love,
+    And looking back, at that short space
+    Could see a glimpse of His bright face;
+    When on some gilded cloud or flower
+    My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
+    And in those weaker glories spy
+    Some shadows of eternity;
+    Before I taught my tongue to wound
+    My conscience with a sinful sound,
+    Or had the black art to dispense
+    A several sin to every sense,
+    But felt through all this fleshly dress
+    Bright shoots of everlastingness.
+
+    O how I long to travel back,
+    And tread again that ancient track!
+    That I might once more reach that plain
+    Where first I left my glorious train;
+    From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
+    That shady City of palm trees!
+    But ah! my soul with too much stay
+    Is drunk, and staggers in the way:--
+    Some men a forward motion love,
+    But I by backward steps would move;
+    And when this dust falls to the urn,
+    In that state I came, return.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+XCIX
+
+_TO MR. LAWRENCE_
+
+    Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
+    Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
+    Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
+    Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
+
+    From the hard season gaining? Time will run
+    On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
+    The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
+    The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
+
+    What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
+    Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
+    To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice.
+
+    Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
+    He who of those delights can judge, and spare
+    To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+C
+
+_TO CYRIACK SKINNER_
+
+    Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
+    Of British Themis, with no mean applause
+    Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
+    Which others at their bar so often wrench;
+
+    To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
+    In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
+    Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
+    And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
+
+    To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
+    Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
+    For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
+
+    And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
+    That with superfluous burden loads the day,
+    And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CI
+
+_A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE_
+
+    Of Neptune's empire let us sing,
+    At whose command the waves obey;
+    To whom the rivers tribute pay,
+    Down the high mountains sliding;
+    To whom the scaly nation yields
+    Homage for the crystal fields
+          Wherein they dwell;
+    And every sea-god pays a gem
+    Yearly out of his watery cell,
+    To deck great Neptune's diadem.
+
+    The Tritons dancing in a ring,
+    Before his palace gates do make
+    The water with their echoes quake,
+    Like the great thunder sounding:
+    The sea-nymphs chaunt their accents shrill,
+    And the Syrens taught to kill
+          With their sweet voice,
+    Make every echoing rock reply,
+    Unto their gentle murmuring noise,
+    The praise of Neptune's empery.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+CII
+
+_HYMN TO DIANA_
+
+    Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
+        Now the sun is laid to sleep,
+    Seated in thy silver chair
+        State in wonted manner keep:
+            Hesperus entreats thy light,
+            Goddess excellently bright.
+
+    Earth, let not thy envious shade
+        Dare itself to interpose;
+    Cynthia's shining orb was made
+        Heaven to clear when day did close:
+            Bless us then with wishéd sight,
+            Goddess excellently bright.
+
+    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_
+
+
+CIII
+
+_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 tread 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 commend the rest:
+
+    A face made up
+    Out of no other shop
+    Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
+
+    Sidneian 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_
+
+
+CIV
+
+_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.
+
+    Where there is no place
+    For the glow-worm to lie;
+    Where there is no space
+    For receipt of a fly;
+    Where the midge dares not venture
+    Lest herself fast she lay;
+    If love come, he will enter
+    And soon 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._
+
+
+CV
+
+_THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T.C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS_
+
+        See with what simplicity
+        This nymph begins her golden days!
+        In the green grass she loves to lie,
+        And there with her fair aspect tames
+        The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
+        But only with the roses plays,
+                          And them does tell
+    What colours best become them, and what smell.
+
+        Who can foretell for what high cause
+        This darling of the Gods was born?
+        Yet this is she whose chaster laws
+        The wanton Love shall one day fear,
+        And, under her command severe,
+        See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.
+                          Happy who can
+    Appease this virtuous enemy of man!
+
+        O then let me in time compound
+        And parley with those conquering eyes,
+        Ere they have tried their force to wound;
+        Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
+        In triumph over hearts that strive,
+        And them that yield but more despise:
+                          Let me be laid,
+    Where I may see the glories from some shade.
+
+        Mean time, whilst every verdant thing
+        Itself does at thy beauty charm,
+        Reform the errors of the Spring;
+        Make that the tulips may have share
+        Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,
+        And roses of their thorns disarm;
+                          But most procure
+    That violets may a longer age endure.
+
+        But O young beauty of the woods,
+        Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
+        Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
+        Lest FLORA, angry at thy crime
+        To kill her infants in their prime,
+        Should quickly make th' example yours;
+                         And ere we see--
+    Nip in the blossom--all our hopes and thee.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CVI
+
+_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_
+
+
+CVII
+
+_CONSTANCY_
+
+    I cannot change, as others do,
+      Though you unjustly scorn,
+    Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
+      For you alone was born;
+    No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
+      A surer way I'll try,--
+    And to revenge my slighted love,
+      Will still love on, and die.
+
+    When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,
+      And you to mind shall call
+    The sighs that now unpitied rise,
+      The tears that vainly fall,
+    That welcome hour that ends his smart
+      Will then begin your pain,
+    For such a faithful tender heart
+      Can never break in vain.
+
+_J. Wilmot, Earl of Rochester_
+
+
+CVIII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CIX
+
+_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 shall adore;
+    I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
+      Loved I not Honour more.
+
+_Colonel Lovelace_
+
+
+CX
+
+_ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA_
+
+    You meaner beauties of the night,
+      That 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?
+
+    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?
+
+    You 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?
+
+    So when my Mistress shall be seen
+      In form and beauty of her 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_
+
+
+CXI
+
+_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 Chaeroneia, 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_
+
+
+CXII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXIII
+
+_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._
+
+
+CXIV
+
+    Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise;
+        Old Time will make thee colder,
+    And though each morning new arise
+        Yet we each day grow older.
+    Thou as Heaven art fair and young,
+        Thine eyes like twin stars shining;
+    But ere another day be sprung
+        All these will be declining.
+    Then winter comes with all his fears,
+        And all thy sweets shall borrow;
+    Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,--
+        And I too late shall sorrow!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXV
+
+        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_
+
+
+CXVI
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXVII
+
+_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 may 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._
+
+
+CXVIII
+
+_CORINNA'S MAYING_
+
+    Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn
+    Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
+        See how Aurora throws her fair
+        Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
+        Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see
+        The dew bespangling herb and tree.
+    Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
+    Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
+        Nay! not so much as out of bed?
+        When all the birds have matins said,
+        And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
+        Nay, profanation, to keep in,--
+    Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,
+    Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch-in May,
+
+    Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
+    To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,
+        And sweet as Flora. Take no care
+        For jewels for your gown, or hair:
+        Fear not; the leaves will strew
+        Gems in abundance upon you:
+    Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
+    Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:
+        Come, and receive them while the light
+        Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
+        And Titan on the eastern hill
+        Retires himself, or else stands still
+    Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
+    Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.
+
+    Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
+    How each field turns a street; each street a park
+        Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how
+        Devotion gives each house a bough
+        Or branch: Each porch, each door, ere this,
+        An ark, a tabernacle is,
+    Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
+    As if here were those cooler shades of love.
+        Can such delights be in the street,
+        And open fields, and we not see't?
+        Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
+        The proclamation made for May:
+    And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
+    But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.
+
+    There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
+    But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
+        A deal of youth, ere this, is come
+        Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
+        Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,
+        Before that we have left to dream:
+    And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
+    And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
+        Many a green-gown has been given;
+        Many a kiss, both odd and even:
+        Many a glance too has been sent
+        From out the eye, Love's firmament:
+    Many a jest told of the keys betraying
+    This night, and locks pick'd:--Yet we're not a Maying.
+
+    --Come, let us go, while we are in our prime;
+    And take the harmless folly of the time!
+        We shall grow old apace, and die
+        Before we know our liberty.
+        Our life is short; and our days run
+        As fast away as does the sun:--
+    And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
+    Once lost, can ne'er be found again:
+        So when or you or I are made
+        A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
+        All love, all liking, all delight
+        Lies drown'd with us in endless night.
+    Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
+    Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXIX
+
+_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 distractión,--
+    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_
+
+
+CXX
+
+2
+
+    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_
+
+
+CXXI
+
+3
+
+    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._
+
+
+CXXII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXXIII
+
+_A MYSTICAL ECSTASY_
+
+    E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
+        That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
+    And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,
+        Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
+          Where in a greater current they conjoin:
+    So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.
+
+    E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,
+        E'en so we join'd; we both became entire;
+    No need for either to renew a suit,
+        For I was flax and he was flames of fire:
+        Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
+    So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.
+
+    If all those glittering Monarchs that command
+        The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
+    Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,
+        I would not change my fortunes for them all:
+        Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
+    The world's but theirs; but my Belovéd's mine.
+
+_F. Quarles_
+
+
+CXXIV
+
+_TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING_
+
+    Bid me to live, and I will live
+      Thy Protestant to be:
+    Or bid me love, and I will give
+      A loving heart to thee.
+
+    A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
+      A heart as sound and free
+    As in the whole world thou canst find,
+      That heart I'll give to thee.
+
+    Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
+      To honour thy decree:
+    Or bid it languish quite away,
+      And 't shall do so for thee.
+
+    Bid me to weep, and I will weep
+      While I have eyes to see:
+    And having none, yet I will keep
+      A heart to weep for thee.
+
+    Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
+      Under that cypress tree:
+    Or bid me die, and I will dare
+      E'en Death, to die for thee.
+
+    Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
+      The very eyes of me,
+    And hast command of every part,
+      To live and die for thee.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXXV
+
+    Love not me for comely grace,
+    For my pleasing eye or face,
+    Nor for any outward part,
+    No, nor for my constant heart,--
+      For those may fail, or turn to ill,
+        So thou and I shall sever:
+    Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
+    And love me still, but know not why--
+      So hast thou the same reason still
+        To doat upon me ever!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXVI
+
+    Not, Celia, that I juster am
+      Or better than the rest;
+    For I would change each hour, like them,
+      Were not my heart at rest,
+
+    But I am tied to very thee
+      By every thought I have;
+    Thy face I only care to see,
+      Thy heart I only crave.
+
+    All that in woman is adored
+      In thy dear self I find--
+    For the whole sex can but afford
+      The handsome and the kind.
+
+    Why then should I seek further store,
+      And still make love anew?
+    When change itself can give no more,
+      'Tis easy to be true.
+
+_Sir C. Sedley_
+
+
+CXXVII
+
+_TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON_
+
+    When Love with unconfinéd wings
+      Hovers within my gates,
+    And my divine Althea brings
+      To whisper at the grates;
+    When I lie tangled in her hair
+      And fetter'd to her eye,
+    The Gods that wanton in the air
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+    When flowing cups run swiftly round
+      With no allaying Thames,
+    Our careless heads with roses bound,
+      Our hearts with loyal flames;
+    When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
+      When healths and draughts go free--
+    Fishes that tipple in the deep
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+    When, (like committed linnets), I
+      With shriller throat shall sing
+    The sweetness, mercy, majesty
+      And glories of my King;
+    When I shall voice aloud how good
+      He is, how great should be,
+    Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+    Stone walls do not a prison make,
+      Nor iron bars a cage;
+    Minds innocent and quiet take
+      That for an hermitage;
+    If I have freedom in my love
+      And in my soul am free,
+    Angels alone, that soar above,
+      Enjoy such liberty.
+
+_Colonel Lovelace_
+
+
+CXXVIII
+
+_TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS_
+
+        If to be absent were to be
+            Away from thee;
+          Or that when I am gone
+          You or I were alone;
+        Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
+    Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.
+
+        But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
+            To swell my sail,
+          Or pay a tear to 'suage
+          The foaming blue-god's rage;
+        For whether he will let me pass
+    Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.
+
+        Though seas and land betwixt us both,
+            Our faith and troth,
+          Like separated souls,
+          All time and space controls:
+        Above the highest sphere we meet
+    Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.
+
+        So then we do anticipate
+            Our after-fate,
+          And are alive i' the skies,
+          If thus our lips and eyes
+        Can speak like spirits unconfined
+    In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
+
+_Colonel Lovelace_
+
+
+CXXIX
+
+_ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER_
+
+      Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+          Prythee, why so pale?
+      Will, if looking well can't move her,
+          Looking ill prevail?
+          Prithee, why so pale?
+
+      Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
+          Prythee, why so mute?
+      Will, when speaking well can't win her,
+          Saying nothing do't?
+          Prythee, why so mute?
+
+    Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
+          This cannot take her;
+      If of herself she will not love,
+          Nothing can make her:
+          The D--l take her!
+
+_Sir J. Suckling_
+
+
+CXXX
+
+_A SUPPLICATION_
+
+        Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+    And tell thy silent master's humble tale
+        In sounds that may prevail;
+      Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
+        Though so exalted she
+        And I so lowly be
+    Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
+
+        Hark, how the strings awake!
+    And, though the moving hand approach not near,
+        Themselves with awful fear
+      A kind of numerous trembling make.
+        Now all thy forces try;
+        Now all thy charms apply;
+    Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
+
+        Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
+    Is useless here, since thou art only found
+        To cure, but not to wound,
+      And she to wound, but not to cure.
+        Too weak too wilt thou prove
+        My passion to remove;
+    Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.
+
+        Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
+    For thou canst never tell my humble tale
+        In sounds that will prevail,
+      Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
+        All thy vain mirth lay by,
+        Bid thy strings silent lie,
+    Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
+
+_A. Cowley_
+
+
+CXXXI
+
+_THE MANLY HEART_
+
+    Shall I, wasting in despair,
+    Die because a woman's fair?
+    Or make pale my cheeks with care
+    'Cause another's rosy are?
+    Be she fairer than the day
+    Or the flowery meads in May--
+        If she think not well of me
+        What care I how fair she be?
+
+    Shall my silly heart be pined
+    'Cause I see a woman kind;
+    Or a well disposed nature
+    Joinéd with a lovely feature?
+    Be she meeker, kinder, than
+    Turtle-dove or pelican,
+        If she be not so to me
+        What care I how kind she be?
+
+    Shall a woman's virtues move
+    Me to perish for her love?
+    Or her well-deservings known
+    Make me quite forget mine own?
+    Be she with, that goodness blest
+    Which may merit name of Best;
+        If she be not such to me,
+        What care I how good she be?
+
+    'Cause her fortune seems too high,
+    Shall I play the fool and die?
+    She that bears a noble mind
+    If not outward helps she find,
+    Thinks what with them he would do
+    Who without them dares her woo;
+        And unless that mind I see,
+        What care I how great she be?
+
+    Great or good, or kind or fair,
+    I will ne'er the more despair;
+    If she love me, this believe,
+    I will die ere she shall grieve;
+    If she slight me when I woo,
+    I can scorn and let her go;
+        For if she be not for me,
+        What care I for whom she be?
+
+_G. Wither_
+
+
+CXXXII
+
+_MELANCHOLY_
+
+        Hence, all you vain delights,
+        As short as are the nights
+        Wherein you spend your folly:
+        There's nought in this life sweet
+        If man were wise to see't,
+        But only melancholy,
+        O sweetest Melancholy!
+      Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,
+      A sigh that piercing mortifies,
+      A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
+      A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
+      Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
+      Places which pale passion loves!
+      Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
+      Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
+      A midnight bell, a parting groan!
+      These are the sounds we feed upon;
+    Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
+    Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
+
+_J. Fletcher_
+
+
+CXXXIII
+
+_FORSAKEN_
+
+    O waly waly up the bank,
+      And waly waly down the brae,
+    And waly waly yon burn-side
+      Where I and my Love wont to gae!
+    I leant my back unto an aik,
+      I thought it was a trusty tree;
+    But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
+      Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
+
+    O waly waly, but love be bonny
+      A little time while it is new;
+    But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld
+      And fades awa' like morning dew.
+    O wherefore should I busk my head?
+      Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
+    For my true Love has me forsook,
+      And says he'll never loe me mair.
+
+    Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
+      The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
+    Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
+      Since my true Love has forsaken me.
+    Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
+      And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
+    O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
+      For of my life I am wearíe.
+
+    'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
+      Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;
+    'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
+      But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
+    When we came in by Glasgow town
+      We were a comely sight to see;
+    My Love was clad in the black velvét,
+      And I mysell in cramasie.
+
+    But had I wist, before I kist,
+      That love had been sae ill to win;
+    I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
+      And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
+    And, O! if my young babe were born,
+      And set upon the nurse's knee,
+    And I mysell were dead and gane,
+      And the green grass growing over me!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXIV
+
+    Upon my lap my sovereign sits
+    And sucks upon my breast;
+    Meantime his love maintains my life
+    And gives my sense her rest.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    When thou hast taken thy repast,
+    Repose, my babe, on me;
+    So may thy mother and thy nurse
+    Thy cradle also be.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    I grieve that duty doth not work
+    All that my wishing would,
+    Because I would not be to thee
+    But in the best I should.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    Yet as I am, and as I may,
+    I must and will be thine,
+    Though all too little for thy self
+    Vouchsafing to be mine.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXV
+
+_FAIR HELEN_
+
+    I wish I were where Helen lies;
+    Night and day on me she cries;
+    O that I were where Helen lies
+        On fair Kirconnell lea!
+
+    Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
+    And curst the hand that fired the shot,
+    When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
+        And died to succour me!
+
+    O think na but my heart was sair
+    When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
+    I laid her down wi' meikle care
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+    As I went down the water-side,
+    None but my foe to be my guide,
+    None but my foe to be my guide,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea;
+
+    I lighted down my sword to draw,
+    I hackéd him in pieces sma',
+    I hackéd him in pieces sma',
+        For her sake that died for me.
+
+    O Helen fair, beyond compare!
+    I'll make a garland of thy hair
+    Shall bind my heart for evermair
+        Until the day I die.
+
+    O that I were where Helen lies!
+    Night and day on me she cries;
+    Out of my bed she bids me rise,
+        Says, 'Haste and come to me!'
+
+    O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
+    If I were with thee, I were blest,
+    Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+    I wish my grave were growing green,
+    A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
+    And I in Helen's arms lying,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+    I wish I were where Helen lies;
+    Night and day on me she cries;
+    And I am weary of the skies,
+        Since my Love died for me.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXVI
+
+_THE TWA CORBIES_
+
+    As I was walking all alane
+    I heard twa corbies making a mane;
+    The tane unto the t'other say,
+    'Where sall we gang and dine today?'
+
+    '--In behint yon auld fail dyke,
+    I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
+    And naebody kens that he lies there,
+    But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
+
+    'His hound is to the hunting gane,
+    His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
+    His lady's ta'en another mate,
+    So we may mak our dinner sweet.
+
+    'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
+    And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een:
+    Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
+    We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
+
+    'Mony a one for him makes mane,
+    But nane sall ken where he is gane;
+    O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
+    The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXVII
+
+_ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY_
+
+    It was a dismal and a fearful night,--
+    Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,
+    When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
+        By something liker death possest.
+    My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
+        And on my soul hung the dull weight
+        Of some intolerable fate.
+    What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!
+
+    My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,
+    Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
+    Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
+        O thou hast left me all alone!
+    Thy soul and body, when death's agony
+        Besieged around thy noble heart,
+        Did not with more reluctance part
+    Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.
+
+    Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
+    Have ye not seen us walking every day?
+    Was there a tree about which did not know
+        The love betwixt us two?
+    Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,
+        Or your sad branches thicker join,
+        And into darksome shades combine,
+    Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.
+
+    Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
+    Submitted to inform a body here;
+    High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,
+        But low and humble as his grave;
+    So high that all the virtues there did come
+        As to the chiefest seat
+        Conspicuous, and great;
+    So low that for me too it made a room.
+
+    Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
+    As if for him knowledge had rather sought;
+    Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
+        In such a short mortality.
+    Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
+        Still did the notions throng
+        About his eloquent tongue;
+    Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.
+
+    His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
+    Yet never did his God or friends forget.
+    And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
+        Retired, and gave to them their due.
+    For the rich help of books he always took,
+        Though his own searching mind before
+        Was so with notions written o'er,
+    As if wise Nature had made that her book.
+
+    With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
+    He always lived, as other saints do die.
+    Still with his soul severe account he kept,
+        Weeping all debts out ere he slept.
+    Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
+        Like the sun's laborious light,
+        Which still in water sets at night,
+    Unsullied with his journey of the day.
+
+_A. Cowley_
+
+
+CXXXVIII
+
+_FRIENDS IN PARADISE_
+
+    They are all gone into the world of light!
+        And I alone sit lingering here;
+    Their very memory is fair and bright,
+          And my sad thoughts doth clear:--
+
+    It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
+        Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
+    Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
+          After the sun's remove.
+
+    I see them walking in an air of glory,
+        Whose light doth trample on my days:
+    My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
+            Mere glimmering and decays.
+
+    O holy Hope! and high Humility,
+        High as the heavens above!
+    These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me,
+            To kindle my cold love.
+
+    Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
+        Shining no where, but in the dark;
+    What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
+            Could man outlook that mark!
+
+    He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know
+        At first sight, if the bird be flown;
+    But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
+            That is to him unknown.
+
+    And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
+        Call to the soul, when man doth sleep;
+    So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
+            And into glory peep.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+CXXXIX
+
+_TO BLOSSOMS_
+
+    Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
+        Why do ye fall so fast?
+        Your date is not so past,
+    But you may stay yet here awhile
+        To blush and gently smile,
+            And go at last.
+
+    What, were ye born to be
+        An hour or half's delight,
+        And so to bid good-night?
+    'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
+        Merely to show your worth,
+            And lose you quite.
+
+    But you are lovely leaves, where we
+        May read how soon things have
+        Their end, though ne'er so brave:
+    And after they have shown their pride
+        Like you, awhile, they glide
+            Into the grave.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXL
+
+_TO DAFFODILS_
+
+    Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+        You haste away so soon:
+    As yet the early-rising Sun
+        Has not attain'd his noon.
+            Stay, stay,
+        Until the hasting day
+            Has run
+        But to the even-song;
+    And, having pray'd together, we
+        Will go with you along.
+
+    We have short time to stay, as you,
+        We have as short a Spring;
+    As quick a growth to meet decay
+        As you, or any thing.
+            We die,
+        As your hours do, and dry
+            Away
+        Like to the Summer's rain;
+    Or as the pearls of morning's dew
+        Ne'er to be found again.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXLI
+
+_THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN_
+
+    With sweetest milk and sugar first
+    I it at my own fingers nursed;
+    And as it grew, so every day
+    It wax'd more white and sweet than they--
+    It had so sweet a breath! and oft
+    I blush'd to see its foot more soft
+    And white,--shall I say,--than my hand?
+    Nay, any lady's of the land!
+
+    It is a wondrous thing how fleet
+    'Twas on those little silver feet:
+    With what a pretty skipping grace
+    It oft would challenge me the race:--
+    And when 't had left me far away
+    'Twould stay, and run again, and stay:
+    For it was nimbler much than hinds,
+    And trod as if on the four winds.
+
+    I have a garden of my own,
+    But so with roses overgrown
+    And lilies, that you would it guess
+    To be a little wilderness:
+    And all the spring-time of the year
+    It only lovéd to be there.
+    Among the beds of lilies I
+    Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
+    Yet could not, till itself would rise,
+    Find it, although before mine eyes:--
+    For in the flaxen lilies' shade
+    It like a bank of lilies laid.
+
+    Upon the roses it would feed,
+    Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed:
+    And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
+    And print those roses on my lip.
+    But all its chief delight was still
+    On roses thus itself to fill,
+    And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+    In whitest sheets of lilies cold:--
+    Had it lived long, it would have been
+    Lilies without--roses within.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLII
+
+_THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN_
+
+    How vainly men themselves amaze
+    To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
+    And their uncessant labours see
+    Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
+    Whose short and narrow-vergéd shade
+    Does prudently their toils upbraid;
+    While all the flowers and trees do close
+    To weave the garlands of Repose.
+
+    Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
+    And Innocence thy sister dear!
+    Mistaken long, I sought you then
+    In busy companies of men:
+    Your sacred plants, if here below,
+    Only among the plants will grow:
+    Society is all but rude
+    To this delicious solitude.
+
+    No white nor red was ever seen
+    So amorous as this lovely green.
+    Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
+    Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
+    Little, alas, they know or heed
+    How far these beauties hers exceed!
+    Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,
+    No name shall but your own be found.
+
+    When we have run our passions' heat
+    Love hither makes his best retreat:
+    The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
+    Still in a tree did end their race;
+    Apollo hunted Daphne so
+    Only that she might laurel grow;
+    And Pan did after Syrinx speed
+    Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
+
+    What wondrous life is this I lead!
+    Ripe apples drop about my head;
+    The luscious clusters of the vine
+    Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
+    The nectarine and curious peach
+    Into my hands themselves do reach;
+    Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
+    Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
+
+    Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
+    Withdraws into its happiness;
+    The mind, that ocean where each kind
+    Does straight its own resemblance find;
+    Yet it creates, transcending these,
+    Far other worlds, and other seas;
+    Annihilating all that's made
+    To a green thought in a green shade.
+
+    Here at the fountain's sliding foot
+    Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
+    Casting the body's vest aside
+    My soul into the boughs does glide;
+    There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
+    Then whets and claps its silver wings,
+    And, till prepared for longer flight,
+    Waves in its plumes the various light.
+
+    Such was that happy Garden-state
+    While man there walk'd without a mate:
+    After a place so pure and sweet,
+    What other help could yet be meet!
+    But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
+    To wander solitary there:
+    Two paradises 'twere in one,
+    To live in Paradise alone.
+
+    How well the skilful gardener drew
+    Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
+    Where, from above, the milder sun
+    Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
+    And, as it works, th' industrious bee
+    Computes its time as well as we.
+    How could such sweet and wholesome hours
+    Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLIII
+
+_FORTUNATI NIMIUM_
+
+    Jack and Joan, they think no ill,
+    But loving live, and merry still;
+    Do their week-day's work, and pray
+    Devoutly on the holy-day:
+    Skip and trip it on the green,
+    And help to choose the Summer Queen;
+    Lash out at a country feast
+    Their silver penny with the best.
+
+    Well can they judge of nappy ale,
+    And tell at large a winter tale;
+    Climb up to the apple loft,
+    And turn the crabs till they be soft.
+    Tib is all the father's joy,
+    And little Tom the mother's boy:--
+    All their pleasure is, Content,
+    And care, to pay their yearly rent.
+
+    Joan can call by name her cows
+    And deck her windows with green boughs;
+    She can wreaths and tutties make,
+    And trim with plums a bridal cake.
+    Jack knows what brings gain or loss,
+    And his long flail can stoutly toss:
+    Makes the hedge which others break,
+    And ever thinks what he doth speak.
+
+    --Now, you courtly dames and knights,
+    That study only strange delights,
+    Though you scorn the homespun gray,
+    And revel in your rich array;
+    Though your tongues dissemble deep
+    And can your heads from danger keep;
+    Yet, for all your pomp and train,
+    Securer lives the silly swain!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+CXLIV
+
+_L'ALLEGRO_
+
+    Hence, loathéd Melancholy,
+      Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
+    In Stygian cave forlorn
+      'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
+    Find out some uncouth cell
+      Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
+    And the night-raven sings;
+      There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks
+    As ragged as thy locks,
+      In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
+
+          But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
+        In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
+        And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
+        Whom lovely Venus at a birth
+        With two sister Graces more
+        To ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore;
+        Or whether (as some sager sing)
+        The frolic wind that breathes the spring
+        Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
+        As he met her once a-Maying--
+        There on beds of violets blue
+        And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew
+        Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
+        So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
+
+            Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
+        Jest, and youthful jollity,
+        Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
+        Nods, and becks, and wreathéd smiles
+        Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
+        And love to live in dimple sleek;
+        Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
+        And Laughter holding both his sides:--
+        Come, and trip it as you go
+        On the light fantastic toe;
+        And in thy right hand lead with thee
+        The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
+        And if I give thee honour due
+        Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
+        To live with her, and live with thee
+        In unreprovéd pleasures free;
+        To hear the lark begin his flight
+        And singing startle the dull night
+        From his watch-tower in the skies,
+        Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
+        Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
+        And at my window bid good-morrow
+        Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
+        Or the twisted eglantine:
+        While the cock with lively din
+        Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
+        And to the stack, or the barn-door,
+        Stoutly struts his dames before:
+        Oft listening how the hounds and horn
+        Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
+        From the side of some hoar hill,
+        Through the high wood echoing shrill:
+        Sometime walking, not unseen,
+        By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
+        Right against the eastern gate
+        Where the great Sun begins his state
+        Robed in flames and amber light,
+        The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
+        While the ploughman, near at hand,
+        Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
+        And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
+        And the mower whets his scythe,
+        And every shepherd tells his tale
+        Under the hawthorn in the dale.
+          Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
+        Whilst the landscape round it measures;
+        Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
+        Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
+        Mountains, on whose barren breast
+        The labouring clouds do often rest;
+        Meadows trim with daisies pied,
+        Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
+        Towers and battlements it sees
+        Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
+        Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
+        The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
+          Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
+        From betwixt two aged oaks,
+        Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,
+        Are at their savoury dinner set
+        Of herbs, and other country messes
+        Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
+        And then in haste her bower she leaves
+        With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
+        Or, if the earlier season lead,
+        To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
+          Sometimes with secure delight
+        The upland hamlets will invite,
+        When the merry bells ring round,
+        And the jocund rebecks sound
+        To many a youth and many a maid,
+        Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
+        And young and old come forth to play
+        On a sunshine holyday,
+        Till the live-long day-light fail:
+        Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
+        With stories told of many a feat,
+        How Faery Mab the junkets eat:--
+        She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said;
+        And he, by Friar's lantern led;
+        Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
+        To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
+        When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
+        His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
+        That ten day-labourers could not end;
+        Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
+        And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
+        Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
+        And crop-full out of doors he flings,
+        Ere the first cock his matin rings.
+          Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
+        By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.
+          Tower'd cities please us then
+        And the busy hum of men,
+        Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
+        In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,
+        With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
+        Rain influence, and judge the prize
+        Of wit or arms, while both contend
+        To win her grace, whom all commend.
+        There let Hymen oft appear
+        In saffron robe, with taper clear,
+        And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
+        With mask, and antique pageantry;
+        Such sights as youthful poets dream
+        On summer eves by haunted stream.
+        Then to the well-trod stage anon,
+        If Jonson's learned sock be on,
+        Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
+        Warble his native wood-notes wild.
+          And ever against eating cares
+        Lap me in soft Lydian airs
+        Married to immortal verse,
+        Such as the meeting soul may pierce
+        In notes, with many a winding bout
+        Of linkéd sweetness long drawn out,
+        With wanton heed and giddy cunning,
+        The melting voice through mazes running,
+        Untwisting all the chains that tie
+        The hidden soul of harmony;
+        That Orpheus' self may heave his head
+        From golden slumber, on a bed
+        Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear
+        Such strains as would have won the ear
+        Of Pluto, to have quite set free
+        His half-regain'd Eurydice.
+        These delights if thou canst give,
+        Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CXLV
+
+_IL PENSEROSO_
+
+    Hence, vain deluding Joys,
+      The brood of Folly without father bred!
+    How little you bestead
+      Or fill the fixéd mind with all your toys!
+    Dwell in some idle brain,
+      And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess
+    As thick and numberless
+      As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
+    Or likest hovering dreams,
+      The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
+
+        But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,
+      Hail, divinest Melancholy!
+      Whose saintly visage is too bright
+      To hit the sense of human sight,
+      And therefore to our weaker view
+      O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
+      Black, but such as in esteem
+      Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
+      Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
+      To set her beauty's praise above
+      The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:
+      Yet thou art higher far descended:
+      Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
+      To solitary Saturn bore;
+      His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
+      Such mixture was not held a stain:
+      Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
+      He met her, and in secret shades
+      Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
+      While yet there was no fear of Jove.
+
+        Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
+      Sober, steadfast, and demure,
+      All in a robe of darkest grain
+      Flowing with majestic train,
+      And sable stole of Cipres lawn
+      Over thy decent shoulders drawn:
+      Come, but keep thy wonted state,
+      With even step, and musing gait,
+      And looks commercing with the skies,
+      Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
+      There, held in holy passion still,
+      Forget thyself to marble, till
+      With a sad leaden downward cast
+      Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
+      And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
+      Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
+      And hears the Muses in a ring
+      Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
+      And add to these retired Leisure
+      That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:--
+      But first and chiefest, with thee bring
+      Him that yon soars on golden wing
+      Guiding the fiery-wheeléd throne,
+      The cherub Contemplatión;
+      And the mute Silence hist along,
+      'Less Philomel will deign a song
+      In her sweetest saddest plight
+      Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
+      While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
+      Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.
+      --Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
+      Most musical, most melancholy!
+      Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among
+      I woo, to hear thy even-song;
+      And missing thee, I walk unseen
+      On the dry smooth-shaven green,
+      To behold the wandering Moon
+      Riding near her highest noon,
+      Like one that had been led astray
+      Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
+      And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
+      Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
+
+        Oft, on a plat of rising ground
+      I hear the far-off Curfeu sound
+      Over some wide-water'd shore,
+      Swinging slow with sullen roar:
+      Or, if the air will not permit,
+      Some still removéd place will fit,
+      Where glowing embers through the room
+      Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
+      Far from all resort of mirth,
+      Save the cricket on the hearth,
+      Or the bellman's drowsy charm
+      To bless the doors from nightly harm.
+        Or let my lamp at midnight hour
+      Be seen in some high lonely tower,
+      Where I may oft out-watch the Bear
+      With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
+      The spirit of Plato, to unfold
+      What worlds or what vast regions hold
+      The immortal mind, that hath forsook
+      Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
+      And of those demons that are found
+      In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
+      Whose power hath a true consent
+      With planet, or with element.
+      Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
+      In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
+      Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
+      Or the tale of Troy divine;
+      Or what (though rare) of later age
+      Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
+        But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
+      Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
+      Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
+      Such notes as, warbled to the string,
+      Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
+      And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
+      Or call up him that left half-told
+      The story of Cambuscan bold,
+      Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
+      And who had Canacé to wife
+      That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;
+      And of the wondrous horse of brass
+      On which the Tartar king did ride:
+      And if aught else great bards beside
+      In sage and solemn tunes have sung
+      Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
+      Of forests, and enchantments drear,
+      Where more is meant than meets the ear.
+        Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
+      Till civil-suited Morn appear,
+      Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
+      With the Attic Boy to hunt,
+      But kercheft in a comely cloud
+      While rocking winds are piping loud,
+      Or usher'd with a shower still,
+      When the gust hath blown his fill,
+      Ending on the rustling leaves
+      With minute drops from off the eaves.
+      And when the sun begins to fling
+      His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
+      To archéd walks of twilight groves,
+      And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
+      Of pine, or monumental oak,
+      Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,
+      Was never heard the nymphs to daunt
+      Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
+      There in close covert by some brook
+      Where no profaner eye may look,
+      Hide me from day's garish eye,
+      While the bee with honey'd thigh
+      That at her flowery work doth sing,
+      And the waters murmuring,
+      With such consort as they keep
+      Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
+      And let some strange mysterious dream
+      Wave at his wings in airy stream
+      Of lively portraiture display'd,
+      Softly on my eyelids laid:
+      And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
+      Above, about, or underneath,
+      Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
+      Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
+        But let my due feet never fail
+      To walk the studious cloister's pale,
+      And love the high-embowéd roof,
+      With antique pillars massy proof,
+      And storied windows richly dight
+      Casting a dim religious light.
+      There let the pealing organ blow
+      To the full-voiced quire below
+      In service high and anthems clear,
+      As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
+      Dissolve me into ecstasies,
+      And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
+        And may at last my weary age
+      Find out the peaceful hermitage,
+      The hairy gown and mossy cell
+      Where I may sit and rightly spell
+      Of every star that heaven doth shew,
+      And every herb that sips the dew;
+      Till old experience do attain
+      To something like prophetic strain.
+
+      These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
+      And I with thee will choose to live.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CXLVI
+
+_SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA_
+
+    Where the remote Bermudas ride
+    In the ocean's bosom unespied,
+    From a small boat that row'd along
+    The listening winds received this song.
+      'What should we do but sing His praise
+    That led us through the watery maze
+    Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
+    That lift the deep upon their backs,
+    Unto an isle so long unknown,
+    And yet far kinder than our own?
+    He lands us on a grassy stage,
+    Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:
+    He gave us this eternal Spring
+    Which here enamels everything,
+    And sends the fowls to us in care
+    On daily visits through the air.
+    He hangs in shades the orange bright
+    Like golden lamps in a green night,
+    And does in the pomegranates close
+    Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
+    He makes the figs our mouths to meet
+    And throws the melons at our feet;
+    But apples plants of such a price,
+    No tree could ever bear them twice.
+    With cedars chosen by His hand
+    From Lebanon He stores the land;
+    And makes the hollow seas that roar
+    Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
+    He cast (of which we rather boast)
+    The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
+    And in these rocks for us did frame
+    A temple where to sound His name.
+    Oh! let our voice His praise exalt
+    Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
+    Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may
+    Echo beyond the Mexique bay!'
+    --Thus sung they in the English boat
+    A holy and a cheerful note:
+    And all the way, to guide their chime,
+    With falling oars they kept the time.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLVII
+
+_AT A SOLEMN MUSIC_
+
+    Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
+    Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!
+    Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ,
+    Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
+    And to our high-raised phantasy present
+    That undisturbéd Song of pure concent
+    Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
+          To Him that sits thereon,
+
+    With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
+    Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
+    Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
+    And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
+    Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
+    With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
+          Hymns devout and holy psalms
+          Singing everlastingly:
+    That we on Earth, with undiscording voice
+    May rightly answer that melodious noise;
+    As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
+    Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
+    Broke the fair music that all creatures made
+    To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
+    In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
+    In first obedience, and their state of good.
+    O may we soon again renew that Song,
+    And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
+    To His celestial consort us unite,
+  To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CXLVIII
+
+_NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM_.
+
+        When I survey the bright
+            Celestial sphere:
+    So rich with jewels hung, that night
+    Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;
+
+        My soul her wings doth spread,
+            And heaven-ward flies,
+    The Almighty's mysteries to read
+    In the large volumes of the skies.
+
+        For the bright firmament
+            Shoots forth no flame
+    So silent, but is eloquent
+    In speaking the Creator's name.
+
+        No unregarded star
+            Contracts its light
+    Into so small a character,
+    Removed far from our human sight,
+
+        But if we steadfast look,
+            We shall discern
+    In it as in some holy book,
+    How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
+
+        It tells the Conqueror,
+            That far-stretch'd power
+    Which his proud dangers traffic for,
+    Is but the triumph of an hour.
+
+        That from the farthest North
+            Some nation may
+    Yet undiscover'd issue forth,
+    And o'er his new-got conquest sway.
+
+        Some nation yet shut in
+            With hills of ice,
+    May be let out to scourge his sin,
+    Till they shall equal him in vice.
+
+        And then they likewise shall
+            Their ruin have;
+    For as yourselves your Empires fall,
+    And every Kingdom hath a grave.
+
+        Thus those celestial fires,
+            Though seeming mute,
+    The fallacy of our desires
+    And all the pride of life, confute.
+
+        For they have watch'd since first
+            The World had birth:
+    And found sin in itself accursed,
+    And nothing permanent on earth.
+
+_W. Habington_
+
+
+CXLIX
+
+_HYMN TO DARKNESS_
+
+      Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!
+          What Muse is worthy thee to sing?
+        Thee, from whose pregnant universal womb
+        All things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come.
+        What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,
+          Thou first and greatest mystery?
+        Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?
+    Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible.
+
+        Before great Love this monument did raise,
+          This ample theatre of praise;
+        Before the folding circles of the sky
+        Were tuned by Him, Who is all harmony;
+        Before the morning Stars their hymn began,
+          Before the council held for man,
+        Before the birth of either time or place,
+    Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space.
+
+        Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,
+          But still half of the globe is thine.
+        Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand,
+        Like the best emperors thou dost command.
+        To thee the stars above their brightness owe,
+          And mortals their repose below:
+        To thy protection fear and sorrow flee,
+    And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.
+
+_J. Norris of Bemerton_
+
+
+CL
+
+_A VISION_
+
+    I saw Eternity the other night,
+    Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
+        All calm, as it was bright:--
+    And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,
+        Driven by the spheres,
+    Like a vast shadow moved; in which the World
+        And all her train were hurl'd.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+CLI
+
+_ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC_
+
+      'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+        By Philip's warlike son--
+        Aloft in awful state
+        The godlike hero sate
+        On his imperial throne;
+        His valiant peers were placed around,
+        Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,
+        (So should desert in arms be crown'd);
+        The lovely Thais by his side
+        Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
+        In flower of youth and beauty's pride:--
+        Happy, happy, happy pair!
+        None but the brave
+        None but the brave
+        None but the brave deserves the fair!
+
+      Timotheus placed on high
+    Amid the tuneful quire
+    With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
+    The trembling notes ascend the sky
+    And heavenly joys inspire.
+    The song began from Jove
+    Who left his blissful seats above--
+    Such is the power of mighty love!
+    A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
+    Sublime on radiant spires he rode
+    When he to fair Olympia prest,
+    And while he sought her snowy breast,
+    Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
+    And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
+    --The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
+    A present deity! they shout around:
+    A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:
+    With ravish'd ears
+    The monarch hears,
+    Assumes the god;
+    Affects to nod
+    And seems to shake the spheres.
+
+      The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
+    Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
+    The jolly god in triumph comes;
+    Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
+    Flush'd with a purple grace
+    He shows his honest face:
+    Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
+    Bacchus, ever fair and young,
+    Drinking joys did first ordain;
+    Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
+    Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
+    Rich the treasure,
+    Sweet the pleasure,
+    Sweet is pleasure after pain.
+
+      Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
+    Fought all his battles o'er again,
+    And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
+    The master saw the madness rise,
+    His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
+    And while he Heaven and Earth defied
+    Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
+    He chose a mournful Muse
+    Soft pity to infuse:
+    He sung Darius great and good,
+    By too severe a fate
+    Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
+    Fallen from his high estate,
+    And weltering in his blood;
+    Deserted at his utmost need
+    By those his former bounty fed;
+    On the bare earth exposed he lies
+    With not a friend to close his eyes.
+    --With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
+    Revolving in his alter'd soul
+    The various turns of Chance below;
+    And now and then a sigh he stole,
+    And tears began to flow.
+
+      The mighty master smiled to see
+    That love was in the next degree;
+    'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,
+    For pity melts the mind to love.
+    Softly sweet, in Lydian measures
+    Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
+    War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
+    Honour but an empty bubble;
+    Never ending, still beginning,
+    Fighting still, and still destroying;
+    If the world be worth thy winning,
+    Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
+    Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
+    Take the good the gods provide thee!
+    --The many rend the skies with loud applause
+    So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
+    The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
+    Gazed on the fair
+    Who caused his care,
+    And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
+    Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
+    At length with love and wine at once opprest
+    The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
+
+      Now strike the golden lyre again:
+    A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
+    Break his bands of sleep asunder
+    And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
+    Hark, hark! the horrid sound
+    Has raised up his head:
+    As awaked from the dead
+    And amazed he stares around.
+    Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
+    See the Furies arise!
+    See the snakes that they rear
+    How they hiss in their hair,
+    And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
+    Behold a ghastly band,
+    Each a torch in his hand!
+    Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
+    And unburied remain
+    Inglorious on the plain:
+    Give the vengeance due
+    To the valiant crew!
+    Behold how they toss their torches on high,
+    How they point to the Persian abodes
+    And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
+    --The princes applaud with a furious joy:
+    And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
+    Thais led the way
+    To light him to his prey,
+    And like another Helen, fired another Troy!
+
+      --Thus, long ago,
+    Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
+    While organs yet were mute,
+    Timotheus, to his breathing flute
+    And sounding lyre
+    Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire
+    At last divine Cecilia came,
+    Inventress of the vocal frame;
+    The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store
+    Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
+    And added length to solemn sounds,
+    With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before
+    --Let old Timotheus yield the prize
+    Or both divide the crown;
+    He raised a mortal to the skies;
+    She drew an angel down!
+
+_J. Dryden_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Third
+
+
+CLII
+
+_ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE_
+
+    Now the golden Morn aloft
+      Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
+    With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
+      She woos the tardy Spring:
+    Till April starts, and calls around
+    The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
+    And lightly o'er the living scene
+    Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
+
+    New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
+      Frisking ply their feeble feet;
+    Forgetful of their wintry trance
+      The birds his presence greet:
+    But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
+    His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
+    And lessening from the dazzled sight,
+    Melts into air and liquid light.
+
+    Yesterday the sullen year
+      Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
+    Mute was the music of the air,
+      The herd stood drooping by:
+    Their raptures now that wildly flow
+    No yesterday nor morrow know;
+    'Tis Man alone that joy descries
+    With forward and reverted eyes.
+
+    Smiles on past misfortune's brow
+      Soft reflection's hand can trace,
+    And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
+      A melancholy grace;
+    While hope prolongs our happier hour,
+    Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
+    And blacken round our weary way,
+    Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
+
+    Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
+      See a kindred grief pursue;
+    Behind the steps that misery treads
+      Approaching comfort view:
+    The hues of bliss more brightly glow
+    Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
+    And blended form, with artful strife,
+    The strength and harmony of life.
+
+    See the wretch that long has tost
+      On the thorny bed of pain,
+    At length repair his vigour lost
+      And breathe and walk again:
+    The meanest floweret of the vale,
+    The simplest note that swells the gale,
+    The common sun, the air, the skies,
+    To him are opening Paradise.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLIII
+
+_ODE TO SIMPLICITY_
+
+        O Thou, by Nature taught
+        To breathe her genuine thought
+    In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;
+        Who first, on mountains wild,
+        In Fancy, loveliest child,
+    Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!
+
+        Thou, who with hermit heart,
+        Disdain'st the wealth of art,
+    And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,
+        But com'st, a decent maid
+        In Attic robe array'd,
+    O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!
+
+        By all the honey'd store
+        On Hybla's thymy shore,
+    By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;
+        By her whose love-lorn woe
+        In evening musings slow
+    Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
+
+        By old Cephisus deep,
+        Who spread his wavy sweep
+    In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat;
+        On whose enamell'd side,
+        When holy Freedom died,
+    No equal haunt allured thy future feet:--
+
+        O sister meek of Truth,
+        To my admiring youth
+    Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
+        The flowers that sweetest breathe,
+        Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,
+    Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
+
+        While Rome could none esteem
+        But Virtue's patriot theme,
+    You loved her hills, and led her laureat band;
+        But stay'd to sing alone
+        To one distinguish'd throne;
+    And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.
+
+        No more, in hall or bower,
+        The Passions own thy power;
+    Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:
+        For thou hast left her shrine;
+        Nor olive more, nor vine,
+    Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
+
+        Though taste, though genius, bless
+        To some divine excess,
+    Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;
+        What each, what all supply
+        May court, may charm our eye;
+    Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
+
+        Of these let others ask
+        To aid some mighty task;
+    I only seek to find thy temperate vale;
+        Where oft my reed might sound
+        To maids and shepherds round,
+    And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLIV
+
+_SOLITUDE_
+
+    Happy the man, whose wish and care
+    A few paternal acres bound,
+    Content to breathe his native air
+                      In his own ground.
+
+    Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
+    Whose flocks supply him with attire;
+    Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
+                      In winter fire.
+
+    Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
+    Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
+    In health of body, peace of mind,
+                      Quiet by day,
+
+    Sound sleep by night; study and ease
+    Together mixt, sweet recreation,
+    And innocence, which most does please
+                      With meditation.
+
+    Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
+    Thus unlamented let me die;
+    Steal from the world, and not a stone
+                      Tell where I lie.
+
+_A. Pope_
+
+
+CLV
+
+_THE BLIND BOY_
+
+    O say what is that thing call'd Light,
+      Which I must ne'er enjoy;
+    What are the blessings of the sight,
+      O tell your poor blind boy!
+
+    You talk of wondrous things you see,
+      You say the sun shines bright;
+    I feel him warm, but how can he
+      Or make it day or night?
+
+    My day or night myself I make
+      Whene'er I sleep or play;
+    And could I ever keep awake
+      With me 'twere always day.
+
+    With heavy sighs I often hear
+      You mourn my hapless woe;
+    But sure with patience I can bear
+      A loss I ne'er can know.
+
+    Then let not what I cannot have
+      My cheer of mind destroy:
+    Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
+      Although a poor blind boy.
+
+_C. Cibber_
+
+
+CLVI
+
+_ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES_
+
+    'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
+    Where China's gayest art had dyed
+    The azure flowers that blow,
+    Demurest of the tabby kind
+    The pensive Selima, reclined,
+    Gazed on the lake below.
+
+    Her conscious tail her joy declared:
+    The fair round face, the snowy beard,
+    The velvet of her paws,
+    Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
+    Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes--
+    She saw, and purr'd applause.
+
+    Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide
+    Two angel forms were seen to glide,
+    The Genii of the stream:
+    Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
+    Through richest purple, to the view
+    Betray'd a golden gleam.
+
+    The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:
+    A whisker first, and then a claw
+    With many an ardent wish
+    She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize--
+    What female heart can gold despise?
+    What Cat's averse to fish?
+
+    Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
+    Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
+    Nor knew the gulf between--
+    Malignant Fate sat by and smiled--
+    The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
+    She tumbled headlong in!
+
+    Eight times emerging from the flood
+    She mew'd to every watery God
+    Some speedy aid to send:--
+    No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
+    Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard--
+    A favourite has no friend!
+
+    From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
+    Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
+    And be with caution bold:
+    Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
+    And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
+    Nor all that glisters, gold!
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLVII
+
+_TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY_
+
+    Timely blossom, Infant fair,
+    Fondling of a happy pair,
+    Every morn and every night
+    Their solicitous delight,
+    Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
+    Pleasing, without skill to please;
+    Little gossip, blithe and hale,
+    Tattling many a broken tale,
+    Singing many a tuneless song,
+    Lavish of a heedless tongue;
+    Simple maiden, void of art,
+    Babbling out the very heart,
+    Yet abandon'd to thy will,
+    Yet imagining no ill,
+    Yet too innocent to blush;
+    Like the linnet in the bush
+    To the mother-linnet's note
+    Moduling her slender throat;
+    Chirping forth thy petty joys,
+    Wanton in the change of toys,
+    Like the linnet green, in May
+    Flitting to each bloomy spray;
+    Wearied then and glad of rest,
+    Like the linnet in the nest:--
+    This thy present happy lot
+    This, in time will be forgot:
+    Other pleasures, other cares,
+    Ever-busy Time prepares;
+  And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
+  This picture, once, resembled thee.
+
+_A. Philips_
+
+
+CLVIII
+
+_RULE BRITANNIA_
+
+      When Britain first at Heaven's command
+        Arose from out the azure main,
+      This was the charter of her land,
+        And guardian angels sung the strain:
+    Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
+          Britons never shall be slaves.
+
+      The nations not so blest as thee
+        Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
+      Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free
+        The dread and envy of them all.
+
+      Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
+        More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
+      As the loud blast that tears the skies
+        Serves but to root thy native oak.
+
+      Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
+        All their attempts to bend thee down
+      Will but arouse thy generous flame,
+        And work their woe and thy renown.
+
+      To thee belongs the rural reign;
+        Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
+      All thine shall be the subject main,
+        And every shore it circles thine!
+
+      The Muses, still with Freedom found,
+        Shall to thy happy coast repair;
+      Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd
+        And manly hearts to guard the fair:--
+    Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
+          Britons never shall be slaves!
+
+_J. Thomson_
+
+
+CLIX
+
+_THE BARD_
+
+_Pindaric Ode_
+
+        'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+      Confusion on thy banners wait;
+    Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
+      They mock the air with idle state.
+    Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
+    Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
+    To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
+    From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'
+    --Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
+      Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
+    As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
+      He wound with toilsome march his long array:--
+    Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;
+      'To arms!', cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.
+
+      On a rock, whose haughty brow
+    Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
+      Robed in the sable garb of woe
+    With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
+    (Loose his beard and hoary hair
+    Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)
+    And with a master's hand and prophet's fire
+    Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:
+      'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave
+    Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
+    O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
+      Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
+    Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
+    To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
+
+      'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
+      That hush'd the stormy main:
+    Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
+      Mountains, ye mourn in vain
+      Modred, whose magic song
+    Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
+      On dreary Arvon's shore they lie
+    Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:
+    Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
+      The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
+    Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
+      Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
+    Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
+      Ye died amidst your dying country's cries--
+    No more I weep; They do not sleep;
+      On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
+    I see them sit; They linger yet,
+      Avengers of their native land:
+    With me in dreadful harmony they join,
+    And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
+
+    _Weave the warp and weave the woof
+      The winding sheet of Edward's race:
+    Give ample room and verge enough
+      The characters of hell to trace.
+    Mark the year, and mark the night,
+    When Severn shall re-echo with affright
+    The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
+    Shrieks of an agonizing king!
+      She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
+    That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
+      From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
+    The scourge of heaven! What terrors round him wait!
+    Amazement in his van, with flight combined,
+    And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind._
+
+    _'Mighty victor, mighty lord,
+      Low on his funeral couch he lies!
+    No pitying heart, no eye, afford
+      A tear to grace his obsequies.
+    Is the sable warrior fled?
+    Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
+    The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
+    --Gone to salute the rising morn.
+    Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
+      While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
+    In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes:
+      Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:
+    Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
+    That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey._
+
+      _'Fill high the sparkling bowl,
+    The rich repast prepare;
+      Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
+    Close by the regal chair
+      Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
+      A baleful smile upon their baffled guest,
+    Heard ye the din of battle bray,
+      Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
+      Long years of havock urge their destined course,
+    And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
+      Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
+    With many afoul and midnight murder fed,
+      Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
+    And spare the meek usurpers holy head!
+    Above, below, the rose of snow,
+      Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
+    The bristled boar in infant-gore
+      Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
+    Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom,
+    Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom._
+
+    _'Edward, lo! to sudden fate
+      (Weave we the woof; The thread is spun;)
+    Half of thy heart we consecrate.
+      (The web is wove; The work is done.)_
+    --Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
+    Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
+    In yon bright track that fires the western skies
+    They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
+    But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
+      Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
+    Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
+    Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
+    No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:--
+    All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!
+
+      'Girt with many a baron bold
+    Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
+      And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
+    In bearded majesty, appear.
+    In the midst a form divine!
+    Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line:
+    Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face
+    Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
+    What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
+      What strains of vocal transport round her play?
+    Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
+      They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
+    Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
+    Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings.
+
+    'The verse adorn again
+      Fierce war, and faithful love,
+    And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
+      In buskin'd measures move
+    Pale grief, and pleasing pain,
+    With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
+    A voice as of the cherub-choir
+      Gales from blooming Eden bear,
+      And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
+    That lost in long futurity expire.
+    Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud
+      Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
+    To-morrow he repairs the golden flood
+      And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
+    Enough for me: with joy I see
+      The different doom our fates assign:
+    Be thine despair and sceptred care,
+      To triumph and to die are mine,'
+    --He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
+    Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLX
+
+_ODE WRITTEN IN 1746_
+
+    How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
+    By all their country's wishes blest!
+    When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
+    Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
+    She there shall dress a sweeter sod
+    Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
+
+    By fairy hands their knell is rung,
+    By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
+    There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
+    To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
+    And Freedom shall awhile repair
+    To dwell a weeping hermit there!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXI
+
+_LAMENT FOR CULLODEN_
+
+    The lovely lass o' Inverness,
+    Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
+    For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
+    And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
+    Drumossie moor--Drumossie day--
+    A waefu' day it was to me!
+    For there I lost my father dear,
+    My father dear, and brethren three.
+
+    Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
+    Their graves are growing green to see:
+    And by them lies the dearest lad
+    That ever blest a woman's ee!
+    Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
+    A bluidy man I trow thou be;
+    For mony a heart thou hast made sair
+    That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXII
+
+_LAMENT FOR FLODDEN_
+
+    I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
+      Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
+    But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+    At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
+      Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
+    Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
+      Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
+
+    In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
+      Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
+    At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+    At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
+      'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
+    But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.
+
+    Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
+      The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
+    The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
+      The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.
+
+    We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
+      Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
+    Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+_J. Elliott_
+
+
+CLXIII
+
+_THE BRAES OF YARROW_
+
+    Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
+    When first on them I met my lover;
+    Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
+    When now thy waves his body cover!
+    For ever now, O Yarrow stream!
+    Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
+    For never on thy banks shall I
+    Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!
+
+    He promised me a milk-white steed
+    To bear me to his father's bowers;
+    He promised me a little page
+    To squire me to his father's towers;
+    He promised me a wedding-ring,--
+    The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;--
+    Now he is wedded to his grave,
+    Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!
+
+    Sweet were his words when last we met;
+    My passion I as freely told him;
+    Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
+    That I should never more behold him!
+    Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
+    It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
+    Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
+    And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.
+
+    His mother from the window look'd
+    With all the longing of a mother;
+    His little sister weeping walk'd
+    The greenwood path to meet her brother;
+    They sought him east, they sought him west,
+    They sought him all the forest thorough;
+    They only saw the cloud of night,
+    They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
+
+    No longer from thy window look--
+    Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
+    No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
+    Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
+    No longer seek him east or west
+    And search no more the forest thorough;
+    For, wandering in the night so dark,
+    He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
+
+    The tear shall never leave my cheek,
+    No other youth shall be my marrow--
+    I'll seek thy body in the stream,
+    And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
+    --The tear did never leave her cheek,
+    No other youth became her marrow;
+    She found his body in the stream,
+    And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
+
+_J. Logan_
+
+
+CLXIV
+
+_WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW_
+
+    Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+      Where bonnie grows the lily,
+    I heard a fair maid sighing say,
+      'My wish be wi' sweet Willie!
+
+    'Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
+      And Willie's wondrous bonny;
+    And Willie hecht to marry me
+      Gin e'er he married ony.
+
+    'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
+      From where my Love repaireth,
+    Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth
+      And tell me how he fareth!
+
+    'O tell sweet Willie to come doun
+      And hear the mavis singing,
+    And see the birds on ilka bush
+      And leaves around them hinging.
+
+    'The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
+      And gentle throat sae narrow;
+    There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
+      On Leader haughs and Yarrow.
+
+    'O Leader haughs are wide and braid
+      And Yarrow haughs are bonny;
+    There Willie hecht to marry me
+      If e'er he married ony.
+
+    'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
+      And does not hear me weeping;
+    Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
+      When other maids are sleeping.
+
+    'Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
+      The night I'll mak' it narrow,
+    For a' the live-lang winter night
+      I lie twined o' my marrow.
+
+    'O came ye by yon water-side?
+      Pou'd you the rose or lily?
+    Or came you by yon meadow green,
+      Or saw you my sweet Willie?'
+
+    She sought him up, she sought him down,
+      She sought him braid and narrow;
+    Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,
+      She found him drown'd in Yarrow!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CLXV
+
+_LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE_
+
+    Toll for the Brave!
+    The brave that are no more!
+    All sunk beneath the wave
+    Fast by their native shore!
+
+    Eight hundred of the brave
+    Whose courage well was tried,
+    Had made the vessel heel
+    And laid her on her side.
+
+    A land-breeze shook the shrouds
+    And she was overset;
+    Down went the Royal George,
+    With all her crew complete.
+
+    Toll for the brave!
+    Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
+    His last sea-fight is fought,
+    His work of glory done.
+
+    It was not in the battle;
+    No tempest gave the shock;
+    She sprang no fatal leak,
+    She ran upon no rock.
+
+    His sword was in its sheath,
+    His fingers held the pen,
+    When Kempenfelt went down
+    With twice four hundred men.
+
+    --Weigh the vessel up
+    Once dreaded by our foes!
+    And mingle with our cup
+    The tears that England owes.
+
+    Her timbers yet are sound,
+    And she may float again
+    Full charged with England's thunder,
+    And plough the distant main:
+
+    But Kempenfelt is gone,
+    His victories are o'er;
+    And he and his eight hundred
+    Shall plough the wave no more.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXVI
+
+_BLACK-EYED SUSAN_
+
+    All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
+      The streamers waving in the wind,
+    When black-eyed Susan came aboard;
+      'O! where shall I my true-love find?
+    Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true
+    If my sweet William sails among the crew.'
+
+    William, who high upon the yard
+      Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
+    Soon as her well-known voice he heard
+      He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:
+    The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
+    And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.
+
+    So the sweet lark, high poised in air,
+      Shuts close his pinions to his breast
+    If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,
+      And drops at once into her nest:--
+    The noblest captain in the British fleet
+    Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.
+
+    'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
+      My vows shall ever true remain;
+    Let me kiss off that falling tear;
+      We only part to meet again.
+    Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
+    The faithful compass that still points to thee.
+
+    'Believe not what the landmen say
+      Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:
+    They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
+      In every port a mistress find:
+    Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
+    For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
+
+    'If to fair India's coast we sail,
+      Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
+    Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
+      Thy skin is ivory so white.
+    Thus every beauteous object that I view
+    Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
+
+    'Though battle call me from thy arms
+      Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
+    Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms
+      William shall to his Dear return.
+    Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
+    Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
+
+    The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
+      The sails their swelling bosom spread
+    No longer must she stay aboard;
+      They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.
+    Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;
+    'Adieu!' she cries; and waved her lily hand.
+
+_J. Gay_
+
+
+CLXVII
+
+_SALLY IN OUR ALLEY_
+
+    Of all the girls that are so smart
+      There's none like pretty Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+    There is no lady in the land
+      Is half so sweet as Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    Her father he makes cabbage-nets
+      And through the streets does cry 'em;
+    Her mother she sells laces long
+      To such as please to buy 'em:
+    But sure such folks could ne'er beget
+      So sweet a girl as Sally!
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    When she is by, I leave my work,
+      I love her so sincerely;
+    My master comes like any Turk,
+      And bangs me most severely--
+    But let him bang his bellyful,
+      I'll bear it all for Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    Of all the days that's in the week
+      I dearly love but one day--
+    And that's the day that comes betwixt
+      A Saturday and Monday;
+    For then I'm drest all in my best
+      To walk abroad with Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    My master carries me to church,
+      And often am I blamed
+    Because I leave him in the lurch
+      As soon as text is named;
+    I leave the church in sermon-time
+      And slink away to Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    When Christmas comes about again
+      O then I shall have money;
+    I'll hoard it up, and box it all,
+      I'll give it to my honey:
+    I would it were ten thousand pound,
+      I'd give it all to Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    My master and the neighbours all
+      Make game of me and Sally,
+    And, but for her, I'd better be
+      A slave and row a galley;
+    But when my seven long years are out
+      O then I'll marry Sally,--
+    O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed...
+      But not in our alley!
+
+_H. Carey_
+
+
+CLXVIII
+
+_A FAREWELL_
+
+    Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
+      An' fill it in a silver tassie;
+    That I may drink before I go
+      A service to my bonnie lassie:
+    The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
+      Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
+    The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
+      And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
+
+    The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
+      The glittering spears are rankéd ready;
+    The shouts o' war are heard afar,
+      The battle closes thick and bloody;
+    But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
+      Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
+    Nor shout o' war that's heard afar--
+      It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXIX
+
+    If doughty deeds my lady please
+      Right soon I'll mount my steed;
+    And strong his arm, and fast his seat
+      That bears frae me the meed.
+    I'll wear thy colours in my cap
+      Thy picture at my heart;
+    And he that bends not to thine eye
+      Shall rue it to his smart!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+    If gay attire delight thine eye
+      I'll dight me in array;
+    I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
+      And squire thee all the day.
+    If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
+      These sounds I'll strive to catch;
+    Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
+      That voice that nane can match.
+
+    But if fond love thy heart can gain,
+      I never broke a vow;
+    Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
+      I never loved but you.
+    For you alone I ride the ring,
+      For you I wear the blue;
+    For you alone I strive to sing,
+      O tell me how to woo!
+
+    Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+      O tell me how to woo thee!
+    For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
+      Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+_R. Graham of Gartmore_
+
+
+CLXX
+
+_TO A YOUNG LADY_
+
+    Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,
+    Apt emblem of a virtuous maid--
+    Silent and chaste she steals along,
+    Far from the world's gay busy throng:
+    With gentle yet prevailing force,
+    Intent upon her destined course;
+    Graceful and useful all she does,
+    Blessing and blest where'er she goes;
+    Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,
+    And Heaven reflected in her face.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXXI
+
+_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY_
+
+    Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile--
+    Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
+    Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
+    And move, and breathe delicious sighs!
+
+    Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
+    And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
+    Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
+    What most I wish--and fear to know!
+
+    She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
+    Her fair hands folded on her breast:
+    --And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
+    A seraph in the realms of rest!
+
+    Sleep on secure! Above controul
+    Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
+    And may the secret of thy soul
+    Remain within its sanctuary!
+
+_S. Rogers_
+
+
+CLXXII
+
+    For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+    An unrelenting foe to Love,
+    And when we meet a mutual heart
+    Come in between, and bid us part?
+
+    Bid us sigh on from day to day,
+    And wish and wish the soul away;
+    Till youth and genial years are flown,
+    And all the life of life is gone?
+
+    But busy, busy, still art thou,
+    To bind the loveless joyless vow,
+    The heart from pleasure to delude,
+    To join the gentle to the rude.
+
+    For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
+    And I absolve thy future care;
+    All other blessings I resign,
+    Make but the dear Amanda mine.
+
+_J. Thomson_
+
+
+CLXXIII
+
+    The merchant, to secure his treasure,
+    Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
+    Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
+    But Cloe is my real flame.
+
+    My softest verse, my darling lyre
+    Upon Euphelia's toilet lay--
+    When Cloe noted her desire
+    That I should sing, that I should play.
+
+    My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
+    But with my numbers mix my sighs;
+    And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
+    I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
+
+    Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
+    I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:
+    And Venus to the Loves around
+    Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.
+
+_M. Prior_
+
+
+CLXXIV
+
+_LOVE'S SECRET_
+
+    Never seek to tell thy love,
+      Love that never told can be;
+    For the gentle wind doth move
+      Silently, invisibly.
+
+    I told my love, I told my love,
+      I told her all my heart,
+    Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears:--
+      Ah! she did depart.
+
+    Soon after she was gone from me
+      A traveller came by,
+    Silently, invisibly:
+      He took her with a sigh.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXV
+
+    When lovely woman stoops to folly
+    And finds too late that men betray,--
+    What charm can soothe her melancholy,
+    What art can wash her guilt away?
+
+    The only art her guilt to cover,
+    To hide her shame from every eye,
+    To give repentance to her lover
+    And wring his bosom, is--to die.
+
+_O. Goldsmith_
+
+
+CLXXVI
+
+    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+      How can ye blume sae fair!
+    How can ye chant, ye little birds,
+      And I sae fu' o' care!
+
+    Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+      That sings upon the bough;
+    Thou minds me o' the happy days
+      When my fause Luve was true.
+
+    Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+      That sings beside thy mate;
+    For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
+      And wist na o' my fate.
+
+    Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
+      To see the woodbine twine,
+    And ilka bird sang o' its love;
+      And sae did I o' mine.
+
+    Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
+      Frae aff its thorny tree;
+    And my fause luver staw the rose,
+      But left the thorn wi' me.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXVII
+
+_THE PROGRESS OF POESY_
+
+_A Pindaric Ode_
+
+      Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
+    And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
+    From Helicon's harmonious springs
+        A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
+    The laughing flowers that round them blow
+    Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
+    Now the rich stream of music winds along
+    Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
+    Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
+    Now rolling down the steep amain
+    Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
+    The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.
+
+      Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,
+    Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
+    Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
+      And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul
+    On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
+    Has curb'd the fury of his car
+    And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
+    Perching on the sceptred hand
+    Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
+    With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
+    Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
+    The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
+
+    Thee the voice, the dance, obey
+    Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
+    O'er Idalia's velvet-green
+    The rosy-crownéd Loves are seen
+    On Cytherea's day;
+    With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
+    Frisking light in frolic measures;
+    Now pursuing, now retreating,
+      Now in circling troops they meet:
+    To brisk notes in cadence beating
+      Glance their many-twinkling feet.
+    Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
+      Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay:
+    With arms sublime that float upon the air
+      In gliding state she wins her easy way:
+    O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
+    The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
+
+      Man's feeble race what ills await!
+    Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
+    Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
+      And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!
+    The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
+    And justify the laws of Jove.
+    Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
+    Night, and all her sickly dews,
+    Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry
+    He gives to range the dreary sky:
+    Till down the eastern cliffs afar
+    Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.
+
+      In climes beyond the solar road
+    Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
+    The Muse has broke the twilight gloom
+      To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.
+    And oft, beneath the odorous shade
+    Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
+    She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat
+    In loose numbers wildly sweet
+    Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
+    Her track, where'er the goddess roves,
+    Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
+    Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
+
+    Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
+    Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
+    Fields that cool Ilissus laves,
+    Or where Maeander's amber waves
+    In lingering labyrinths creep,
+    How do your tuneful echoes languish,
+    Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
+    Where each old poetic mountain
+      Inspiration breathed around;
+    Every shade and hallow'd fountain
+      Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
+    Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour
+      Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
+    Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
+      And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
+    When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
+    They sought, oh Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
+
+      Far from the sun and summer-gale
+    In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
+    What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
+      To him the mighty Mother did unveil
+    Her awful face: the dauntless child
+    Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
+    'This pencil take' (she said), 'whose colours clear
+    Richly paint the vernal year:
+    Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
+    This can unlock the gates of joy;
+    Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
+    Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'
+
+      Nor second He, that rode sublime
+    Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy
+    The secrets of the abyss to spy:
+      He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
+    The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze
+    Where angels tremble while they gaze,
+    He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
+    Closed his eyes in endless night.
+    Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
+    Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
+    Two coursers of ethereal race,
+    With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
+
+    Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
+    Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
+    Scatters from her pictured urn
+    Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
+    But ah! 'tis heard no more--
+    Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
+    Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit
+    Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
+      That the Theban eagle bear,
+    Sailing with supreme dominion
+      Thro' the azure deep of air:
+    Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
+      Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
+    With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:
+      Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
+    Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:
+    Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXVIII
+
+_THE PASSIONS_
+
+_An Ode for Music_
+
+    When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
+    While yet in early Greece she sung,
+    The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
+    Throng'd around her magic cell
+    Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
+    Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
+    By turns they felt the glowing mind
+    Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
+    'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
+    Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
+    From the supporting myrtles round
+    They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
+    And, as they oft had heard apart
+    Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
+    Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
+    Would prove his own expressive power.
+
+    First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
+      Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
+    And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
+      E'en at the sound himself had made.
+
+    Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
+      In lightnings, own'd his secret stings;
+    In one rude clash he struck the lyre
+      And swept with hurried hand the strings.
+
+    With woeful measures wan Despair,
+      Low sullen sounds, his grief beguiled;
+    A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
+      'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
+
+    But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
+      What was thy delighted measure?
+    Still it whisper'd promised pleasure
+      And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
+    Still would her touch the strain prolong;
+      And from the rocks, the woods, the vale
+    She call'd on Echo still through all the song;
+      And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
+      A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
+    And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;--
+
+    And longer had she sung:--but with a frown
+        Revenge impatient rose:
+    He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
+        And with a withering look
+      The war-denouncing trumpet took
+    And blew a blast so loud and dread,
+    Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
+        And ever and anon he beat
+        The doubling drum with furious heat;
+    And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
+        Dejected Pity at his side
+        Her soul-subduing voice applied,
+      Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
+    While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
+
+    Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:
+      Sad proof of thy distressful state!
+    Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;
+      And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
+
+    With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
+    Pale Melancholy sat retired;
+    And from her wild sequester'd seat,
+    In notes by distance made more sweet,
+    Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
+        And dashing soft from rocks around
+        Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
+    Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
+      Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
+        Round an holy calm diffusing,
+        Love of peace, and lonely musing,
+      In hollow murmurs died away.
+
+    But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone
+    When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
+      Her bow across her shoulder flung,
+      Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
+    Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
+      The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
+    The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,
+      Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen
+      Peeping from forth their alleys green:
+    Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
+      And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.
+
+    Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
+    He, with viny crown advancing,
+      First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:
+    But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol
+      Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:
+    They would have thought who heard the strain
+        They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids
+        Amidst the festal-sounding shades
+    To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
+    While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
+      Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
+      Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
+      And he, amidst his frolic play,
+      As if he would the charming air repay,
+    Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
+
+    O Music! sphere-descended maid,
+    Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
+    Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
+    Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
+    As in that loved Athenian bower
+    You learn'd an all-commanding power,
+    Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
+    Can well recall what then it heard.
+    Where is thy native simple heart
+    Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
+    Arise, as in that elder time,
+    Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
+    Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
+    Fill thy recording Sister's page;--
+    'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
+    Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
+    Had more of strength, diviner rage,
+    Than all which charms this laggard age:
+    E'en all at once together found,
+    Cecilia's mingled world of sound:--
+    O bid our vain endeavours cease:
+    Revive the just designs of Greece:
+    Return in all thy simple state!
+    Confirm the tales her sons relate!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXXIX
+
+_THE SONG OF DAVID_
+
+    He sang of God, the mighty source
+    Of all things, the stupendous force
+      On which all strength depends:
+    From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,
+    All period, power, and enterprise
+      Commences, reigns, and ends.
+
+    The world, the clustering spheres He made,
+    The glorious light, the soothing shade,
+      Dale, champaign, grove and hill:
+    The multitudinous abyss,
+    Where secrecy remains in bliss,
+      And wisdom hides her skill.
+
+    Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said
+    To Moses: while Earth heard in dread,
+      And, smitten to the heart,
+    At once, above, beneath, around,
+    All Nature, without voice or sound,
+      Replied, 'O Lord, THOU ART.'
+
+_C. Smart_
+
+
+CLXXX
+
+_INFANT JOY_
+
+    'I have no name;
+    I am but two days old.'
+    --What shall I call thee?
+    'I happy am;
+    Joy is my name.'
+    --Sweet joy befall thee!
+
+    Pretty joy!
+    Sweet joy, but two days old;
+    Sweet joy I call thee:
+    Thou dost smile:
+    I sing the while,
+    Sweet joy befall thee!
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXXI
+
+_A CRADLE SONG_
+
+    Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
+    Dreaming in the joys of night;
+    Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
+    Little sorrows sit and weep.
+
+    Sweet babe, in thy face
+    Soft desires I can trace,
+    Secret joys and secret smiles,
+    Little pretty infant wiles.
+
+    As thy softest limbs I feel,
+    Smiles as of the morning steal
+    O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
+    Where thy little heart doth rest.
+
+    Oh the cunning wiles that creep
+    In thy little heart asleep!
+    When thy little heart doth wake,
+    Then the dreadful light shall break.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXXII
+
+_ODE ON THE SPRING_
+
+    Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
+      Fair Venus' train, appear,
+    Disclose the long-expecting flowers
+      And wake the purple year!
+    The Attic warbler pours her throat
+    Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
+    The untaught harmony of Spring:
+    While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
+    Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
+      Their gather'd fragrance fling.
+
+    Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
+      A broader, browner shade,
+    Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
+      O'er-canopies the glade,
+    Beside some water's rushy brink
+    With me the Muse shall sit, and think
+    (At ease reclined in rustic state)
+    How vain the ardour of the crowd,
+    How low, how little are the proud,
+      How indigent the great!
+
+    Still is the toiling hand of Care;
+      The panting herds repose:
+    Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
+      The busy murmur glows!
+    The insect-youth are on the wing,
+    Eager to taste the honied spring
+    And float amid the liquid noon:
+    Some lightly o'er the current skim,
+    Some show their gaily-gilded trim
+      Quick-glancing to the sun.
+
+    To Contemplation's sober eye
+      Such is the race of Man:
+    And they that creep, and they that
+      Shall end where they began.
+    Alike the Busy and the Gay
+    But flutter thro' life's little day,
+    In Fortune's varying colours drest:
+    Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
+    Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
+      They leave, in dust to rest.
+
+    Methinks I hear in accents low
+      The sportive kind reply:
+    Poor moralist! and what art thou?
+      A solitary fly!
+    Thy joys no glittering female meets,
+    No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
+    No painted plumage to display:
+    On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
+    Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone--
+      We frolic while 'tis May.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXXIII
+
+_THE POPLAR FIELD_
+
+    The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade
+    And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
+    The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
+    Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
+
+    Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
+    Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:
+    And now in the grass behold they are laid,
+    And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!
+
+    The blackbird has fled to another retreat
+    Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
+    And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
+    Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
+
+    My fugitive years are all hasting away,
+    And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
+    With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
+    Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
+
+    The change both my heart and my fancy employs;
+    I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys:
+    Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
+    Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXXXIV
+
+_TO A MOUSE_
+
+_On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785_
+
+    Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
+    O what a panic's in thy breastie!
+    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
+    Wi' bickering brattle!
+    I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
+    Wi' murd'ring pattle!
+
+    I'm truly sorry man's dominion
+    Has broken Nature's social union,
+    An' justifies that ill opinion
+    Which makes thee startle
+    At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
+    An' fellow-mortal!
+
+    I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
+    What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
+    A daimen-icker in a thrave
+    'S a sma' request:
+    I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,
+    And never miss't!
+
+    Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
+    Its silly wa's the win's are strewin:
+    And naething, now, to big a new ane,
+    O' foggage green!
+    An' bleak December's winds ensuin'
+    Baith snell an' keen!
+
+    Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste
+    An' weary winter comin' fast,
+    An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
+    Thou thought to dwell,
+    Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
+    Out thro' thy cell.
+
+    That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
+    Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
+    Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
+    But house or hald,
+    To thole the winter's sleety dribble
+    An' cranreuch cauld!
+
+    But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
+    In proving foresight may be vain:
+    The best laid schemes o mice an' men
+    Gang aft a-gley,
+    An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
+    For promised joy.
+
+    Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
+    The present only toucheth thee:
+    But, Och! I backward cast my e'e
+    On prospects drear!
+    An' forward, tho' I canna see,
+    I guess an' fear!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXXV
+
+_A WISH_
+
+    Mine be a cot beside the hill;
+    A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
+    A willowy brook that turns a mill,
+    With many a fall shall linger near.
+
+    The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
+    Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
+    Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
+    And share my meal, a welcome guest.
+
+    Around my ivied porch shall spring
+    Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
+    And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
+    In russet-gown and apron blue.
+
+    The village-church among the trees,
+    Where first our marriage-vows were given,
+    With merry peals shall swell the breeze
+    And point with taper spire to Heaven.
+
+_S. Rogers_
+
+
+CLXXXVI
+
+_ODE TO EVENING_
+
+    If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
+    May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear
+        Like thy own solemn springs,
+        Thy springs, and dying gales;
+
+    O Nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun
+    Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
+        With brede ethereal wove,
+        O'erhang his wavy bed;
+
+    Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
+    With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
+        Or where the beetle winds
+        His small but sullen horn,
+
+    As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
+    Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,--
+        Now teach me, maid composed,
+        To breathe some soften'd strain
+
+    Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
+    May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
+        As, musing slow, I hail
+        Thy genial loved return.
+
+    For when thy folding-star arising shows
+    His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
+        The fragrant Hours, and Elves
+        Who slept in buds the day,
+
+    And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge
+    And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
+        The pensive Pleasures sweet,
+        Prepare thy shadowy car.
+
+    Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
+    Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
+        Whose walls more awful nod
+        By thy religious gleams.
+
+    Or, if chill blustering winds or driving rain
+    Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
+        That, from the mountain's side,
+        Views wilds, and swelling floods,
+
+    And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
+    And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
+        Thy dewy fingers draw
+        The gradual dusky veil.
+
+    While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
+    And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
+        While Summer loves to sport
+        Beneath thy lingering light;
+
+    While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
+    Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
+        Affrights thy shrinking train
+        And rudely rends thy robes;
+
+    So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
+    Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
+        Thy gentlest influence own,
+        And love thy favourite name!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXXXVII
+
+_ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD_
+
+    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
+    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
+    The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
+    And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
+
+    Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
+    And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
+    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
+    And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
+
+    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
+    The moping owl does to the moon complain
+    Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
+    Molest her ancient solitary reign.
+
+    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade
+    Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
+    Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
+    The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
+
+    The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
+    The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
+    The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
+    No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
+
+    For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn
+    Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
+    No children run to lisp their sire's return,
+    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
+
+    Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
+    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
+    How jocund did they drive their team afield!
+    How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
+
+    Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
+    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
+    Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
+    The short and simple annals of the poor.
+
+    The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
+    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
+    Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:--
+    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
+
+    Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
+    If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
+    Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
+    The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
+
+    Can storied urn or animated bust
+    Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
+    Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
+    Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
+
+    Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
+    Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
+    Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
+    Or waked to extasy the living lyre:
+
+    But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
+    Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
+    Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
+    And froze the genial current of the soul.
+
+    Full many a gem of purest ray serene
+    The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
+    Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
+    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
+
+    Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
+    The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
+    Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
+    Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
+
+    Th' applause of listening senates to command,
+    The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
+    To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
+    And read their history in a nation's eyes
+
+    Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
+    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
+    Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,
+    And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
+
+    The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
+    To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
+    Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
+    With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
+
+    Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
+    Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
+    Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
+    They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
+
+    Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
+    Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
+    With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
+    Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
+
+    Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
+    The place of fame and elegy supply:
+    And many a holy text around she strews,
+    That teach the rustic moralist to die.
+
+    For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
+    This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
+    Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
+    Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
+
+    On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
+    Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
+    E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
+    E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
+
+    For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
+    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
+    If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
+    Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,--
+
+    Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
+    'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
+    Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
+    To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
+
+    'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
+    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
+    His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
+    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
+
+    'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
+    Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
+    Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
+    Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
+
+    'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
+    Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
+    Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
+    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
+
+    'The next with dirges due in sad array
+    Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,--
+    Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
+    Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
+
+THE EPITAPH
+
+    Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
+    A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
+    Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth
+    And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
+
+    Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
+    Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
+    He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,
+    He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
+
+    No farther seek his merits to disclose,
+    Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
+    (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
+    The bosom of his Father and his God.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXXVIII
+
+_MARY MORISON_
+
+    O Mary, at thy window be,
+    It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
+    Those smiles and glances let me see
+    That make the miser's treasure poor:
+    How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
+    A weary slave frae sun to sun,
+    Could I the rich reward secure,
+    The lovely Mary Morison.
+
+    Yestreen when to the trembling string
+    The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
+    To thee my fancy took its wing,--
+    I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
+    Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
+    And yon the toast of a' the town,
+    I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
+    'Ye are na Mary Morison.'
+
+    O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
+    Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
+    Or canst thou break that heart of his,
+    Whase only faut is loving thee?
+    If love for love thou wilt na gie,
+    At least be pity to me shown;
+    A thought ungentle canna be
+    The thought o' Mary Morison.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXXIX
+
+_BONNIE LESLEY_
+
+    O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+      As she gaed o'er the border?
+    She's gane, like Alexander,
+      To spread her conquests farther.
+
+    To see her is to love her,
+      And love but her for ever;
+    For Nature made her what she is,
+      And ne'er made sic anither!
+
+    Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,
+      Thy subjects we, before thee;
+    Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,
+      The hearts o' men adore thee.
+
+    The Deil he could na scaith thee,
+      Or aught that wad belang thee;
+    He'd look into thy bonnie face,
+      And say 'I canna wrang thee!'
+
+    The Powers aboon will tent thee;
+      Misfortune sha' na steer thee;
+    Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely
+      That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
+
+    Return again, Fair Lesley,
+      Return to Caledonie!
+    That we may brag we hae a lass
+      There's nane again sae bonnie.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXC
+
+    O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+      That's newly sprung in June:
+    O my Luve's like the melodie
+      That's sweetly play'd in tune.
+
+    As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
+      So deep in luve am I:
+    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
+      Till a' the seas gang dry:
+
+    Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
+      And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
+    I will luve thee still, my dear,
+      While the sands o' life shall run.
+
+    And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
+      And fare thee weel awhile!
+    And I will come again, my Luve,
+      Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCI
+
+_HIGHLAND MARY_
+
+    Ye banks and braes and streams around
+      The castle o' Montgomery,
+    Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
+      Your waters never drumlie!
+    There simmer first unfauld her robes,
+      And there the langest tarry;
+    For there I took the last fareweel
+      O' my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+    How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
+      How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
+    As underneath their fragrant shade
+      I clasp'd her to my bosom!
+    The golden hours on angel wings
+      Flew o'er me and my dearie;
+    For dear to me as light and life
+      Was my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+    Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace
+      Our parting was fu' tender;
+    And pledging aft to meet again,
+      We tore oursels asunder;
+    But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
+      That nipt my flower sae early!
+    Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
+      That wraps my Highland Mary!
+
+    O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
+      I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
+    And closed for aye the sparkling glance
+      That dwelt on me sae kindly;
+    And mouldering now in silent dust
+      That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
+    But still within my bosom's core
+      Shall live my Highland Mary.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCII
+
+_AULD ROBIN GRAY_
+
+    When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a hame,
+    And a' the warld to rest are gane,
+    The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
+    While my gudeman lies sound by me.
+
+    Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
+    But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
+    To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
+    And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
+
+    He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
+    When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
+    My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--
+    And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
+
+    My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
+    I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
+    Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
+    Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!
+
+    My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
+    But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
+    His ship it was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee?
+    Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
+
+    My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
+    But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:
+    They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
+    Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
+
+    I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
+    When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
+    I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he
+    Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.
+
+    O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
+    We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
+    I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
+    And why was I born to say, Wae's me!
+
+    I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
+    I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
+    But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
+    For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
+
+_Lady A. Lindsay._
+
+
+CXCIII
+
+_DUNCAN GRAY_
+
+    Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
+    On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't:
+    Maggie coost her head fu' high,
+    Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
+    Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+    Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
+    Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
+    Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
+    Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
+    Spak o' lowpin ower a linn!
+
+    Time and chance are but a tide,
+    Slighted love is sair to bide;
+    Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
+    For a haughty hizzie dee?
+    She may gae to--France for me!
+
+    How it comes let doctors tell,
+    Meg grew sick--as he grew well;
+    Something in her bosom wrings,
+    For relief a sigh she brings;
+    And O, her een, they spak sic things!
+
+    Duncan was a lad o' grace;
+    Maggie's was a piteous case;
+    Duncan couldna be her death,
+    Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
+    Now they're crouse and canty baith:
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCIV
+
+_THE SAILOR'S WIFE_
+
+    And are ye sure the news is true?
+      And are ye sure he's weel?
+    Is this a time to think o' wark?
+      Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
+    Is this the time to spin a thread,
+      When Colin's at the door?
+    Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
+      And see him come ashore.
+    For there's nae luck about the house,
+      There's nae luck at a';
+    There's little pleasure in the house
+      When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+    And gie to me my bigonet,
+      My bishop's satin gown;
+    For I maun tell the baillie's wife
+      That Colin's in the town.
+    My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
+      My stockins pearly blue;
+    It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
+      For he's baith leal and true.
+
+    Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
+      Put on the muckle pot;
+    Gie little Kate her button gown
+      And Jock his Sunday coat;
+    And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
+      Their hose as white as snaw;
+    It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
+      For he's been long awa.
+
+    There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
+      Been fed this month and mair;
+    Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
+      That Colin weel may fare;
+    And spread the table neat and clean,
+      Gar ilka thing look braw,
+    For wha can tell how Colin fared
+      When he was far awa?
+
+    Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
+      His breath like caller air;
+    His very foot has music in't
+      As he comes up the stair--
+    And will I see his face again?
+      And will I hear him speak?
+    I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+      In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+    If Colin's weel, and weel content,
+      I hae nae mair to crave:
+    And gin I live to keep him sae,
+      I'm blest aboon the lave:
+    And will I see his face again,
+      And will I hear him speak?
+    I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+      In troth I'm like to greet.
+    For there's nae luck about the house,
+      There's nae luck at a';
+    There's little pleasure in the house
+      When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+_W. J. Mickle_
+
+
+CXCV
+
+_ABSENCE_
+
+    When I think on the happy days
+      I spent wi' you, my dearie;
+    And now what lands between us lie,
+      How can I be but eerie!
+
+    How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
+      As ye were wae and weary!
+    It was na sae ye glinted by
+      When I was wi' my dearie.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXCVI
+
+_JEAN_
+
+    Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+      I dearly like the West,
+    For there the bonnie lassie lives,
+      The lassie I lo'e best:
+    There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
+      And mony a hill between;
+    But day and night my fancy's flight
+      Is ever wi' my Jean.
+
+    I see her in the dewy flowers,
+      I see her sweet and fair:
+    I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
+      I hear her charm the air:
+    There's not a bonnie flower that springs
+      By fountain, shaw, or green,
+    There's not a bonnie bird that sings
+      But minds me o' my Jean.
+
+    O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft
+      Amang the leafy trees;
+    Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
+      Bring hame the laden bees;
+    And bring the lassie back to me
+      That's aye sae neat and clean;
+    Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
+      Sae charming is my Jean.
+
+    What sighs and vows amang the knowes
+      Hae pass'd atween us twa!
+    How fond to meet, how wae to part
+      That night she gaed awa!
+    The Powers aboon can only ken
+      To whom the heart is seen,
+    That nane can be sae dear to me
+      As my sweet lovely Jean!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCVII
+
+_JOHN ANDERSON_
+
+    John Anderson my jo, John,
+    When we were first acquent
+    Your locks were like the raven,
+    Your bonnie brow was brent;
+    But now your brow is bald, John,
+    Your locks are like the snow;
+    But blessings on your frosty pow,
+    John Anderson my jo.
+
+    John Anderson my jo, John,
+    We clamb the hill thegither,
+    And mony a canty day, John,
+    We've had wi' ane anither:
+    Now we maun totter down, John,
+    But hand in hand we'll go,
+    And sleep thegither at the foot,
+    John Anderson my jo.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCVIII
+
+_THE LAND O' THE LEAL_
+
+    I'm wearing awa', Jean,
+    Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
+    I'm wearing awa'
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
+    There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
+    The day is aye fair
+      In the land o' the leal.
+
+    Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
+    Your task's ended noo, Jean,
+    And I'll welcome you
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
+    She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
+    O we grudged her right sair
+      To the land o' the leal!
+
+    Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
+    My soul langs to be free, Jean,
+    And angels wait on me
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
+    This warld's care is vain, Jean;
+    We'll meet and aye be fain
+      In the land o' the leal.
+
+_Lady Nairn_
+
+
+CXCIX
+
+_ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE_
+
+    Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+      That crown the watery glade,
+    Where grateful Science still adores
+      Her Henry's holy shade;
+    And ye, that from the stately brow
+    Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
+    Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
+    Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
+    Wanders the hoary Thames along
+      His silver-winding way:
+
+    Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
+      Ah fields beloved in vain!
+    Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
+      A stranger yet to pain!
+    I feel the gales that from ye blow
+    A momentary bliss bestow,
+    As waving fresh their gladsome wing
+    My weary soul they seem to soothe,
+    And, redolent of joy and youth,
+      To breathe a second spring.
+
+    Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
+      Full many a sprightly race
+    Disporting on thy margent green
+      The paths of pleasure trace;
+    Who foremost now delight to cleave
+    With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
+    The captive linnet which enthral?
+    What idle progeny succeed
+    To chase the rolling circle's speed
+      Or urge the flying ball?
+
+    While some on earnest business bent
+      Their murmuring labours ply
+    'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
+      To sweeten liberty:
+    Some bold adventurers disdain
+    The limits of their little reign
+    And unknown regions dare descry:
+    Still as they run they look behind,
+    They hear a voice in every wind,
+      And snatch a fearful joy.
+
+    Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
+      Less pleasing when possest;
+    The tear forgot as soon as shed,
+      The sunshine of the breast:
+    Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,
+    Wild wit, invention ever new,
+    And lively cheer, of vigour born;
+    The thoughtless day, the easy night,
+    The spirits pure, the slumbers light
+      That fly th' approach of morn.
+
+    Alas! regardless of their doom
+      The little victims play;
+    No sense have they of ills to come
+      Nor care beyond to-day:
+    Yet see how all around 'em wait
+    The ministers of human fate
+    And black Misfortune's baleful train!
+    Ah show them where in ambush stand
+    To seize their prey, the murderous band!
+      Ah, tell them they are men!
+
+    These shall the fury Passions tear,
+      The vultures of the mind,
+    Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
+      And Shame that sculks behind;
+    Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
+    Or Jealousy with rankling tooth
+    That inly gnaws the secret heart,
+    And Envy wan, and faded Care,
+    Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
+      And Sorrow's piercing dart.
+
+    Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
+      Then whirl the wretch from high
+    To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
+      And grinning Infamy.
+    The stings of Falsehood those shall try
+    And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
+    That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
+    And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
+    And moody Madness laughing wild
+      Amid severest woe.
+
+    Lo, in the vale of years beneath
+      A griesly troop are seen,
+    The painful family of Death,
+      More hideous than their queen:
+    This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
+    That every labouring sinew strains,
+    Those in the deeper vitals rage:
+    Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
+    That numbs the soul with icy hand,
+      And slow-consuming Age.
+
+    To each his sufferings: all are men,
+      Condemn'd alike to groan;
+    The tender for another's pain,
+      Th' unfeeling for his own.
+    Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
+    Since sorrow never comes too late,
+    And happiness too swiftly flies?
+    Thought would destroy their paradise.
+    No more;--where ignorance is bliss,
+      'Tis folly to be wise.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CC
+
+_THE SHRUBBERY_
+
+    O happy shades! to me unblest!
+      Friendly to peace, but not to me!
+    How ill the scene that offers rest,
+      And heart that cannot rest, agree!
+
+    This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
+      Those alders quivering to the breeze,
+    Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
+      And please, if anything could please.
+
+    But fix'd unalterable Care
+      Foregoes not what she feels within,
+    Shows the same sadness everywhere,
+      And slights the season and the scene.
+
+    For all that pleased in wood or lawn
+      While Peace possess'd these silent bowers,
+    Her animating smile withdrawn,
+      Has lost its beauties and its powers.
+
+    The saint or moralist should tread
+      This moss-grown alley, musing, slow,
+    They seek like me the secret shade,
+      But not, like me, to nourish woe!
+
+    Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste
+      Alike admonish not to roam;
+    These tell me of enjoyments past,
+      And those of sorrows yet to come.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCI
+
+_HYMN TO ADVERSITY_
+
+      Daughter of Jove, relentless power,
+        Thou tamer of the human breast,
+      Whose iron scourge and torturing hour
+        The bad affright, afflict the best!
+      Bound in thy adamantine chain
+      The proud are taught to taste of pain,
+      And purple tyrants vainly groan
+    With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
+
+      When first thy Sire to send on earth
+        Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
+      To thee he gave the heavenly birth
+        And bade to form her infant mind.
+      Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
+      With patience many a year she bore;
+      What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,
+    And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.
+
+      Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
+        Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
+      Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
+        And leave us leisure to be good.
+      Light they disperse, and with them go
+      The summer friend, the flattering foe;
+      By vain Prosperity received,
+    To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
+
+      Wisdom in sable garb array'd
+        Immersed in rapturous thought profound,
+      And Melancholy, silent maid,
+        With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
+      Still on thy solemn steps attend:
+      Warm Charity, the general friend,
+      With Justice, to herself severe,
+    And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
+
+      Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head
+        Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!
+      Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
+        Nor circled with the vengeful band
+      (As by the impious thou art seen)
+      With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
+      With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
+    Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;--
+
+      Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,
+        Thy milder influence impart,
+      Thy philosophic train be there
+        To soften, not to wound my heart.
+      The generous spark extinct revive,
+      Teach me to love and to forgive,
+      Exact my own defects to scan,
+    What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CCII
+
+_THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK_
+
+    I am monarch of all I survey;
+    My right there is none to dispute;
+    From the centre all round to the sea
+    I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
+    O Solitude! where are the charms
+    That sages have seen in thy face?
+    Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
+    Than reign in this horrible place.
+
+    I am out of humanity's reach,
+    I must finish my journey alone,
+    Never hear the sweet music of speech;
+    I start at the sound of my own.
+    The beasts that roam over the plain
+    My form with indifference see;
+    They are so unacquainted with man,
+    Their tameness is shocking to me.
+
+    Society, Friendship, and Love
+    Divinely bestow'd upon man,
+    Oh, had I the wings of a dove
+    How soon would I taste you again!
+    My sorrows I then might assuage
+    In the ways of religion and truth,
+    Might learn from the wisdom of age,
+    And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
+
+    Ye winds that have made me your sport,
+    Convey to this desolate shore
+    Some cordial endearing report
+    Of a land I shall visit no more:
+    My friends, do they now and then send
+    A wish or a thought after me?
+    O tell me I yet have a friend,
+    Though a friend I am never to see.
+
+    How fleet is a glance of the mind!
+    Compared with the speed of its flight,
+    The tempest itself lags behind,
+    And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.
+    When I think of my own native land
+    In a moment I seem to be there;
+    But alas! recollection at hand
+    Soon hurries me back to despair.
+
+    But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
+    The beast is laid down in his lair;
+    Even here is a season of rest,
+    And I to my cabin repair.
+    There's mercy in every place,
+    And mercy, encouraging thought!
+    Gives even affliction a grace
+    And reconciles man to his lot.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCIII
+
+_TO MARY UNWIN_
+
+    Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
+    Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
+    An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
+    And undebased by praise of meaner things,
+
+    That ere through age or woe I shed my wings
+    I may record thy worth with honour due,
+    In verse as musical as thou art true,
+    And that immortalizes whom it sings:--
+
+    But thou hast little need. There is a Book
+    By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
+    On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
+
+    A chronicle of actions just and bright--
+    There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
+    And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCIV
+
+_TO THE SAME_
+
+    The twentieth year is well-nigh past
+    Since first our sky was overcast;
+    Ah would that this might be the last!
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
+    I see thee daily weaker grow--
+    'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy needles, once a shining store,
+    For my sake restless heretofore,
+    Now rust disused, and shine no more;
+          My Mary!
+
+    For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
+    The same kind office for me still,
+    Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
+          My Mary!
+
+    But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
+    And all thy threads with magic art
+    Have wound themselves about this heart,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy indistinct expressions seem
+    Like language utter'd in a dream;
+    Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
+    Are still more lovely in my sight
+    Than golden beams of orient light,
+          My Mary!
+
+    For could I view nor them nor thee,
+    What sight worth seeing could I see?
+    The sun would rise in vain for me,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Partakers of thy sad decline
+    Thy hands their little force resign;
+    Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
+    That now at every step thou mov'st
+    Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
+          My Mary!
+
+    And still to love, though prest with ill,
+    In wintry age to feel no chill,
+    With me is to be lovely still,
+          My Mary!
+
+    But ah! by constant heed I know
+    How oft the sadness that I show
+    Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
+          My Mary!
+
+    And should my future lot be cast
+    With much resemblance of the past,
+    Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
+          My Mary!
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCV
+
+_THE CASTAWAY_
+
+    Obscurest night involved the sky,
+      The Atlantic billows roar'd,
+    When such a destined wretch as I,
+      Wash'd headlong from on board,
+    Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
+    His floating home for ever left.
+
+    No braver chief could Albion boast
+      Than he with whom he went,
+    Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
+      With warmer wishes sent.
+    He loved them both, but both in vain,
+    Nor him beheld, nor her again.
+
+    Not long beneath the whelming brine,
+      Expert to swim, he lay;
+    Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
+      Or courage die away;
+    But waged with death a lasting strife,
+    Supported by despair of life.
+
+    He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
+      To check the vessel's course,
+    But so the furious blast prevail'd,
+      That, pitiless perforce,
+    They left their outcast mate behind,
+    And scudded still before the wind.
+
+    Some succour yet they could afford;
+      And such as storms allow,
+    The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
+      Delay'd not to bestow.
+    But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
+    Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
+
+    Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
+      Their haste himself condemn,
+    Aware that flight, in such a sea,
+      Alone could rescue them;
+    Yet bitter felt it still to die
+    Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
+
+    He long survives, who lives an hour
+      In ocean, self-upheld;
+    And so long he, with unspent power,
+      His destiny repell'd;
+    And ever, as the minutes flew,
+    Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'
+
+    At length, his transient respite past,
+      His comrades, who before
+    Had heard his voice in every blast,
+      Could catch the sound no more;
+    For then, by toil subdued, he drank
+    The stifling wave, and then he sank.
+
+    No poet wept him; but the page
+      Of narrative sincere,
+    That tells his name, his worth, his age,
+      Is wet with Anson's tear:
+    And tears by bards or heroes shed
+    Alike immortalize the dead.
+
+    I therefore purpose not, or dream,
+      Descanting on his fate,
+    To give the melancholy theme
+      A more enduring date:
+    But misery still delights to trace
+    Its semblance in another's case.
+
+    No voice divine the storm allay'd,
+      No light propitious shone,
+    When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
+      We perish'd, each alone:
+    But I beneath a rougher sea,
+    And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCVI
+
+_TOMORROW_
+
+    In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
+      May my fate no less fortunate be
+    Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
+      And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
+    With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
+      While I carol away idle sorrow,
+    And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
+      Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.
+
+    With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
+      As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
+    And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
+      With a barn for the use of the flail:
+    A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
+      And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
+    I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
+      Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow.
+
+    From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
+      Secured by a neighbouring hill;
+    And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
+      By the sound of a murmuring rill:
+    And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
+      With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
+    With my friends may I share what Today may afford,
+      And let them spread the table Tomorrow.
+
+    And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring
+      Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
+    On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,
+      Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:
+    But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
+      And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
+    As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,
+      May become Everlasting Tomorrow.
+
+_J. Collins_
+
+
+CCVII
+
+    Life! I know not what thou art,
+    But know that thou and I must part;
+    And when, or how, or where we met
+    I own to me's a secret yet.
+
+      Life! we've been long together
+    Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
+    'Tis hard to part when friends are dear--
+    Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
+    --Then steal away, give little warning,
+      Choose thine own time;
+    Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime
+      Bid me Good Morning.
+
+_A. L. Barbauld_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Fourth
+
+
+CCVIII
+
+_TO THE MUSES_
+
+    Whether on Ida's shady brow,
+      Or in the chambers of the East,
+    The chambers of the sun, that now
+      From ancient melody have ceased;
+
+    Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
+      Or the green corners of the earth,
+    Or the blue regions of the air,
+      Where the melodious winds have birth;
+
+    Whether on crystal rocks ye rove
+      Beneath the bosom of the sea,
+    Wandering in many a coral grove,--
+      Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
+
+    How have you left the ancient love
+      That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
+    The languid strings do scarcely move,
+      The sound is forced, the notes are few.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CCIX
+
+_ODE ON THE POETS_
+
+    Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+    Ye have left your souls on earth!
+    Have ye souls in heaven too,
+    Double-lived in regions new?
+
+    --Yes, and those of heaven commune
+    With the spheres of sun and moon;
+    With the noise of fountains wond'rous
+    And the parle of voices thund'rous;
+    With the whisper of heaven's trees
+    And one another, in soft ease
+    Seated on Elysian lawns
+    Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
+    Underneath large blue-bells tented,
+    Where the daisies are rose-scented,
+    And the rose herself has got
+    Perfume which on earth is not;
+    Where the nightingale doth sing
+    Not a senseless, trancéd thing,
+    But divine melodious truth;
+    Philosophic numbers smooth;
+    Tales and golden histories
+    Of heaven and its mysteries.
+
+      Thus ye live on high, and then
+    On the earth ye live again;
+    And the souls ye left behind you
+    Teach us, here, the way to find you,
+    Where your other souls are joying,
+    Never slumber'd, never cloying.
+    Here, your earth-born souls still speak
+    To mortals, of their little week;
+    Of their sorrows and delights;
+    Of their passions and their spites;
+    Of their glory and their shame;
+    What doth strengthen and what maim:--
+    Thus ye teach us, every day,
+    Wisdom, though fled far away.
+
+      Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+    Ye have left your souls on earth!
+    Ye have souls in heaven too,
+    Double-lived in regions new!
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCX
+
+_ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER_
+
+    Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+    And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
+    Round many western islands have I been
+    Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
+
+    Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
+    That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
+    Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
+    Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
+
+    --Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
+    When a new planet swims into his ken;
+    Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
+
+    He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
+    Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
+    Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXI
+
+_LOVE_
+
+    All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
+    Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
+    All are but ministers of Love,
+        And feed his sacred flame.
+
+    Oft in my waking dreams do I
+    Live o'er again that happy hour,
+    When midway on the mount I lay,
+        Beside the ruin'd tower.
+
+    The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
+    Had blended with the lights of eve;
+    And she was there, my hope, my joy,
+        My own dear Genevieve!
+
+    She lean'd against the arméd man,
+    The statue of the arméd knight;
+    She stood and listen'd to my lay,
+        Amid the lingering light.
+
+    Few sorrows hath she of her own,
+    My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
+    She loves me best, whene'er I sing
+        The songs that make her grieve.
+
+    I play'd a soft and doleful air,
+    I sang an old and moving story--
+    An old rude song, that suited well
+        That ruin wild and hoary.
+
+    She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+    With downcast eyes and modest grace;
+    For well she knew, I could not choose
+        But gaze upon her face.
+
+    I told her of the Knight that wore
+    Upon his shield a burning brand;
+    And that for ten long years he woo'd
+        The Lady of the Land.
+
+    I told her how he pined: and ah!
+    The deep, the low, the pleading tone
+    With which I sang another's love
+        Interpreted my own.
+
+    She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+    With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
+    And she forgave me, that I gazed
+        Too fondly on her face!
+
+    But when I told the cruel scorn
+    That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
+    And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
+        Nor rested day nor night;
+
+    That sometimes from the savage den,
+    And sometimes from the darksome shade,
+    And sometimes starting up at once
+        In green and sunny glade,--
+
+    There came and look'd him in the face
+    An angel beautiful and bright;
+    And that he knew it was a Fiend,
+        This miserable Knight!
+
+    And that unknowing what he did,
+    He leap'd amid a murderous band,
+    And saved from outrage worse than death
+        The Lady of the Land;--
+
+    And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
+    And how she tended him in vain--
+    And ever strove to expiate
+        The scorn that crazed his brain;--
+
+    And that she nursed him in a cave,
+    And how his madness went away,
+    When on the yellow forest-leaves
+        A dying man he lay;--
+
+    His dying words--but when I reach'd
+    That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
+    My faltering voice and pausing harp
+        Disturb'd her soul with pity!
+
+    All impulses of soul and sense
+    Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
+    The music and the doleful tale,
+        The rich and balmy eve;
+
+    And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
+    An undistinguishable throng,
+    And gentle wishes long subdued,
+        Subdued and cherish'd long!
+
+    She wept with pity and delight,
+    She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
+    And like the murmur of a dream,
+        I heard her breathe my name.
+
+    Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside,
+    As conscious of my look she stept--
+    Then suddenly, with timorous eye
+        She fled to me and wept.
+
+    She half inclosed me with her arms,
+    She press'd me with a meek embrace;
+    And bending back her head, look'd up,
+        And gazed upon my face.
+
+    'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
+    And partly 'twas a bashful art
+    That I might rather feel, than see,
+        The swelling of her heart.
+
+    I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
+    And told her love with virgin pride;
+    And so I won my Genevieve,
+        My bright and beauteous Bride.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCXII
+
+_ALL FOR LOVE_
+
+    O talk not to me of a name great in story;
+    The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
+    And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
+    Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
+
+    What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
+    'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
+    Then away with all such from the head that is hoary--
+    What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
+
+    Oh Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
+    'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
+    Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
+    She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
+
+    There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
+    Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
+    When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
+    I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXIII
+
+_THE OUTLAW_
+
+    O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+    And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+    And as I rode by Dalton-Hall
+      Beneath the turrets high,
+    A Maiden on the castle-wall
+      Was singing merrily:
+    'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+    I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.'
+
+    'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
+      To leave both tower and town,
+    Thou first must guess what life lead we
+      That dwell by dale and down.
+    And if thou canst that riddle read,
+      As read full well you may,
+    Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
+      As blithe as Queen of May.'
+    Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+    I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.
+
+    'I read you, by your bugle-horn
+      And by your palfrey good,
+    I read you for a ranger sworn
+      To keep the king's greenwood.'
+    'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,
+      And 'tis at peep of light;
+    His blast is heard at merry morn,
+      And mine at dead of night.'
+    Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are gay;
+    I would I were with Edmund there
+      To reign his Queen of May!
+
+    'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
+      So gallantly you come,
+    I read you for a bold Dragoon
+      That lists the tuck of drum.'
+    'I list no more the tuck of drum,
+      No more the trumpet hear;
+    But when the beetle sounds his hum
+      My comrades take the spear.
+    And O! though Brignall banks be fair
+      And Greta woods be gay,
+    Yet mickle must the maiden dare
+      Would reign my Queen of May!
+
+    'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
+      A nameless death I'll die;
+    The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
+      Were better mate than I!
+    And when I'm with my comrades met
+      Beneath the greenwood bough,--
+    What once we were we all forget,
+      Nor think what we are now.'
+
+_Chorus_
+
+    'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+    And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXIV
+
+    There be none of Beauty's daughters
+      With a magic like Thee;
+    And like music on the waters
+      Is thy sweet voice to me:
+    When, as if its sound were causing
+    The charmed ocean's pausing,
+    The waves lie still and gleaming,
+    And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
+
+    And the midnight moon is weaving
+      Her bright chain o'er the deep,
+    Whose breast is gently heaving
+      As an infant's asleep:
+    So the spirit bows before thee
+    To listen and adore thee;
+    With a full but soft emotion,
+    Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXV
+
+_THE INDIAN SERENADE_
+
+    I arise from dreams of Thee
+    In the first sweet sleep of night,
+    When the winds are breathing low
+    And the stars are shining bright:
+    I arise from dreams of thee,
+    And a spirit in my feet
+    Hath led me--who knows how?
+    To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
+
+    The wandering airs they faint
+    On the dark, the silent stream--
+    The champak odours fail
+    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+    The nightingale's complaint
+    It dies upon her heart,
+    As I must die on thine
+    O belovéd as thou art!
+
+    Oh lift me from the grass!
+    I die, I faint, I fail!
+    Let thy love in kisses rain
+    On my lips and eyelids pale.
+    My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+    My heart beats loud and fast;
+    Oh! press it close to thine again
+    Where it will break at last.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXVI
+
+    She walks in beauty, like the night
+    Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
+    And all that's best of dark and bright
+    Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
+    Thus mellow'd to that tender light
+    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
+
+    One shade the more, one ray the less,
+    Had half impair'd the nameless grace
+    Which waves in every raven tress
+    Or softly lightens o'er her face,
+    Where thoughts serenely sweet express
+    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
+
+    And on that cheek and o'er that brow
+    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
+    The smiles that win, the tints that glow
+    But tell of days in goodness spent,--
+    A mind at peace with all below,
+    A heart whose love is innocent.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXVII
+
+    She was a Phantom of delight
+    When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
+    A lovely Apparition, sent
+    To be a moment's ornament;
+    Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
+    Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
+    But all things else about her drawn
+    From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
+    A dancing shape, an image gay,
+    To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
+
+    I saw her upon nearer view,
+    A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
+    Her household motions light and free,
+    And steps of virgin-liberty;
+    A countenance in which did meet
+    Sweet records, promises as sweet;
+    A creature not too bright or good
+    For human nature's daily food,
+    For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
+    Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
+
+    And now I see with eye serene
+    The very pulse of the machine;
+    A being breathing thoughtful breath,
+    A traveller between life and death:
+    The reason firm, the temperate will,
+    Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
+    A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
+    To warn, to comfort, and command;
+    And yet a Spirit still, and bright
+    With something of an angel-light.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXVIII
+
+    She is not fair to outward view
+      As many maidens be;
+    Her loveliness I never knew
+      Until she smiled on me.
+    O then I saw her eye was bright,
+    A well of love, a spring of light.
+
+    But now her looks are coy and cold,
+      To mine they ne'er reply,
+    And yet I cease not to behold
+      The love-light in her eye:
+    Her very frowns are fairer far
+    Than smiles of other maidens are.
+
+_H. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCXIX
+
+    I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
+    Thou needest not fear mine;
+    My spirit is too deeply laden
+    Ever to burthen thine.
+
+    I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
+    Thou needest not fear mine;
+    Innocent is the heart's devotion
+    With which I worship thine.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXX
+
+    She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+      Beside the springs of Dove;
+    A maid whom there were none to praise,
+      And very few to love.
+
+    A violet by a mossy stone
+      Half-hidden from the eye!
+    --Fair as a star, when only one
+      Is shining in the sky.
+
+    She lived unknown, and few could know
+      When Lucy ceased to be;
+    But she is in her grave, and, oh,
+      The difference to me!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXI
+
+    I travell'd among unknown men
+      In lands beyond the sea;
+    Nor, England! did I know till then
+      What love I bore to thee.
+
+    'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
+      Nor will I quit thy shore
+    A second time; for still I seem
+      To love thee more and more.
+
+    Among thy mountains did I feel
+      The joy of my desire;
+    And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
+      Beside an English fire.
+
+    Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd
+      The bowers where Lucy play'd;
+    And thine too is the last green field
+      That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXII
+
+_THE EDUCATION OF NATURE_
+
+    Three years she grew in sun and shower;
+    Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
+    On earth was never sown:
+    This Child I to myself will take;
+    She shall be mine, and I will make
+    A lady of my own.
+
+    'Myself will to my darling be
+    Both law and impulse: and with me
+    The girl, in rock and plain,
+    In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
+    Shall feel an overseeing power
+    To kindle or restrain.
+
+    'She shall be sportive as the fawn
+    That wild with glee across the lawn
+    Or up the mountain springs;
+    And her's shall be the breathing balm,
+    And her's the silence and the calm
+    Of mute insensate things.
+
+    'The floating clouds their state shall lend
+    To her; for her the willow bend;
+    Nor shall she fail to see
+    Ev'n in the motions of the storm
+    Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
+    By silent sympathy.
+
+    'The stars of midnight shall be dear
+    To her; and she shall lean her ear
+    In many a secret place
+    Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+    And beauty born of murmuring sound
+    Shall pass into her face.
+
+    'And vital feelings of delight
+    Shall rear her form to stately height,
+    Her virgin bosom swell;
+    Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
+    While she and I together live
+    Here in this happy dell.'
+
+    Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
+    How soon my Lucy's race was run!
+    She died, and left to me
+    This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
+    The memory of what has been,
+    And never more will be.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXIII
+
+    A slumber did my spirit seal;
+      I had no human fears:
+    She seem'd a thing that could not feel
+      The touch of earthly years.
+
+    No motion has she now, no force;
+      She neither hears nor sees;
+    Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
+      With rocks, and stones, and trees.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXIV
+
+_A LOST LOVE_
+
+    I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
+      Thy thrilling voice I hear;
+    And former hours and scenes retrace,
+      Too fleeting, and too dear!
+
+    Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
+      Though none is nigh to share;
+    And life has nought beside for me
+      So sweet as this despair.
+
+    There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
+      And mine, methinks, is one;
+    Or thus I should not weep and wake,
+      And thou to slumber gone.
+
+    I little thought it thus could be
+      In days more sad and fair--
+    That earth could have a place for me,
+      And thou no longer there.
+
+    Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
+      Or make thee less my own:
+    'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
+      Than watching here alone.
+
+    Yet never, never can we part,
+      While Memory holds her reign:
+    Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart
+      Till we shall meet again.
+
+_H. F. Lyte_
+
+
+CCXXV
+
+_LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER_
+
+    A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+    Cries 'Boatman, do not tarry!
+    And I'll give thee a silver pound
+    To row us o'er the ferry!'
+
+    'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
+    This dark and stormy water?'
+    'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
+    And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
+
+    'And fast before her father's men
+    Three days we've fled together,
+    For should he find us in the glen,
+    My blood would stain the heather.
+
+    'His horsemen hard behind us ride--
+    Should they our steps discover,
+    Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
+    When they have slain her lover?'
+
+    Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
+    'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
+    It is not for your silver bright,
+    But for your winsome lady:--
+
+    'And by my word! the bonny bird
+    In danger shall not tarry;
+    So though the waves are raging white
+    I'll row you o'er the ferry.'
+
+    By this the storm grew loud apace,
+    The water-wraith was shrieking;
+    And in the scowl of Heaven each face
+    Grew dark as they were speaking.
+
+    But still as wilder blew the wind,
+    And as the night grew drearer,
+    Adown the glen rode arméd men,
+    Their trampling sounded nearer.
+
+    'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
+    'Though tempests round us gather;
+    I'll meet the raging of the skies,
+    But not an angry father.'
+
+    The boat has left a stormy land,
+    A stormy sea before her,--
+    When, oh! too strong for human hand
+    The tempest gather'd o'er her.
+
+    And still they row'd amidst the roar
+    Of waters fast prevailing:
+    Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--
+    His wrath was changed to wailing.
+
+    For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
+    His child he did discover:--
+    One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
+    And one was round her lover.
+
+    'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief
+    'Across this stormy water:
+    And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
+    My daughter!--Oh, my daughter!'
+
+    'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
+    Return or aid preventing:
+    The waters wild went o'er his child,
+    And he was left lamenting.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXXVI
+
+_LUCY GRAY_
+
+    Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
+    And when I cross'd the wild,
+    I chanced to see at break of day
+    The solitary child.
+
+    No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
+    She dwelt on a wide moor,
+    The sweetest thing that ever grew
+    Beside a human door!
+
+    You yet may spy the fawn at play,
+    The hare upon the green;
+    But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
+    Will never more be seen.
+
+    'To-night will be a stormy night--
+    You to the town must go;
+    And take a lantern, Child, to light
+    Your mother through the snow.'
+
+    'That, Father! will I gladly do:
+    'Tis scarcely afternoon--
+    The minster-clock has just struck two,
+    And yonder is the moon!'
+
+    At this the father raised his hook,
+    And snapp'd a faggot-band;
+    He plied his work;--and Lucy took
+    The lantern in her hand.
+
+    Not blither is the mountain roe:
+    With many a wanton stroke
+    Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
+    That rises up like smoke.
+
+    The storm came on before its time:
+    She wander'd up and down;
+    And many a hill did Lucy climb:
+    But never reach'd the town.
+
+    The wretched parents all that night
+    Went shouting far and wide;
+    But there was neither sound nor sight
+    To serve them for a guide.
+
+    At day-break on a hill they stood
+    That overlook'd the moor;
+    And thence they saw the bridge of wood
+    A furlong from their door.
+
+    They wept--and, turning homeward, cried
+    'In heaven we all shall meet!'
+    --When in the snow the mother spied
+    The print of Lucy's feet.
+
+    Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
+    They track'd the footmarks small;
+    And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
+    And by the long stone-wall:
+
+    And then an open field they cross'd:
+    The marks were still the same;
+    They track'd them on, nor ever lost;
+    And to the bridge they came:
+
+    They follow'd from the snowy bank
+    Those footmarks, one by one,
+    Into the middle of the plank;
+    And further there were none!
+
+    --Yet some maintain that to this day
+    She is a living child;
+    That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
+    Upon the lonesome wild.
+
+    O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
+    And never looks behind;
+    And sings a solitary song
+    That whistles in the wind.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXVII
+
+_JOCK OF HAZELDEAN_
+
+    'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+      Why weep ye by the tide?
+    I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
+      And ye sall be his bride:
+    And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
+      Sae comely to be seen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
+      And dry that cheek so pale;
+    Young Frank is chief of Errington
+      And lord of Langley-dale;
+    His step is first in peaceful ha',
+      His sword in battle keen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
+      Nor braid to bind your hair,
+    Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
+      Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
+    And you the foremost o' them a'
+      Shall ride our forest-queen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
+      The tapers glimmer'd fair;
+    The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
+      And dame and knight are there:
+    They sought her baith by bower and ha';
+      The ladie was not seen!
+    She's o'er the Border, and awa'
+      Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXVIII
+
+_LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY_
+
+    The fountains mingle with the river
+    And the rivers with the ocean,
+    The winds of heaven mix for ever
+    With a sweet emotion;
+    Nothing in the world is single,
+    All things by a law divine
+    In one another's being mingle--
+    Why not I with thine?
+
+    See the mountains kiss high heaven,
+    And the waves clasp one another;
+    No sister-flower would be forgiven
+    If it disdain'd its brother:
+    And the sunlight clasps the earth,
+    And the moonbeams kiss the sea--
+    What are all these kissings worth,
+    If thou kiss not me?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXXIX
+
+_ECHOES_
+
+    How sweet the answer Echo makes
+    To Music at night
+    When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
+    And far away o'er lawns and lakes
+    Goes answering light!
+
+    Yet Love hath echoes truer far
+    And far more sweet
+    Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
+    Of horn or lute or soft guitar
+    The songs repeat.
+
+    'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere
+    And only then,
+    The sigh that's breathed for one to hear--
+    Is by that one, that only Dear
+    Breathed back again.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCXXX
+
+_A SERENADE_
+
+    Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
+      The sun has left the lea,
+    The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
+      The breeze is on the sea.
+    The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
+      Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
+    Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
+      But where is County Guy?
+
+    The village maid steals through the shade
+      Her shepherd's suit to hear;
+    To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
+      Sings high-born Cavalier.
+    The star of Love, all stars above,
+      Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
+    And high and low the influence know--
+      But where is County Guy?
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXI
+
+_TO THE EVENING STAR_
+
+    Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,
+    Companion of retiring day,
+    Why at the closing gates of heaven,
+    Beloved Star, dost thou delay?
+
+    So fair thy pensile beauty burns
+    When soft the tear of twilight flows;
+    So due thy plighted love returns
+    To chambers brighter than the rose;
+
+    To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love
+    So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
+    Sure some enamour'd orb above
+    Descends and burns to meet with thee.
+
+    Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
+    When all unheavenly passions fly,
+    Chased by the soul-subduing power
+    Of Love's delicious witchery.
+
+    O! sacred to the fall of day
+    Queen of propitious stars, appear,
+    And early rise, and long delay,
+    When Caroline herself is here!
+
+    Shine on her chosen green resort
+    Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
+    And wanton flowers, that well may court
+    An angel's feet to tread them down:--
+
+    Shine on her sweetly scented road
+    Thou star of evening's purple dome,
+    That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
+    And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
+
+    Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
+    Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
+    Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
+    To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--
+
+    Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
+    Her silken tresses darkly flow
+    And fall upon her brow so fair,
+    Like shadows on the mountain snow.
+
+    Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
+    In converse sweet to wander far--
+    O bring with thee my Caroline,
+    And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXXXII
+
+_TO THE NIGHT_
+
+    Swiftly walk over the western wave,
+                Spirit of Night!
+    Out of the misty eastern cave
+    Where, all the long and lone daylight,
+    Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
+    Which make thee terrible and dear,--
+                Swift be thy flight!
+
+    Wrap thy form in a mantle gray
+                Star-inwrought;
+    Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,
+    Kiss her until she be wearied out:
+    Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
+    Touching all with thine opiate wand--
+                Come, long-sought!
+
+    When I arose and saw the dawn,
+                I sigh'd for thee;
+    When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
+    And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
+    And the weary Day turn'd to his rest
+    Lingering like an unloved guest,
+                I sigh'd for thee.
+
+    Thy brother Death came, and cried
+                Wouldst thou me?
+    Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
+    Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
+    Shall I nestle near thy side?
+    Wouldst thou me?--And I replied
+                No, not thee!
+
+    Death will come when thou art dead,
+                Soon, too soon--
+    Sleep will come when thou art fled;
+    Of neither would I ask the boon
+    I ask of thee, belovéd Night--
+    Swift be thine approaching flight,
+                Come soon, soon!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXXXIII
+
+_TO A DISTANT FRIEND_
+
+    Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
+    Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
+    Of absence withers what was once so fair?
+    Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
+
+    Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
+    Bound to thy service with unceasing care--
+    The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
+    For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
+
+    Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
+    A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
+    Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
+
+    Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
+    'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
+    Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXXIV
+
+    When we two parted
+    In silence and tears,
+    Half broken-hearted,
+    To sever for years,
+    Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
+    Colder thy kiss;
+    Truly that hour foretold
+    Sorrow to this!
+
+    The dew of the morning
+    Sunk chill on my brow;
+    It felt like the warning
+    Of what I feel now.
+    Thy vows are all broken,
+    And light is thy fame:
+    I hear thy name spoken
+    And share in its shame.
+
+    They name thee before me,
+    A knell to mine ear;
+    A shudder comes o'er me--
+    Why wert thou so dear?
+    They know not I knew thee
+    Who knew thee too well:
+    Long, long shall I rue thee,
+    Too deeply to tell.
+
+    In secret we met:
+    In silence I grieve
+    That thy heart could forget,
+    Thy spirit deceive.
+    If I should meet thee
+    After long years,
+    How should I greet thee?--
+    With silence and tears.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXXXV
+
+_HAPPY INSENSIBILITY_
+
+    In a drear-nighted December,
+    Too happy, happy tree,
+    Thy branches ne'er remember
+    Their green felicity:
+    The north cannot undo them
+    With a sleety whistle through them,
+    Nor frozen thawings glue them
+    From budding at the prime.
+
+    In a drear-nighted December,
+    Too happy, happy brook,
+    Thy bubblings ne'er remember
+    Apollo's summer look;
+    But with a sweet forgetting
+    They stay their crystal fretting,
+    Never, never petting
+    About the frozen time.
+
+    Ah! would 'twere so with many
+    A gentle girl and boy!
+    But were there ever any
+    Writhed not at passéd joy?
+    To know the change and feel it,
+    When there is none to heal it
+    Nor numbéd sense to steal it--
+    Was never said in rhyme.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXXXVI
+
+    Where shall the lover rest
+      Whom the fates sever
+    From his true maiden's breast
+      Parted for ever?
+    Where, through groves deep and high
+      Sounds the far billow,
+    Where early violets die
+      Under the willow.
+        _Eleu loro
+      Soft shall be his pillow._
+
+    There through the summer day
+      Cool streams are laving:
+    There, while the tempests sway,
+      Scarce are boughs waving;
+    There thy rest shalt thou take,
+      Parted for ever,
+    Never again to wake
+      Never, O never!
+        _Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!_
+
+    Where shall the traitor rest,
+      He, the deceiver,
+    Who could win maiden's breast,
+      Ruin, and leave her?
+    In the lost battle,
+      Borne down by the flying,
+    Where mingles war's rattle
+      With groans of the dying;
+        _Eleu loro
+      There shall he be lying._
+
+    Her wing shall the eagle flap
+      O'er the falsehearted;
+    His warm blood the wolf shall lap
+      Ere life be parted:
+    Shame and dishonour sit
+      By his grave ever;
+    Blessing shall hallow it
+      Never, O never!
+        _Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!_
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXVII
+
+_LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI_
+
+    'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      Alone and palely loitering?
+    The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.
+
+    'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
+      So haggard and so woe-begone?
+    The squirrel's granary is full,
+      And the harvest's done.
+
+    'I see a lily on thy brow
+      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
+    And on thy cheeks a fading rose
+      Fast withereth too.'
+
+    'I met a lady in the meads,
+      Full beautiful--a faery's child,
+    Her hair was long, her foot was light,
+      And her eyes were wild.
+
+    'I made a garland for her head,
+      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
+    She look'd at me as she did love,
+      And made sweet moan.
+
+    'I set her on my pacing steed
+      And nothing else saw all day long,
+    For sidelong would she bend, and sing
+      A faery's song.
+
+    'She found me roots of relish sweet,
+      And honey wild and manna-dew,
+    And sure in language strange she said
+      "I love thee true."
+
+    'She took me to her elfin grot,
+      And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;
+    And there I shut her wild wild eyes
+      With kisses four.
+
+    'And there she lulléd me asleep,
+      And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
+    The latest dream I ever dream'd
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+    'I saw pale kings and princes too,
+      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
+    They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci
+      Hath thee in thrall!"
+
+    'I saw their starved lips in the gloam
+      With horrid warning gapéd wide,
+    And I awoke and found me here
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+    'And this is why I sojourn here
+      Alone and palely loitering,
+    Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.'
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXXXVIII
+
+_THE ROVER_
+
+    A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
+      A weary lot is thine!
+    To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
+      And press the rue for wine.
+    A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
+      A feather of the blue,
+    A doublet of the Lincoln green--
+      No more of me you knew
+                    My Love!
+    No more of me you knew.
+
+    'This morn is merry June, I trow,
+      The rose is budding fain;
+    But she shall bloom in winter snow
+      Ere we two meet again.'
+    He turn'd his charger as he spake
+      Upon the river shore,
+    He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
+      Said 'Adieu for evermore
+                    My Love!
+    And adieu for evermore.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXIX
+
+_THE FLIGHT OF LOVE_
+
+    When the lamp is shatter'd
+    The light in the dust lies dead--
+    When the cloud is scatter'd,
+    The rainbow's glory is shed.
+    When the lute is broken,
+    Sweet tones are remember'd not;
+    When the lips have spoken,
+    Loved accents are soon forgot.
+
+    As music and splendour
+    Survive not the lamp and the lute,
+    The heart's echoes render
+    No song when the spirit is mute--
+    No song but sad dirges,
+    Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
+    Or the mournful surges
+    That ring the dead seaman's knell.
+
+    When hearts have once mingled,
+    Love first leaves the well-built nest;
+    The weak one is singled
+    To endure what it once possesst.
+    O Love! who bewailest
+    The frailty of all things here,
+    Why choose you the frailest
+    For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
+
+    Its passions will rock thee
+    As the storms rock the ravens on high;
+    Bright reason will mock thee
+    Like the sun from a wintry sky.
+    From thy nest every rafter
+    Will rot, and thine eagle home
+    Leave thee naked to laughter,
+    When leaves fall and cold winds come.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXL
+
+_THE MAID OF NEIDPATH_
+
+    O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
+      And lovers' ears in hearing;
+    And love, in life's extremity,
+      Can lend an hour of cheering.
+    Disease had been in Mary's bower
+      And slow decay from mourning,
+    Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
+      To watch her Love's returning.
+
+    All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
+      Her form decay'd by pining,
+    Till through her wasted hand, at night,
+      You saw the taper shining.
+    By fits a sultry hectic hue
+      Across her cheek was flying;
+    By fits so ashy pale she grew
+      Her maidens thought her dying.
+
+    Yet keenest powers to see and hear
+      Seem'd in her frame residing;
+    Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
+      She heard her lover's riding;
+    Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
+      She knew and waved to greet him,
+    And o'er the battlement did bend
+      As on the wing to meet him.
+
+    He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze
+      As o'er some stranger glancing;
+    Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
+      Lost in his courser's prancing--
+    The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
+      Returns each whisper spoken,
+    Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
+      Which told her heart was broken.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXLI
+
+    Earl March look'd on his dying child,
+      And, smit with grief to view her--
+    The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
+      Shall be restored to woo her.
+
+    She's at the window many an hour
+      His coming to discover:
+    And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
+      And she look'd on her lover--
+
+    But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
+      Though her smile on him was dwelling--
+    And am I then forgot--forgot?
+      It broke the heart of Ellen.
+
+    In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
+      Her cheek is cold as ashes;
+    Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
+      To lift their silken lashes.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXLII
+
+    Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
+    Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
+    And watching, with eternal lids apart,
+    Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
+
+    The moving waters at their priestlike task
+    Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
+    Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
+    Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--
+
+    No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
+    Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast
+    To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
+    Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
+
+    Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
+    And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXLIII
+
+_THE TERROR OF DEATH_
+
+    When I have fears that I may cease to be
+    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
+    Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry
+    Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
+
+    When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
+    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
+    And think that I may never live to trace
+    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
+
+    And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
+    That I shall never look upon thee more,
+    Never have relish in the faery power
+    Of unreflecting love--then on the shore
+
+    Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
+    Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
+
+_Keats_
+
+
+CCXLIV
+
+_DESIDERIA_
+
+    Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind--
+    I turn'd to share the transport--Oh! with whom
+    But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb,
+    That spot which no vicissitude can find?
+
+    Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind--
+    But how could I forget thee? Through what power
+    Even for the least division of an hour
+    Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
+
+    To my most grievous loss!--That thought's return
+    Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
+    Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
+
+    Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
+    That neither present time, nor years unborn
+    Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXLV
+
+    At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
+    To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
+    And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
+    To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there
+    And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!
+
+    Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
+    When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;
+    And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
+    I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
+    Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCXLVI
+
+_ELEGY ON THYRZA_
+
+    And thou art dead, as young and fair
+      As aught of mortal birth;
+    And forms so soft and charms so rare
+      Too soon return'd to Earth!
+    Though Earth received them in her bed,
+    And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
+      In carelessness or mirth,
+    There is an eye which could not brook
+    A moment on that grave to look.
+
+    I will not ask where thou liest low
+      Nor gaze upon the spot;
+    There flowers or weeds at will may grow
+      So I behold them not:
+    It is enough for me to prove
+    That what I loved, and long must love,
+      Like common earth can rot;
+    To me there needs no stone to tell
+    'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
+
+    Yet did I love thee to the last,
+      As fervently as thou
+    Who didst not change through all the past
+      And canst not alter now.
+    The love where Death has set his seal
+    Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
+      Nor falsehood disavow:
+    And, what were worse, thou canst not see
+    Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
+
+    The better days of life were ours;
+      The worst can be but mine:
+    The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,
+      Shall never more be thine.
+    The silence of that dreamless sleep
+    I envy now too much to weep;
+      Nor need I to repine
+    That all those charms have pass'd away
+    I might have watch'd through long decay.
+
+    The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
+      Must fall the earliest prey;
+    Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
+      The leaves must drop away.
+    And yet it were a greater grief
+    To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
+      Than see it pluck'd today;
+    Since earthly eye but ill can bear
+    To trace the change to foul from fair.
+
+    I know not if I could have borne
+      To see thy beauties fade;
+    The night that follow'd such a morn
+      Had worn a deeper shade:
+    Thy day without a cloud hath past,
+    And thou wert lovely to the last,
+      Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
+    As stars that shoot along the sky
+    Shine brightest as they fall from high.
+
+    As once I wept, if I could weep,
+      My tears might well be shed
+    To think I was not near, to keep
+      One vigil o'er thy bed:
+    To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
+    To fold thee in a faint embrace,
+      Uphold thy drooping head;
+    And show that love, however vain,
+    Nor thou nor I can feel again.
+
+    Yet how much less it were to gain,
+      Though thou hast left me free,
+    The loveliest things that still remain
+      Than thus remember thee!
+    The all of thine that cannot die
+    Through dark and dread Eternity
+      Returns again to me,
+    And more thy buried love endears
+    Than aught except its living years.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXLVII
+
+    One word is too often profaned
+      For me to profane it,
+    One feeling too falsely disdain'd
+      For thee to disdain it.
+    One hope is too like despair
+      For prudence to smother,
+    And pity from thee more dear
+      Than that from another.
+
+    I can give not what men call love;
+      But wilt thou accept not
+    The worship the heart lifts above
+      And the Heavens reject not:
+    The desire of the moth for the star,
+      Of the night for the morrow,
+    The devotion to something afar
+      From the sphere of our sorrow?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXLVIII
+
+_GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK_
+
+    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+      Pibroch of Donuil
+    Wake thy wild voice anew,
+      Summon Clan Conuil.
+    Come away, come away,
+      Hark to the summons!
+    Come in your war-array,
+      Gentles and commons.
+
+    Come from deep glen, and
+      From mountain so rocky;
+    The war-pipe and pennon
+      Are at Inverlocky.
+    Come every hill-plaid, and
+      True heart that wears one,
+    Come every steel blade, and
+      Strong hand that bears one.
+
+    Leave untended the herd,
+      The flock without shelter;
+    Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
+      The bride at the altar;
+    Leave the deer, leave the steer,
+      Leave nets and barges:
+    Come with your fighting gear,
+      Broadswords and targes.
+
+    Come as the winds come, when
+      Forests are rended,
+    Come as the waves come, when
+      Navies are stranded:
+    Faster come, faster come,
+      Faster and faster,
+    Chief, vassal, page and groom,
+      Tenant and master.
+
+    Fast they come, fast they come;
+      See how they gather!
+    Wide waves the eagle plume
+      Blended with heather.
+    Cast your plaids, draw your blades
+      Forward each man set!
+    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+      Knell for the onset!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXLIX
+
+    A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
+      A wind that follows fast
+    And fills the white and rustling sail
+      And bends the gallant mast;
+    And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
+      While like the eagle free
+    Away the good ship flies, and leaves
+      Old England on the lee.
+
+    O for a soft and gentle wind!
+      I heard a fair one cry;
+    But give to me the snoring breeze
+      And white waves heaving high;
+    And white waves heaving high, my lads,
+      The good ship tight and free--
+    The world of waters is our home,
+      And merry men are we.
+
+    There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,
+      And lightning in yon cloud;
+    But hark the music, mariners!
+      The wind is piping loud;
+    The wind is piping loud, my boys,
+      The lightning flashes free--
+    While the hollow oak our palace is,
+      Our heritage the sea.
+
+_A. Cunningham_
+
+
+CCL
+
+    Ye Mariners of England
+    That guard our native seas!
+    Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
+    The battle and the breeze!
+    Your glorious standard launch again
+    To match another foe:
+    And sweep through the deep,
+    While the stormy winds do blow;
+    While the battle rages loud and long
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    The spirits of your fathers
+    Shall start from every wave--
+    For the deck it was their field of fame,
+    And Ocean was their grave:
+    Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
+    Your manly hearts shall glow,
+    As ye sweep through the deep,
+    While the stormy winds do blow;
+    While the battle rages loud and long
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    Britannia needs no bulwarks,
+    No towers along the steep;
+    Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
+    Her home is on the deep.
+    With thunders from her native oak
+    She quells the floods below--
+    As they roar on the shore,
+    When the stormy winds do blow;
+    When the battle rages loud and long,
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    The meteor flag of England
+    Shall yet terrific burn;
+    Till danger's troubled night depart
+    And the star of peace return.
+    Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
+    Our song and feast shall flow
+    To the fame of your name,
+    When the storm has ceased to blow;
+    When the fiery fight is heard no more,
+    And the storm has ceased to blow.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLI
+
+_BATTLE OF THE BALTIC_
+
+    Of Nelson and the North
+    Sing the glorious day's renown,
+    When to battle fierce came forth
+    All the might of Denmark's crown,
+    And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
+    By each gun the lighted brand
+    In a bold determined hand,
+    And the Prince of all the land
+    Led them on.
+
+    Like leviathans afloat
+    Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
+    While the sign of battle flew
+    On the lofty British line:
+    It was ten of April morn by the chime:
+    As they drifted on their path
+    There was silence deep as death,
+    And the boldest held his breath
+    For a time.
+
+    But the might of England flush'd
+    To anticipate the scene;
+    And her van the fleeter rush'd
+    O'er the deadly space between.
+    'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun
+    From its adamantine lips
+    Spread a death-shade round the ships,
+    Like the hurricane eclipse
+    Of the sun.
+
+    Again! again! again!
+    And the havoc did not slack,
+    Till a feeble cheer the Dane
+    To our cheering sent us back;--
+    Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
+    Then ceased--and all is wail,
+    As they strike the shatter'd sail;
+    Or in conflagration pale
+    Light the gloom.
+
+    Out spoke the victor then
+    As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
+    'Ye are brothers! ye are men!
+    And we conquer but to save:--
+    So peace instead of death let us bring:
+    But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
+    With the crews, at England's feet,
+    And make submission meet
+    To our King.'
+
+    Then Denmark bless'd our chief
+    That he gave her wounds repose;
+    And the sounds of joy and grief
+    From her people wildly rose,
+    As death withdrew his shades from the day:
+    While the sun look'd smiling bright
+    O'er a wide and woeful sight,
+    Where the fires of funeral light
+    Died away.
+
+    Now joy, old England, raise!
+    For the tidings of thy might,
+    By the festal cities' blaze,
+    Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
+    And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
+    Let us think of them that sleep
+    Full many a fathom deep
+    By thy wild and stormy steep,
+    Elsinore!
+
+    Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
+    Once so faithful and so true,
+    On the deck of fame that died,
+    With the gallant good Riou:
+    Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
+    While the billow mournful rolls
+    And the mermaid's song condoles
+    Singing glory to the souls
+    Of the brave!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLII
+
+_ODE TO DUTY_
+
+      Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
+      O Duty! if that name thou love
+      Who art a light to guide, a rod
+      To check the erring, and reprove;
+      Thou who art victory and law
+      When empty terrors overawe;
+      From vain temptations dost set free,
+    And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
+
+      There are who ask not if thine eye
+      Be on them; who, in love and truth
+      Where no misgiving is, rely
+      Upon the genial sense of youth:
+      Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
+      Who do thy work, and know it not:
+      Oh! if through confidence misplaced
+    They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
+
+      Serene will be our days and bright
+      And happy will our nature be
+      When love is an unerring light,
+      And joy its own security.
+      And they a blissful course may hold
+      Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold,
+      Live in the spirit of this creed;
+    Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
+
+      I, loving freedom, and untried,
+      No sport of every random gust,
+      Yet being to myself a guide,
+      Too blindly have reposed my trust:
+      And oft, when in my heart was heard
+      Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
+      The task, in smoother walks to stray;
+    But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
+
+      Through no disturbance of my soul
+      Or strong compunction in me wrought,
+      I supplicate for thy controul,
+      But in the quietness of thought:
+      Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
+      I feel the weight of chance-desires:
+      My hopes no more must change their name;
+    I long for a repose that ever is the same.
+
+      Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
+      The Godhead's most benignant grace;
+      Nor know we anything so fair
+      As is the smile upon thy face:
+      Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
+      And fragrance in thy footing treads;
+      Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
+    And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
+
+      To humbler functions, awful Power!
+      I call thee: I myself commend
+      Unto thy guidance from this hour;
+      Oh let my weakness have an end!
+      Give unto me, made lowly wise,
+      The spirit of self-sacrifice;
+      The confidence of reason give;
+    And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.
+
+_W. Wordsworth._
+
+
+CCLIII
+
+_ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON_
+
+    Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+    Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
+    For there thy habitation is the heart--
+    The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
+
+    And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,
+    To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
+    Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
+    And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
+
+    Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
+    And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,
+    Until his very steps have left a trace
+
+    Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
+    By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
+    For they appeal from tyranny to God.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLIV
+
+_ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802_
+
+    Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
+    One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:
+    In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
+    They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
+
+    There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
+    Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven:
+    Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
+    Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
+
+    --Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
+    Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left--
+    For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
+
+    That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
+    And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
+    And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLV
+
+_ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC._
+
+    Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+    And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
+    Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
+    Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
+
+    She was a maiden city, bright and free;
+    No guile seduced, no force could violate;
+    And when she took unto herself a mate,
+    She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
+
+    And what if she had seen those glories fade,
+    Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,--
+    Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
+
+    When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
+    Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
+    Of that which once was great is pass'd away.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVI
+
+_LONDON, 1802_
+
+    O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+    For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
+    To think that now our life is only drest
+    For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
+
+    Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
+    In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
+    The wealthiest man among us is the best:
+    No grandeur now in nature or in book
+
+    Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
+    This is idolatry; and these we adore:
+    Plain living and high thinking are no more:
+
+    The homely beauty of the good old cause
+    Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
+    And pure religion breathing household laws.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVII
+
+_THE SAME_
+
+    Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
+    England hath need of thee: she is a fen
+    Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
+    Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
+
+    Have forfeited their ancient English dower
+    Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
+    Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
+    And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
+
+    Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
+    Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
+    Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
+
+    So didst thou travel on life's common way
+    In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
+    The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVIII
+
+    When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+    Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
+    When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
+    The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed
+
+    I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
+    Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
+    Verily, in the bottom of my heart
+    Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
+
+    For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
+    In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
+    And I by my affection was beguiled:
+
+    What wonder if a Poet now and then,
+    Among the many movements of his mind,
+    Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLIX
+
+_HOHENLINDEN_
+
+    On Linden, when the sun was low,
+    All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
+    And dark as winter was the flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+    But Linden saw another sight,
+    When the drum beat at dead of night
+    Commanding fires of death to light
+        The darkness of her scenery.
+
+    By torch and trumpet fast array'd
+    Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
+    And furious every charger neigh'd
+        To join the dreadful revelry.
+
+    Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
+    Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
+    And louder than the bolts of Heaven
+        Far flash'd the red artillery.
+
+    But redder yet that light shall glow
+    On Linden's hills of stainéd snow;
+    And bloodier yet the torrent flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+    'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
+    Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
+    Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
+        Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
+
+    The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
+    Who rush to glory, or the grave!
+    Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
+        And charge with all thy chivalry!
+
+    Few, few shall part, where many meet!
+    The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
+    And every turf beneath their feet
+        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLX
+
+_AFTER BLENHEIM_
+
+    It was a summer evening,
+      Old Kaspar's work was done,
+    And he before his cottage door
+      Was sitting in the sun;
+    And by him sported on the green
+    His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
+
+    She saw her brother Peterkin
+      Roll something large and round
+    Which he beside the rivulet
+      In playing there had found;
+    He came to ask what he had found
+    That was so large and smooth and round.
+
+    Old Kaspar took it from the boy
+      Who stood expectant by;
+    And then the old man shook his head,
+      And with a natural sigh
+    ''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,
+    'Who fell in the great victory.
+
+    'I find them in the garden,
+      For there's many here about;
+    And often when I go to plough
+      The ploughshare turns them out.
+    For many thousand men,' said he,
+    'Were slain in that great victory.'
+
+    'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'
+      Young Peterkin he cries;
+    And little Wilhelmine looks up
+      With wonder-waiting eyes;
+    'Now tell us all about the war,
+    And what they fought each other for.'
+
+    'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
+      'Who put the French to rout;
+    But what they fought each other for
+      I could not well make out.
+    But every body said,' quoth he,
+    'That 'twas a famous victory.
+
+    'My father lived at Blenheim then,
+      Yon little stream hard by;
+    They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
+      And he was forced to fly:
+    So with his wife and child he fled,
+    Nor had he where to rest his head.
+
+    'With fire and sword the country round
+      Was wasted far and wide,
+    And many a childing mother then
+      And new-born baby died:
+    But things like that, you know, must be
+    At every famous victory.
+
+    'They say it was a shocking sight
+      After the field was won;
+    For many thousand bodies here
+      Lay rotting in the sun:
+    But things like that, you know, must be
+    After a famous victory.
+
+    'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
+      And our good Prince Eugene;'
+    'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'
+      Said little Wilhelmine;
+    'Nay ... nay ... my little girl,' quoth he,
+    'It was a famous victory.
+
+    'And every body praised the Duke
+      Who this great fight did win.'
+    'But what good came of it at last?'
+      Quoth little Peterkin:--
+    'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,
+    'But 'twas a famous victory.'
+
+_R. Southey_
+
+
+CCLXI
+
+_PRO PATRIA MORI_
+
+    When he who adores thee has left out the name
+      Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
+    Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
+      Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
+    Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
+      Thy tears shall efface their decree;
+    For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
+      I have been but too faithful to thee.
+
+    With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
+      Every thought of my reason was thine:
+    In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
+      Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
+    Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
+      The days of thy glory to see;
+    But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
+      Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXII
+
+_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA_
+
+    Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
+      As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
+    Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
+      O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
+
+    We buried him darkly at dead of night,
+      The sods with our bayonets turning;
+    By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
+      And the lantern dimly burning.
+
+    No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
+      Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
+    But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
+      With his martial cloak around him.
+
+    Few and short were the prayers we said,
+      And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
+    But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
+      And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
+
+    We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
+      And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
+    That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
+      And we far away on the billow!
+
+    Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
+      And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
+    But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
+      In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
+
+    But half of our heavy task was done
+      When the clock struck the hour for retiring:
+    And we heard the distant and random gun
+      That the foe was sullenly firing.
+
+    Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
+      From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
+    We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
+      But we left him alone with his glory.
+
+_C. Wolfe_
+
+
+CCLXIII
+
+_SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN_
+
+    In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
+    Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
+    An old man dwells, a little man,--
+    'Tis said he once was tall.
+    Full five-and-thirty years he lived
+    A running huntsman merry;
+    And still the centre of his cheek
+    Is red as a ripe cherry.
+
+    No man like him the horn could sound,
+    And hill and valley rang with glee,
+    When Echo bandied, round and round,
+    The halloo of Simon Lee.
+    In those proud days he little cared
+    For husbandry or tillage;
+    To blither tasks did Simon rouse
+    The sleepers of the village.
+
+    He all the country could outrun,
+    Could leave both man and horse behind;
+    And often, ere the chase was done,
+    He reel'd and was stone-blind.
+    And still there's something in the world
+    At which his heart rejoices;
+    For when the chiming hounds are out,
+    He dearly loves their voices.
+
+    But oh the heavy change!--bereft
+    Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see!
+    Old Simon to the world is left
+    In liveried poverty:--
+    His master's dead, and no one now
+    Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
+    Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
+    He is the sole survivor.
+
+    And he is lean and he is sick,
+    His body, dwindled and awry,
+    Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
+    His legs are thin and dry.
+    One prop he has, and only one,--
+    His wife, an aged woman,
+    Lives with him, near the waterfall,
+    Upon the village common.
+
+    Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
+    Not twenty paces from the door,
+    A scrap of land they have, but they
+    Are poorest of the poor.
+    This scrap of land he from the heath
+    Enclosed when he was stronger;
+    But what to them avails the land
+    Which he can till no longer?
+
+    Oft, working by her husband's side,
+    Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
+    For she, with scanty cause for pride,
+    Is stouter of the two.
+    And, though you with your utmost skill
+    From labour could not wean them,
+    'Tis little, very little, all
+    That they can do between them.
+
+    Few months of life has he in store
+    As he to you will tell,
+    For still, the more he works, the more
+    Do his weak ankles swell.
+    My gentle Reader, I perceive
+    How patiently you've waited,
+    And now I fear that you expect
+    Some tale will be related.
+
+    O Reader! had you in your mind
+    Such stores as silent thought can bring,
+    O gentle Reader! you would find
+    A tale in every thing.
+    What more I have to say is short,
+    And you must kindly take it:
+    It is no tale; but, should you think,
+    Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
+
+    One summer-day I chanced to see
+    This old Man doing all he could
+    To unearth the root of an old tree,
+    A stump of rotten wood.
+    The mattock totter'd in his hand;
+    So vain was his endeavour
+    That at the root of the old tree
+    He might have work'd for ever.
+
+    'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
+    Give me your tool,' to him I said;
+    And at the word right gladly he
+    Received my proffer'd aid.
+    I struck, and with a single blow
+    The tangled root I sever'd,
+    At which the poor old man so long
+    And vainly had endeavour'd.
+
+    The tears into his eyes were brought,
+    And thanks and praises seem'd to run
+    So fast out of his heart, I thought
+    They never would have done.
+    --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed
+    With coldness still returning;
+    Alas! the gratitude of men
+    Hath oftener left me mourning.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXIV
+
+_THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES_
+
+    I have had playmates, I have had companions,
+    In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+    Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
+    Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
+    Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+    Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+
+    Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
+    Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+    Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+
+    Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+    Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+    So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
+
+    How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+    And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXV
+
+_THE JOURNEY ONWARDS_
+
+    As slow our ship her foamy track
+      Against the wind was cleaving,
+    Her trembling pennant still look'd back
+      To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
+    So loth we part from all we love,
+      From all the links that bind us;
+    So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+    When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
+      We talk with joyous seeming--
+    With smiles that might as well be tears,
+      So faint, so sad their beaming;
+    While memory brings us back again
+      Each early tie that twined us,
+    Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+    And when, in other climes, we meet
+      Some isle or vale enchanting,
+    Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
+      And nought but love is wanting;
+    We think how great had been our bliss
+      If Heaven had but assign'd us
+    To live and die in scenes like this,
+      With some we've left behind us!
+
+    As travellers oft look back at eve
+      When eastward darkly going,
+    To gaze upon that light they leave
+      Still faint behind them glowing,--
+    So, when the close of pleasure's day
+      To gloom hath near consign'd us,
+    We turn to catch one fading ray
+      Of joy that's left behind us.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXVI
+
+_YOUTH AND AGE_
+
+    There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+    When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
+    'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
+    But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
+
+    Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
+    Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:
+    The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
+    The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
+
+    Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
+    It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
+    That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
+    And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
+
+    Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
+    Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
+    'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
+    All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
+
+    Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
+    Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--
+    As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
+    So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLXVII
+
+_A LESSON_
+
+    There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
+    That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
+    And the first moment that the sun may shine,
+    Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
+
+    When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
+    Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
+    Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
+    In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
+
+    But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,
+    And recognized it, though an alter'd form,
+    Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
+    And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
+
+    I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,
+    'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
+    This neither is its courage nor its choice,
+    But its necessity in being old.
+
+    'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
+    It cannot help itself in its decay;
+    Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'--
+    And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
+
+    To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,
+    A miser's pensioner--behold our lot!
+    O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
+    Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXVIII
+
+_PAST AND PRESENT_
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The house where I was born,
+    The little window where the sun
+    Came peeping in at morn;
+    He never came a wink too soon
+    Nor brought too long a day;
+    But now, I often wish the night
+    Had borne my breath away.
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The roses, red and white,
+    The violets, and the lily-cups--
+    Those flowers made of light!
+    The lilacs where the robin built,
+    And where my brother set
+    The laburnum on his birth-day,--
+    The tree is living yet!
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    Where I was used to swing,
+    And thought the air must rush as fresh
+    To swallows on the wing;
+    My spirit flew in feathers then
+    That is so heavy now,
+    And summer pools could hardly cool
+    The fever on my brow.
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The fir trees dark and high;
+    I used to think their slender tops
+    Were close against the sky:
+    It was a childish ignorance,
+    But now 'tis little joy
+    To know I'm farther off from Heaven
+    Than when I was a boy.
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXIX
+
+_THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS_
+
+    Oft in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Fond Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me:
+        The smiles, the tears
+        Of boyhood's years,
+      The words of love then spoken;
+        The eyes that shone,
+        Now dimm'd and gone,
+      The cheerful hearts now broken!
+    Thus in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+    When I remember all
+      The friends so link'd together
+    I've seen around me fall
+      Like leaves in wintry weather,
+        I feel like one
+        Who treads alone
+      Some banquet-hall deserted,
+        Whose lights are fled
+        Whose garlands dead,
+      And all but he departed!
+    Thus in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXX
+
+_STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES_
+
+        The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
+        The waves are dancing fast and bright,
+        Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
+        The purple noon's transparent might:
+        The breath of the moist earth is light
+        Around its unexpanded buds;
+        Like many a voice of one delight--
+        The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'--
+    The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
+
+        I see the deep's untrampled floor
+        With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
+        I see the waves upon the shore
+        Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:
+        I sit upon the sands alone;
+        The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
+        Is flashing round me, and a tone
+        Arises from its measured motion--
+    How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
+
+        Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
+        Nor peace within nor calm around,
+        Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
+        The sage in meditation found,
+        And walk'd with inward glory crown'd--
+        Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
+        Others I see whom these surround--
+        Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
+    To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
+
+        Yet now despair itself is mild
+        Even as the winds and waters are;
+        I could lie down like a tired child,
+        And weep away the life of care
+        Which I have borne, and yet must bear,--
+        Till death like sleep might steal on me,
+        And I might feel in the warm air
+        My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
+    Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCLXXI
+
+_THE SCHOLAR_
+
+    My days among the Dead are past;
+    Around me I behold,
+    Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
+    The mighty minds of old:
+    My never-failing friends are they,
+    With whom I converse day by day.
+
+    With them I take delight in weal
+    And seek relief in woe;
+    And while I understand and feel
+    How much to them I owe,
+    My cheeks have often been bedew'd
+    With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
+
+    My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
+    I live in long-past years,
+    Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
+    Partake their hopes and fears,
+    And from their lessons seek and find
+    Instruction with an humble mind.
+
+    My hopes are with the Dead; anon
+    My place with them will be,
+    And I with them shall travel on
+    Through all Futurity;
+    Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
+    That will not perish in the dust.
+
+_R. Southey_
+
+
+CCLXXII
+
+_THE MERMAID TAVERN_
+
+    Souls of Poets dead and gone,
+    What Elysium have ye known,
+    Happy field or mossy cavern,
+    Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+    Have ye tippled drink more fine
+    Than mine host's Canary wine?
+
+    Or are fruits of Paradise
+    Sweeter than those dainty pies
+    Of venison? O generous food!
+    Drest as though bold Robin Hood
+    Would, with his Maid Marian,
+    Sup and bowse from horn and can.
+
+      I have heard that on a day
+    Mine host's sign-board flew away
+    Nobody knew whither, till
+    An astrologer's old quill
+    To a sheepskin gave the story,
+    Said he saw you in your glory,
+    Underneath a new-old sign
+    Sipping beverage divine,
+    And pledging with contented smack
+    The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
+
+      Souls of Poets dead and gone,
+    What Elysium have ye known,
+    Happy field or mossy cavern,
+    Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCLXXIII
+
+_THE PRIDE OF YOUTH_
+
+    Proud Maisie is in the wood,
+      Walking so early;
+    Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
+      Singing so rarely.
+
+    'Tell me, thou bonny bird,
+      When shall I marry me?'
+    --'When six braw gentlemen
+      Kirkward shall carry ye.'
+
+    'Who makes the bridal bed,
+      Birdie, say truly?'
+    --'The gray-headed sexton
+      That delves the grave duly
+
+    'The glowworm o'er grave and stone
+      Shall light thee steady;
+    The owl from the steeple sing
+      Welcome, proud lady.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXIV
+
+_THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS_
+
+    One more Unfortunate
+    Weary of breath
+    Rashly importunate,
+    Gone to her death!
+    Take her up tenderly,
+    Lift her with care;
+    Fashion'd so slenderly,
+    Young, and so fair!
+
+    Look at her garments
+    Clinging like cerements;
+    Whilst the wave constantly
+    Drips from her clothing;
+    Take her up instantly,
+    Loving, not loathing.
+
+    Touch her not scornfully;
+    Think of her mournfully,
+    Gently and humanly;
+    Not of the stains of her--
+    All that remains of her
+    Now is pure womanly.
+
+    Make no deep scrutiny
+    Into her mutiny
+    Rash and undutiful:
+    Past all dishonour,
+    Death has left on her
+    Only the beautiful.
+
+    Still, for all slips of hers,
+    One of Eve's family--
+    Wipe those poor lips of hers
+    Oozing so clammily.
+
+    Loop up her tresses
+    Escaped from the comb,
+    Her fair auburn tresses;
+    Whilst wonderment guesses
+    Where was her home?
+
+    Who was her father?
+    Who was her mother?
+    Had she a sister?
+    Had she a brother?
+    Or was there a dearer one
+    Still, and a nearer one
+    Yet, than all other?
+
+    Alas! for the rarity
+    Of Christian charity
+    Under the sun!
+    Oh! it was pitiful!
+    Near a whole city full,
+    Home she had none.
+
+    Sisterly, brotherly,
+    Fatherly, motherly
+    Feelings had changed:
+    Love, by harsh evidence,
+    Thrown from its eminence;
+    Even God's providence
+    Seeming estranged.
+
+    Where the lamps quiver
+    So far in the river,
+    With many a light
+    From window and casement,
+    From garret to basement,
+    She stood, with amazement,
+    Houseless by night.
+
+    The bleak wind of March
+    Made her tremble and shiver
+    But not the dark arch,
+    Or the black flowing river:
+    Mad from life's history,
+    Glad to death's mystery
+    Swift to be hurl'd--
+    Any where, any where
+    Out of the world!
+
+    In she plunged boldly,
+    No matter how coldly
+    The rough river ran,--
+    Over the brink of it,
+    Picture it--think of it,
+    Dissolute Man!
+    Lave in it, drink of it,
+    Then, if you can!
+
+    Take her up tenderly,
+    Lift her with care;
+    Fashion'd so slenderly,
+    Young, and so fair!
+
+    Ere her limbs frigidly
+    Stiffen too rigidly,
+    Decently, kindly,
+    Smooth and compose them,
+    And her eyes, close them,
+    Staring so blindly!
+
+    Dreadfully staring
+    Thro' muddy impurity,
+    As when with the daring
+    Last look of despairing
+    Fix'd on futurity.
+
+    Perishing gloomily,
+    Spurr'd by contumely,
+    Cold inhumanity,
+    Burning insanity,
+    Into her rest.
+    --Cross her hands humbly
+    As if praying dumbly,
+    Over her breast!
+
+    Owning her weakness,
+    Her evil behaviour,
+    And leaving, with meekness,
+    Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXXV
+
+_ELEGY_
+
+      Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+      On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
+      But on thy turf shall roses rear
+      Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
+    And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
+
+      And oft by yon blue gushing stream
+      Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
+      And feed deep thought with many a dream,
+      And lingering pause and lightly tread;
+    Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
+
+      Away! we know that tears are vain,
+      That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
+      Will this unteach us to complain?
+      Or make one mourner weep the less?
+      And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
+    Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLXXVI
+
+_HESTER_
+
+    When maidens such as Hester die
+    Their place ye may not well supply,
+    Though ye among a thousand try
+            With vain endeavour.
+    A month or more hath she been dead,
+    Yet cannot I by force be led
+    To think upon the wormy bed
+            And her together.
+
+    A springy motion in her gait,
+    A rising step, did indicate
+    Of pride and joy no common rate
+            That flush'd her spirit:
+    I know not by what name beside
+    I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
+    It was a joy to that allied
+            She did inherit.
+
+    Her parents held the Quaker rule,
+    Which doth the human feeling cool;
+    But she was train'd in Nature's school,
+            Nature had blest her.
+    A waking eye, a prying mind,
+    A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
+    A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
+            Ye could not Hester.
+
+    My sprightly neighbour! gone before
+    To that unknown and silent shore,
+    Shall we not meet, as heretofore
+            Some summer morning--
+    When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+    Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+    A bliss that would not go away,
+            A sweet fore-warning?
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXVII
+
+_TO MARY_
+
+    If I had thought thou couldst have died,
+        I might not weep for thee;
+    But I forgot, when by thy side,
+        That thou couldst mortal be:
+    It never through my mind had past
+        The time would e'er be o'er,
+    And I on thee should look my last,
+        And thou shouldst smile no more!
+
+    And still upon that face I look,
+        And think 'twill smile again;
+    And still the thought I will not brook
+        That I must look in vain!
+    But when I speak--thou dost not say
+        What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
+    And now I feel, as well I may,
+        Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
+
+    If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
+        All cold and all serene--
+    I still might press thy silent heart,
+        And where thy smiles have been.
+    While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
+        Thou seemest still mine own;
+    But there I lay thee in thy grave--
+        And I am now alone!
+
+    I do not think, where'er thou art,
+        Thou hast forgotten me;
+    And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
+        In thinking too of thee:
+    Yet there was round thee such a dawn
+        Of light ne'er seen before,
+    As fancy never could have drawn,
+        And never can restore!
+
+_C. Wolfe_
+
+
+CCLXXVIII
+
+_CORONACH_
+
+    He is gone on the mountain,
+      He is lost to the forest,
+    Like a summer-dried fountain,
+      When our need was the sorest.
+    The font reappearing
+      From the raindrops shall borrow,
+    But to us comes no cheering,
+      To Duncan no morrow!
+
+    The hand of the reaper
+      Takes the ears that are hoary,
+    But the voice of the weeper
+      Wails manhood in glory.
+    The autumn winds rushing
+      Waft the leaves that are searest,
+    But our flower was in flushing
+      When blighting was nearest.
+
+    Fleet foot on the correi,
+      Sage counsel in cumber,
+    Red hand in the foray,
+      How sound is thy slumber!
+    Like the dew on the mountain,
+      Like the foam on the river,
+    Like the bubble on the fountain,
+      Thou art gone; and for ever!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXIX
+
+_THE DEATH BED_
+
+    We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
+      Her breathing soft and low,
+    As in her breast the wave of life
+      Kept heaving to and fro.
+
+    So silently we seem'd to speak,
+      So slowly moved about,
+    As we had lent her half our powers
+      To eke her living out.
+
+    Our very hopes belied our fears,
+      Our fears our hopes belied--
+    We thought her dying when she slept,
+      And sleeping when she died.
+
+    For when the morn came dim and sad
+      And chill with early showers,
+    Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
+      Another morn than ours.
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXXX
+
+_AGNES_
+
+    I saw her in childhood--
+      A bright, gentle thing,
+    Like the dawn of the morn,
+      Or the dews of the spring:
+    The daisies and hare-bells
+      Her playmates all day;
+    Herself as light-hearted
+      And artless as they.
+
+    I saw her again--
+      A fair girl of eighteen,
+    Fresh glittering with graces
+      Of mind and of mien.
+    Her speech was all music;
+      Like moonlight she shone;
+    The envy of many,
+      The glory of one.
+
+    Years, years fleeted over--
+      I stood at her foot:
+    The bud had grown blossom,
+      The blossom was fruit.
+    A dignified mother,
+      Her infant she bore;
+    And look'd, I thought, fairer
+      Than ever before.
+
+    I saw her once more--
+      'Twas the day that she died;
+    Heaven's light was around her,
+      And God at her side;
+    No wants to distress her,
+      No fears to appal--
+    O then, I felt, then
+      She was fairest of all!
+
+_H. F. Lyte_
+
+
+CCLXXXI
+
+_ROSABELLE_
+
+    O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+      No haughty feat of arms I tell;
+    Soft is the note, and sad the lay
+      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
+
+    'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
+      And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
+    Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
+      Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
+
+    'The blackening wave is edged with white;
+      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
+    The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
+      Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
+
+    'Last night the gifted Seer did view
+      A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
+    Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
+      Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'
+
+    ''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
+      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
+    But that my ladye-mother there
+      Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
+
+    'Tis not because the ring they ride,
+      And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
+    But that my sire the wine will chide
+      If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'
+
+    --O'er Roslin all that dreary night
+      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
+    'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
+      And redder than the bright moonbeam.
+
+    It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
+      It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
+    'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
+      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
+
+    Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
+      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
+    Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
+      Sheathed in his iron panoply.
+
+    Seem'd all on fire within, around,
+      Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
+    Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
+      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
+
+    Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
+      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
+    So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
+      The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
+
+    There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold--
+      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
+    Each one the holy vault doth hold--
+      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
+
+    And each Saint Clair was buried there,
+      With candle, with book, and with knell;
+    But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
+      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXXII
+
+_ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN_
+
+    I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+    A curious frame of Nature's work;
+    A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,
+    A nameless piece of Babyhood,
+    Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+    Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+    So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
+    For darker closets of the tomb!
+    She did but ope an eye, and put
+    A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+    For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+    Through glasses of mortality.
+    Riddle of destiny, who can show
+    What thy short visit meant, or know
+    What thy errand here below?
+    Shall we say, that Nature blind
+    Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
+    Just when she had exactly wrought
+    A finish'd pattern without fault?
+    Could she flag, or could she tire,
+    Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+    (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+    That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+    Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+    Life of health, and days mature:
+    Woman's self in miniature!
+    Limbs so fair, they might supply
+    (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+    The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+    Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
+    That babe or mother, one must die;
+    So in mercy left the stock
+    And cut the branch; to save the shock
+    Of young years widow'd, and the pain
+    When Single State comes back again
+    To the lone man who, reft of wife,
+    Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?
+    The economy of Heaven is dark,
+    And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark
+    Why human buds, like this, should fall,
+    More brief than fly ephemeral
+    That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+    Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+    And crabbéd use the conscience sears
+    In sinners of an hundred years.
+    --Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+    Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
+    Rites, which custom does impose,
+    Silver bells, and baby clothes;
+    Coral redder than those lips
+    Which pale death did late eclipse;
+    Music framed for infants' glee,
+    Whistle never tuned for thee;
+    Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+    Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+    Let not one be missing; nurse,
+    See them laid upon the hearse
+    Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+    Why should kings and nobles have
+    Pictured trophies to their grave,
+    And we, churls, to thee deny
+    Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--
+    A more harmless vanity?
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXXIII
+
+_IN MEMORIAM_
+
+    A child's a plaything for an hour;
+      Its pretty tricks we try
+    For that or for a longer space,--
+      Then tire, and lay it by.
+
+    But I knew one that to itself
+      All seasons could control;
+    That would have mock'd the sense of pain
+      Out of a grievéd soul.
+
+    Thou straggler into loving arms,
+      Young climber up of knees,
+    When I forget thy thousand ways
+      Then life and all shall cease!
+
+_M. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXXIV
+
+_THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET_
+
+    Where art thou, my beloved Son,
+    Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
+    Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
+    Or if the grave be now thy bed,
+    Why am I ignorant of the same
+    That I may rest; and neither blame
+    Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
+
+    Seven years, alas! to have received
+    No tidings of an only child--
+    To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
+    And been for evermore beguiled,--
+    Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
+    I catch at them, and then I miss;
+    Was ever darkness like to this?
+
+    He was among the prime in worth,
+    An object beauteous to behold;
+    Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
+    Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
+    If things ensued that wanted grace
+    As hath been said, they were not base;
+    And never blush was on my face.
+
+    Ah! little doth the young-one dream
+    When full of play and childish cares,
+    What power is in his wildest scream
+    Heard by his mother unawares!
+    He knows it not, he cannot guess;
+    Years to a mother bring distress;
+    But do not make her love the less.
+
+    Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
+    From that ill thought; and being blind
+    Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:
+    Kind mother have I been, as kind
+    As ever breathed:' and that is true;
+    I've wet my path with tears like dew,
+    Weeping for him when no one knew.
+
+    My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
+    Hopeless of honour and of gain,
+    Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
+    Think not of me with grief and pain:
+    I now can see with better eyes;
+    And worldly grandeur I despise
+    And fortune with her gifts and lies.
+
+    Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
+    And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
+    They mount--how short a voyage brings
+    The wanderers back to their delight!
+    Chains tie us down by land and sea;
+    And wishes, vain as mine, may be
+    All that is left to comfort thee.
+
+    Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan
+    Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
+    Or thou upon a desert thrown
+    Inheritest the lion's den;
+    Or hast been summon'd to the deep
+    Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
+    An incommunicable sleep.
+
+    I look for ghosts: but none will force
+    Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
+    That there was ever intercourse
+    Between the living and the dead;
+    For surely then I should have sight
+    Of him I wait for day and night
+    With love and longings infinite.
+
+    My apprehensions come in crowds;
+    I dread the rustling of the grass;
+    The very shadows of the clouds
+    Have power to shake me as they pass:
+    I question things, and do not find
+    One that will answer to my mind;
+    And all the world appears unkind.
+
+    Beyond participation lie
+    My troubles, and beyond relief:
+    If any chance to heave a sigh
+    They pity me, and not my grief.
+    Then come to me, my Son, or send
+    Some tidings that my woes may end!
+    I have no other earthly friend.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXV
+
+_HUNTING SONG_
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    On the mountain dawns the day;
+    All the jolly chase is here
+    With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
+    Hounds are in their couples yelling,
+    Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
+    Merrily merrily mingle they,
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    The mist has left the mountain gray,
+    Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
+    Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
+    And foresters have busy been
+    To track the buck in thicket green;
+    Now we come to chant our lay
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    To the greenwood haste away;
+    We can show you where he lies,
+    Fleet of foot and tall of size;
+    We can show the marks he made
+    When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
+    You shall see him brought to bay;
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Louder, louder chant the lay
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay!
+    Tell them youth and mirth and glee
+    Run a course as well as we;
+    Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
+    Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;
+    Think of this, and rise with day,
+    Gentle lords and ladies gay!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXXVI
+
+_TO THE SKYLARK_
+
+    Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
+    Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
+    Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
+    Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
+    Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
+    Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
+
+    To the last point of vision, and beyond
+    Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain
+    --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--
+    Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
+    Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
+    All independent of the leafy Spring.
+
+    Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
+    A privacy of glorious light is thine,
+    Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
+    Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
+    Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam--
+    True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXVII
+
+_TO A SKYLARK_
+
+        Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+          Bird thou never wert,
+        That from heaven, or near it
+          Pourest thy full heart
+    In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
+
+        Higher still and higher
+          From the earth thou springest,
+        Like a cloud of fire,
+          The blue deep thou wingest,
+    And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
+
+        In the golden lightning
+          Of the sunken sun
+        O'er which clouds are brightening,
+          Thou dost float and run,
+    Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
+
+        The pale purple even
+          Melts around thy flight;
+        Like a star of heaven
+          In the broad daylight
+    Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
+
+        Keen as are the arrows
+          Of that silver sphere,
+        Whose intense lamp narrows
+          In the white dawn clear
+    Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
+
+        All the earth and air
+          With thy voice is loud,
+        As, when night is bare,
+          From one lonely cloud
+    The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
+
+        What thou art we know not;
+          What is most like thee?
+        From rainbow clouds there flow not
+          Drops so bright to see
+    As from thy presence showers a rain of melody;--
+
+        Like a poet hidden
+          In the light of thought,
+        Singing hymns unbidden,
+          Till the world is wrought
+    To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
+
+        Like a high-born maiden
+          In a palace tower,
+        Soothing her love-laden
+          Soul in secret hour
+    With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
+
+        Like a glow-worm golden
+          In a dell of dew,
+        Scattering unbeholden
+          Its aerial hue
+    Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
+
+        Like a rose embower'd
+          In its own green leaves,
+        By warm winds deflower'd,
+          Till the scent it gives
+    Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves.
+
+        Sound of vernal showers
+          On the twinkling grass,
+        Rain-awaken'd flowers,
+          All that ever was
+    Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
+
+        Teach us, sprite or bird,
+          What sweet thoughts are thine:
+        I have never heard
+          Praise of love or wine
+    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
+
+        Chorus hymeneal
+          Or triumphal chaunt
+        Match'd with thine, would be all
+          But an empty vaunt--
+    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
+
+        What objects are the fountains
+          Of thy happy strain?
+        What fields, or waves, or mountains?
+          What shapes of sky or plain?
+    What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
+
+        With thy clear keen joyance
+          Languor cannot be:
+        Shadow of annoyance
+          Never came near thee:
+    Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
+
+        Waking or asleep
+          Thou of death must deem
+        Things more true and deep
+          Than we mortals dream,
+    Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
+
+        We look before and after,
+          And pine for what is not:
+        Our sincerest laughter
+          With some pain is fraught;
+    Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
+
+        Yet if we could scorn
+          Hate, and pride, and fear;
+        If we were things born
+          Not to shed a tear,
+    I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
+
+        Better than all measures
+          Of delightful sound,
+        Better than all treasures
+          That in books are found,
+    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
+
+        Teach me half the gladness
+          That thy brain must know,
+        Such harmonious madness
+          From my lips would flow,
+    The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCLXXXVIII
+
+_THE GREEN LINNET_
+
+    Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+    Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
+    With brightest sunshine round me spread
+    Of Spring's unclouded weather,
+    In this sequester'd nook how sweet
+    To sit upon my orchard-seat!
+    And flowers and birds once more to greet,
+    My last year's friends together.
+
+    One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
+    In all this covert of the blest:
+    Hail to Thee, far above the rest
+    In joy of voice and pinion!
+    Thou, Linnet! in thy green array
+    Presiding Spirit here to-day
+    Dost lead the revels of the May;
+    And this is thy dominion.
+
+    While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
+    Make all one band of paramours,
+    Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
+    Art sole in thy employment;
+    A Life, a Presence like the air,
+    Scattering thy gladness without care,
+    Too blest with any one to pair;
+    Thyself thy own enjoyment.
+
+    Amid yon tuft of hazel trees
+    That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
+    Behold him perch'd in ecstasies
+    Yet seeming still to hover;
+    There! where the flutter of his wings
+    Upon his back and body flings
+    Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
+    That cover him all over.
+
+    My dazzled sight he oft deceives--
+    A brother of the dancing leaves;
+    Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
+    Pours forth his song in gushes;
+    As if by that exulting strain
+    He mock'd and treated with disdain
+    The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
+    While fluttering in the bushes.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXIX
+
+_TO THE CUCKOO_
+
+    O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
+    I hear thee and rejoice:
+    O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
+    Or but a wandering Voice?
+
+    While I am lying on the grass
+    Thy twofold shout I hear;
+    From hill to hill it seems to pass,
+    At once far off and near.
+
+    Though babbling only to the vale
+    Of sunshine and of flowers,
+    Thou bringest unto me a tale
+    Of visionary hours.
+
+    Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
+    Even yet thou art to me
+    No bird, but an invisible thing,
+    A voice, a mystery;
+
+    The same whom in my school-boy days
+    I listen'd to; that Cry
+    Which made me look a thousand ways
+    In bush, and tree, and sky.
+
+    To seek thee did I often rove
+    Through woods and on the green;
+    And thou wert still a hope, a love;
+    Still long'd for, never seen!
+
+    And I can listen to thee yet;
+    Can lie upon the plain
+    And listen, till I do beget
+    That golden time again.
+
+    O blesséd Bird! the earth we pace
+    Again appears to be
+    An unsubstantial, faery place,
+    That is fit home for Thee!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXC
+
+_ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE_
+
+    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
+    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
+      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
+    'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
+      But being too happy in thine happiness,--
+        That thou, light-wingéd Dryad of the trees,
+              In some melodious plot
+      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
+        Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
+
+    O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
+      Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,
+    Tasting of Flora and the country green,
+      Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
+    O for a beaker full of the warm South,
+      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
+        With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
+              And purple-stainéd mouth;
+      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
+        And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
+
+    Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
+      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
+    The weariness, the fever, and the fret
+      Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
+    Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
+      Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies
+        Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
+              And leaden-eyed despairs;
+      Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
+        Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
+
+    Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
+      Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
+    But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
+      Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
+    Already with thee! tender is the night,
+      And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
+        Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
+              But here there is no light,
+      Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
+        Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
+
+    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
+      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
+    But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweet
+      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
+    The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
+      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
+        Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
+              And mid-May's eldest child,
+      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
+        The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
+
+    Darkling I listen; and for many a time
+      I have been half in love with easeful Death,
+    Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,
+      To take into the air my quiet breath;
+    Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
+      To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
+        While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
+              In such an ecstasy!
+      Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
+        To thy high requiem become a sod.
+
+    Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
+      No hungry generations tread thee down;
+    The voice I hear this passing night was heard
+      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
+    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
+      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
+        She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
+              The same that oft-times hath
+      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
+        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
+
+    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
+      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
+    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
+      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
+    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
+      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
+        Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep
+              In the next valley-glades:
+      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
+        Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXCI
+
+_UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802_
+
+    Earth has not anything to show more fair:
+    Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
+    A sight so touching in its majesty:
+    This City now doth like a garment wear
+
+    The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
+    Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
+    Open unto the fields, and to the sky,--
+    All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
+
+    Never did sun more beautifully steep
+    In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
+    Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
+
+    The river glideth at his own sweet will:
+    Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
+    And all that mighty heart is lying still!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCII
+
+    To one who has been long in city pent,
+    'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
+    And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer
+    Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
+
+    Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
+    Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
+    Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
+    And gentle tale of love and languishment?
+
+    Returning home at evening, with an ear
+    Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye
+    Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
+
+    He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
+    E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
+    That falls through the clear ether silently.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXCIII
+
+_OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT_
+
+    I met a traveller from an antique land
+    Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
+    Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
+    Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
+    And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
+    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
+    Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
+    The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
+    And on the pedestal these words appear:
+    'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
+    Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
+    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
+    Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
+    The lone and level sands stretch far away.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXCIV
+
+_COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY, 1803_
+
+    Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!
+    Whom mere despite of heart could so far please
+    And love of havoc, (for with such disease
+    Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
+
+    To level with the dust a noble horde,
+    A brotherhood of venerable trees,
+    Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
+    Beggar'd and outraged!--Many hearts deplored
+
+    The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
+    The traveller at this day will stop and gaze
+    On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
+
+    For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
+    And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
+    And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCV
+
+_THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION_
+
+    O leave this barren spot to me!
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+    Though bush or floweret never grow
+    My dark unwarming shade below;
+    Nor summer bud perfume the dew
+    Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
+    Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
+    My green and glossy leaves adorn;
+    Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
+    Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
+    Yet leave this barren spot to me:
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+
+        Thrice twenty summers I have seen
+    The sky grow bright, the forest green;
+    And many a wintry wind have stood
+    In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
+    Since childhood in my pleasant bower
+    First spent its sweet and sportive hour;
+    Since youthful lovers in my shade
+    Their vows of truth and rapture made,
+    And on my trunk's surviving frame
+    Carved many a long-forgotten name.
+    Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
+    First breathed upon this sacred ground;
+    By all that Love has whisper'd here,
+    Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
+    As Love's own altar honour me:
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXCVI
+
+_ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER_
+
+    Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+    --The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
+    Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
+    Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
+
+    But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh
+    As many do, repining while they look;
+    Intruders--who would tear from Nature's book
+    This precious leaf with harsh impiety.
+
+    --Think what the home must be if it were thine,
+    Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window,
+    door,
+    The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
+
+    The roses to the porch which they entwine:
+    Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
+    On which it should be touch'd, would melt away!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCVII
+
+_TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE_
+
+    Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+    Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
+    Twice seven consenting years have shed
+    Their utmost bounty on thy head:
+    And these gray rocks, that household lawn,
+    Those trees--a veil just half withdrawn,
+    This fall of water that doth make
+    A murmur near the silent lake,
+    This little bay, a quiet road
+    That holds in shelter thy abode;
+    In truth together ye do seem
+    Like something fashion'd in a dream;
+    Such forms as from their covert peep
+    When earthly cares are laid asleep!
+    But O fair Creature! in the light
+    Of common day, so heavenly bright,
+    I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
+    I bless thee with a human heart:
+    God shield thee to thy latest years!
+    Thee neither know I nor thy peers:
+    And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
+
+    With earnest feeling I shall pray
+    For thee when I am far away;
+    For never saw I mien or face
+    In which more plainly I could trace
+    Benignity and home-bred sense
+    Ripening in perfect innocence.
+    Here scatter'd, like a random seed,
+    Remote from men, Thou dost not need
+    The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
+    And maidenly shamefacédness:
+    Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
+    The freedom of a Mountaineer:
+    A face with gladness overspread;
+    Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
+    And seemliness complete, that sways
+    Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
+    With no restraint, but such as springs
+    From quick and eager visitings
+    Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
+    Of thy few words of English speech:
+    A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
+    That gives thy gestures grace and life!
+    So have I, not unmoved in mind,
+    Seen birds of tempest-loving kind--
+    Thus beating up against the wind.
+
+    What hand but would a garland cull
+    For thee who art so beautiful?
+    O happy pleasure! here to dwell
+    Beside thee in some heathy dell;
+    Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
+    A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
+    But I could frame a wish for thee
+    More like a grave reality:
+    Thou art to me but as a wave
+    Of the wild sea: and I would have
+    Some claim upon thee, if I could,
+    Though but of common neighbourhood.
+    What joy to hear thee, and to see!
+    Thy elder brother I would be,
+    Thy father--anything to thee.
+
+    Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
+    Hath led me to this lonely place:
+    Joy have I had; and going hence
+    I bear away my recompence.
+    In spots like these it is we prize
+    Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
+    Then why should I be loth to stir?
+    I feel this place was made for her;
+    To give new pleasure like the past,
+    Continued long as life shall last.
+    Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
+    Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
+    For I, methinks, till I grow old
+    As fair before me shall behold
+    As I do now, the cabin small,
+    The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
+    And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCVIII
+
+_THE REAPER_
+
+    Behold her, single in the field,
+    Yon solitary Highland Lass!
+    Reaping and singing by herself;
+    Stop here, or gently pass!
+    Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
+    And sings a melancholy strain;
+    O listen! for the vale profound
+    Is overflowing with the sound.
+
+    No nightingale did ever chaunt
+    More welcome notes to weary bands
+    Of travellers in some shady haunt,
+    Among Arabian sands:
+    A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
+    In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
+    Breaking the silence of the seas
+    Among the farthest Hebrides.
+
+    Will no one tell me what she sings?
+    Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
+    For old, unhappy, far-off things,
+    And battles long ago:
+    Or is it some more humble lay,
+    Familiar matter of to-day?
+    Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
+    That has been, and may be again!
+
+    Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
+    As if her song could have no ending;
+    I saw her singing at her work,
+    And o'er the sickle bending;--
+    I listen'd, motionless and still;
+    And, as I mounted up the hill,
+    The music in my heart I bore
+    Long after it was heard no more.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCIX
+
+_THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN_
+
+    At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
+    Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
+    Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
+    In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
+
+    'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
+    A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
+    Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
+    And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
+
+    Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
+    Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
+    And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
+    The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
+
+    She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
+    The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
+    The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
+    And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCC
+
+_TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR_
+
+    Ariel to Miranda:--Take
+    This slave of music, for the sake
+    Of him, who is the slave of thee;
+    And teach it all the harmony
+    In which thou canst, and only thou,
+    Make the delighted spirit glow,
+    Till joy denies itself again
+    And, too intense, is turn'd to pain.
+    For by permission and command
+    Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
+    Poor Ariel sends this silent token
+    Of more than ever can be spoken;
+    Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
+    From life to life must still pursue
+    Your happiness, for thus alone
+    Can Ariel ever find his own.
+    From Prospero's enchanted cell,
+    As the mighty verses tell,
+    To the throne of Naples he
+    Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
+    Flitting on, your prow before,
+    Like a living meteor.
+    When you die, the silent Moon
+    In her interlunar swoon
+    Is not sadder in her cell
+    Than deserted Ariel:--
+    When you live again on earth,
+    Like an unseen Star of birth
+    Ariel guides you o'er the sea
+    Of life from your nativity:--
+    Many changes have been run
+    Since Ferdinand and you begun
+    Your course of love, and Ariel still
+    Has track'd your steps and served your will.
+    Now in humbler, happier lot,
+    This is all remember'd not;
+    And now, alas! the poor Sprite is
+    Imprison'd for some fault of his
+    In a body like a grave--
+    From you he only dares to crave,
+    For his service and his sorrow
+    A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
+
+    The artist who this idol wrought
+    To echo all harmonious thought,
+    Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
+    The woods were in their winter sleep,
+    Rock'd in that repose divine
+    On the wind-swept Apennine;
+    And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
+    And some of Spring approaching fast,
+    And some of April buds and showers,
+    And some of songs in July bowers,
+    And all of love: And so this tree,--
+    Oh that such our death may be!--
+    Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
+    To live in happier form again:
+    From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,
+    The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
+    And taught it justly to reply
+    To all who question skilfully
+    In language gentle as thine own;
+    Whispering in enamour'd tone
+    Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
+    And summer winds in sylvan cells:
+    --For it had learnt all harmonies
+    Of the plains and of the skies,
+    Of the forests and the mountains,
+    And the many-voicéd fountains;
+    The clearest echoes of the hills,
+    The softest notes of falling rills,
+    The melodies of birds and bees,
+    The murmuring of summer seas,
+    And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
+    And airs of evening; and it knew
+    That seldom-heard mysterious sound
+    Which, driven on its diurnal round,
+    As it floats through boundless day,
+    Our world enkindles on its way:
+    --All this it knows, but will not tell
+    To those who cannot question well
+    The Spirit that inhabits it;
+    It talks according to the wit
+    Of its companions; and no more
+    Is heard than has been felt before
+    By those who tempt it to betray
+    These secrets of an elder day.
+    But, sweetly as its answers will
+    Flatter hands of perfect skill,
+    It keeps its highest holiest tone
+    For our beloved Friend alone.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCI
+
+_THE DAFFODILS_
+
+    I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
+    When all at once I saw a crowd,
+    A host of golden daffodils,
+    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
+    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
+
+    Continuous as the stars that shine
+    And twinkle on the milky way,
+    They stretch'd in never-ending line
+    Along the margin of a bay:
+    Ten thousand saw I at a glance
+    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
+
+    The waves beside them danced, but they
+    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
+    A Poet could not but be gay
+    In such a jocund company!
+    I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
+    What wealth the show to me had brought;
+
+    For oft, when on my couch I lie
+    In vacant or in pensive mood,
+    They flash upon that inward eye
+    Which is the bliss of solitude;
+    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
+    And dances with the daffodils.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCII
+
+_TO THE DAISY_
+
+    With little here to do or see
+    Of things that in the great world be,
+    Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
+          For thou art worthy,
+    Thou unassuming Common-place
+    Of Nature, with that homely face,
+    And yet with something of a grace
+          Which Love makes for thee!
+
+    Oft on the dappled turf at ease
+    I sit and play with similes,
+    Loose types of things through all degrees,
+          Thoughts of thy raising;
+    And many a fond and idle name
+    I give to thee, for praise or blame
+    As is the humour of the game,
+          While I am gazing.
+
+    A nun demure, of lowly port;
+    Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
+    In thy simplicity the sport
+          Of all temptations;
+    A queen in crown of rubies drest;
+    A starveling in a scanty vest;
+    Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
+          Thy appellations.
+
+    A little Cyclops, with one eye
+    Staring to threaten and defy,
+    That thought comes next--and instantly
+          The freak is over,
+    The shape will vanish, and behold!
+    A silver shield with boss of gold
+    That spreads itself, some faery bold
+          In fight to cover.
+
+    I see thee glittering from afar--
+    And then thou art a pretty star,
+    Not quite so fair as many are
+          In heaven above thee!
+    Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
+    Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
+    May peace come never to his nest
+          Who shall reprove thee!
+
+    Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
+    When all my reveries are past
+    I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
+          Sweet silent Creature!
+    That breath'st with me in sun and air,
+    Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
+    My heart with gladness, and a share
+          Of thy meek nature!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCIII
+
+_ODE TO AUTUMN_
+
+    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
+    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
+    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
+    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
+    To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
+    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
+    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
+    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
+    And still more, later flowers for the bees,
+    Until they think warm days will never cease;
+    For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
+
+    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
+    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
+    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
+    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
+    Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
+    Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
+    Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers:
+    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
+    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
+    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
+    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
+
+    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
+    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
+    While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
+    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
+    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
+    Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
+    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
+    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
+    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
+    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
+    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCIV
+
+_ODE TO WINTER_
+
+_Germany, December, 1800_
+
+    When first the fiery-mantled Sun
+    His heavenly race began to run,
+    Round the earth and ocean blue
+    His children four the Seasons flew.
+      First, in green apparel dancing,
+    The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
+      Rosy Summer next advancing,
+    Rush'd into her sire's embrace--
+    Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
+      For ever nearest to his smiles,
+    On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
+      Or India's citron-cover'd isles:
+    More remote, and buxom-brown,
+      The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
+    A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
+      A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
+
+    But howling Winter fled afar
+    To hills that prop the polar star;
+    And loves on deer-borne car to ride
+    With barren darkness by his side,
+    Round the shore where loud Lofoden
+      Whirls to death the roaring whale;
+    Round the hall where Runic Odin
+      Howls his war-song to the gale;
+    Save when adown the ravaged globe
+      He travels on his native storm,
+    Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
+      And trampling on her faded form:--
+    Till light's returning Lord assume
+      The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
+    Of power to pierce his raven plume
+      And crystal-cover'd shield.
+
+    Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
+    The Lapland drum delights to hear,
+    When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
+    Implores thy dreadful deity--
+    Archangel! Power of desolation!
+      Fast descending as thou art,
+    Say, hath mortal invocation
+      Spells to touch thy stony heart?
+    Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
+    And gently rule the ruin'd year;
+    Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
+    Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
+    To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
+      Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
+    And gently on the orphan head
+      Of Innocence descend.
+
+    But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
+    The sailor on his airy shrouds,
+    When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
+    And spectres walk along the deep.
+    Milder yet thy snowy breezes
+      Pour on yonder tented shores,
+    Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
+      Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
+    Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there
+      To many a deep and dying groan?
+    Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
+      At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
+    Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath
+      May spare the victim fallen low;
+    But Man will ask no truce to death,--
+      No bounds to human woe.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCV
+
+_YARROW UNVISITED_
+
+_1803_
+
+    From Stirling Castle we had seen
+    The mazy Forth unravell'd,
+    Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
+    And with the Tweed had travell'd;
+    And when we came to Clovenford,
+    Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
+    'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
+    And see the Braes of Yarrow.'
+
+    'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
+    Who have been buying, selling,
+    Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
+    Each maiden to her dwelling!
+    On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
+    Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;
+    But we will downward with the Tweed,
+    Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
+
+    'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,
+    Both lying right before us;
+    And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
+    The lintwhites sing in chorus;
+    There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
+    Made blithe with plough and harrow:
+    Why throw away a needful day
+    To go in search of Yarrow?
+
+    'What's Yarrow but a river bare
+    That glides the dark hills under?
+    There are a thousand such elsewhere
+    As worthy of your wonder.'
+    --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
+    My True-love sigh'd for sorrow,
+    And look'd me in the face, to think
+    I thus could speak of Yarrow!
+
+    'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,
+    And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
+    Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
+    But we will leave it growing.
+    O'er hilly path and open strath
+    We'll wander Scotland thorough;
+    But, though so near, we will not turn
+    Into the dale of Yarrow.
+
+    'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
+    The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
+    The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
+    Float double, swan and shadow!
+    We will not see them; will not go
+    To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
+    Enough if in our hearts we know
+    There's such a place as Yarrow.
+
+    'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
+    It must, or we shall rue it:
+    We have a vision of our own,
+    Ah! why should we undo it?
+    The treasured dreams of times long past,
+    We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
+    For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
+    'Twill be another Yarrow!
+
+    'If Care with freezing years should come
+    And wandering seem but folly,--
+    Should we be loth to stir from home,
+    And yet be melancholy;
+    Should life be dull, and spirits low,
+    'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
+    That earth has something yet to show,
+    The bonny holms of Yarrow!'
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCVI
+
+_YARROW VISITED_
+
+_September, 1814_
+
+    And is this--Yarrow?--This the stream
+    Of which my fancy cherish'd
+    So faithfully, a waking dream,
+    An image that hath perish'd?
+    O that some minstrel's harp were near
+    To utter notes of gladness
+    And chase this silence from the air,
+    That fills my heart with sadness!
+
+    Yet why?--a silvery current flows
+    With uncontroll'd meanderings;
+    Nor have these eyes by greener hills
+    Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
+    And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
+    Is visibly delighted;
+    For not a feature of those hills
+    Is in the mirror slighted.
+
+    A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
+    Save where that pearly whiteness
+    Is round the rising sun diffused,
+    A tender hazy brightness;
+    Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
+    All profitless dejection;
+    Though not unwilling here to admit
+    A pensive recollection.
+
+    Where was it that the famous Flower
+    Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
+    His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
+    On which the herd is feeding:
+    And haply from this crystal pool,
+    Now peaceful as the morning,
+    The Water-wraith ascended thrice,
+    And gave his doleful warning.
+
+    Delicious is the lay that sings
+    The haunts of happy lovers,
+    The path that leads them to the grove,
+    The leafy grove that covers:
+    And pity sanctifies the verse
+    That paints, by strength of sorrow,
+    The unconquerable strength of love;
+    Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
+
+    But thou that didst appear so fair
+    To fond imagination,
+    Dost rival in the light of day
+    Her delicate creation:
+    Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
+    A softness still and holy:
+    The grace of forest charms decay'd,
+    And pastoral melancholy.
+
+    That region left, the vale unfolds
+    Rich groves of lofty stature,
+    With Yarrow winding through the pomp
+    Of cultivated nature;
+    And rising from those lofty groves
+    Behold a ruin hoary,
+    The shatter'd front of Newark's towers,
+    Renown'd in Border story.
+
+    Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
+    For sportive youth to stray in,
+    For manhood to enjoy his strength,
+    And age to wear away in!
+    Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
+    A covert for protection
+    Of tender thoughts that nestle there--
+    The brood of chaste affection.
+
+    How sweet on this autumnal day
+    The wild-wood fruits to gather,
+    And on my True-love's forehead plant
+    A crest of blooming heather!
+    And what if I enwreathed my own?
+    'Twere no offence to reason;
+    The sober hills thus deck their brows
+    To meet the wintry season.
+
+    I see--but not by sight alone,
+    Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
+    A ray of Fancy still survives--
+    Her sunshine plays upon thee!
+    Thy ever-youthful waters keep
+    A course of lively pleasure;
+    And gladsome notes my lips can breathe
+    Accordant to the measure.
+
+    The vapours linger round the heights,
+    They melt, and soon must vanish;
+    One hour is theirs, nor more is mine--
+    Sad thought! which I would banish,
+    But that I know, where'er I go,
+    Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
+    Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,
+    And cheer my mind in sorrow.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCVII
+
+_THE INVITATION_
+
+    Best and brightest, come away,--
+    Fairer far than this fair Day,
+    Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
+    Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
+    To the rough year just awake
+    In its cradle on the brake.
+    The brightest hour of unborn Spring
+    Through the winter wandering,
+    Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
+    To hoar February born;
+    Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,
+    It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,
+    And smiled upon the silent sea,
+    And bade the frozen streams be free,
+    And waked to music all their fountains,
+    And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
+    And like a prophetess of May
+    Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
+    Making the wintry world appear
+    Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
+
+      Away, away, from men and towns,
+    To the wild wood and the downs--
+    To the silent wilderness
+    Where the soul need not repress
+    Its music, lest it should not find
+    An echo in another's mind,
+    While the touch of Nature's art
+    Harmonizes heart to heart.
+
+      Radiant Sister of the Day
+    Awake! arise! and come away!
+    To the wild woods and the plains,
+    To the pools where winter rains
+    Image all their roof of leaves,
+    Where the pine its garland weaves
+    Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
+    Round stems that never kiss the sun;
+    Where the lawns and pastures be
+    And the sandhills of the sea;
+    Where the melting hoar-frost wets
+    The daisy-star that never sets,
+    And wind-flowers and violets
+    Which yet join not scent to hue
+    Crown the pale year weak and new;
+    When the night is left behind
+    In the deep east, dim and blind,
+    And the blue noon is over us,
+    And the multitudinous
+    Billows murmur at our feet,
+    Where the earth and ocean meet,
+    And all things seem only one
+    In the universal Sun.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCVIII
+
+_THE RECOLLECTION_
+
+    Now the last day of many days
+    All beautiful and bright as thou,
+    The loveliest and the last, is dead:
+    Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
+    Up--to thy wonted work! come, trace
+    The epitaph of glory fled,
+    For now the earth has changed its face,
+    A frown is on the heaven's brow.
+
+    We wander'd to the Pine Forest
+      That skirts the Ocean's foam;
+    The lightest wind was in its nest,
+      The tempest in its home.
+    The whispering waves were half asleep,
+      The clouds were gone to play,
+    And on the bosom of the deep
+      The smile of heaven lay;
+    It seem'd as if the hour were one
+      Sent from beyond the skies
+    Which scatter'd from above the sun
+      A light of Paradise!
+
+    We paused amid the pines that stood
+      The giants of the waste,
+    Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
+      As serpents interlaced,--
+    And soothed by every azure breath
+      That under heaven is blown,
+    To harmonies and hues beneath,
+      As tender as its own:
+    Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
+      Like green waves on the sea,
+    As still as in the silent deep
+      The ocean-woods may be.
+
+    How calm it was!--The silence there
+      By such a chain was bound,
+    That even the busy woodpecker
+      Made stiller with her sound
+    The inviolable quietness;
+      The breath of peace we drew
+    With its soft motion made not less
+      The calm that round us grew.
+    There seem'd, from the remotest seat
+      Of the white mountain waste
+    To the soft flower beneath our feet,
+      A magic circle traced,--
+    A spirit interfused around,
+      A thrilling silent life;
+    To momentary peace it bound
+      Our mortal nature's strife;--
+    And still I felt the centre of
+      The magic circle there
+    Was one fair form that fill'd with love
+      The lifeless atmosphere.
+
+    We paused beside the pools that lie
+      Under the forest bough;
+    Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky
+      Gulf'd in a world below;
+    A firmament of purple light
+      Which in the dark earth lay,
+    More boundless than the depth of night
+      And purer than the day--
+    In which the lovely forests grew
+      As in the upper air,
+    More perfect both in shape and hue
+      Than any spreading there.
+    There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
+      And through the dark-green wood
+    The white sun twinkling like the dawn
+      Out of a speckled cloud.
+    Sweet views which in our world above
+      Can never well be seen
+    Were imaged in the water's love
+      Of that fair forest green:
+    And all was interfused beneath
+      With an Elysian glow,
+    An atmosphere without a breath,
+      A softer day below.
+    Like one beloved, the scene had lent
+      To the dark water's breast
+    Its every leaf and lineament
+      With more than truth exprest;
+    Until an envious wind crept by,
+      Like an unwelcome thought
+    Which from the mind's too faithful eye
+      Blots one dear image out.
+    --Though thou art ever fair and kind,
+      The forests ever green,
+    Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind
+      Than calm in waters seen!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCIX
+
+_BY THE SEA_
+
+    It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
+    The holy time is quiet as a Nun
+    Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
+    Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
+
+    The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
+    Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
+    And doth with his eternal motion make
+    A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
+
+    Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
+    If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
+    Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
+
+    Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
+    And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
+    God being with thee when we know it not.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCX
+
+_SONG TO THE EVENING STAR_
+
+    Star that bringest home the bee,
+    And sett'st the weary labourer free!
+    If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
+      That send'st it from above,
+    Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
+      Are sweet as hers we love.
+
+    Come to the luxuriant skies,
+    Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
+    Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
+      And songs when toil is done,
+    From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
+      Curls yellow in the sun.
+
+    Star of love's soft interviews,
+    Parted lovers on thee muse;
+    Their remembrancer in Heaven
+      Of thrilling vows thou art,
+    Too delicious to be riven
+      By absence from the heart.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXI
+
+_DATUR HORA QUIETI_
+
+    The sun upon the lake is low,
+      The wild birds hush their song,
+    The hills have evening's deepest glow,
+      Yet Leonard tarries long.
+    Now all whom varied toil and care
+      From home and love divide,
+    In the calm sunset may repair
+      Each to the loved one's side.
+
+    The noble dame, on turret high,
+      Who waits her gallant knight,
+    Looks to the western beam to spy
+      The flash of armour bright.
+    The village maid, with hand on brow
+      The level ray to shade,
+    Upon the footpath watches now
+      For Colin's darkening plaid.
+
+    Now to their mates the wild swans row,
+      By day they swam apart,
+    And to the thicket wanders slow
+      The hind beside the hart.
+    The woodlark at his partner's side
+      Twitters his closing song--
+    All meet whom day and care divide,
+      But Leonard tarries long!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCCXII
+
+_TO THE MOON_
+
+        Art thou pale for weariness
+      Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
+        Wandering companionless
+      Among the stars that have a different birth,--
+    And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
+    That finds no object worth its constancy?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXIII
+
+_TO SLEEP_
+
+    A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+    One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
+    Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
+    Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:
+
+    I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
+    Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
+    Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
+    And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
+
+    Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
+    And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
+    So do not let me wear to-night away:
+
+    Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
+    Come, blesséd barrier between day and day,
+    Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXIV
+
+_THE SOLDIER'S DREAM_
+
+    Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
+      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
+    And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
+      The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
+
+    When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
+      By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
+    At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
+      And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
+
+    Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
+      Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:
+    'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way
+      To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
+
+    I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
+      In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
+    I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
+      And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
+
+    Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
+      From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
+    My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
+      And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
+
+    'Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!'--
+      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;--
+    But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
+      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXV
+
+_A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN_
+
+    I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way
+      Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
+    And gentle odours led my steps astray,
+      Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
+    Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
+      Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
+    Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
+    But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.
+
+    There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
+      Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
+    The constellated flower that never sets;
+      Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
+    The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
+    Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
+    When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
+
+    And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
+      Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,
+    And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
+      Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;
+    And wild roses, and ivy serpentine
+      With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
+    And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,
+    Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
+
+    And nearer to the river's trembling edge
+      There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,
+    And starry river-buds among the sedge,
+      And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
+    Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
+      With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
+    And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
+    As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
+
+    Methought that of these visionary flowers
+      I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
+    That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
+      Were mingled or opposed, the like array
+    Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
+      Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay,
+    I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come
+    That I might there present it--O! to Whom?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXVI
+
+_KUBLA KHAN_
+
+    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
+    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
+    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
+    Through caverns measureless to man
+      Down to a sunless sea.
+    So twice five miles of fertile ground
+    With walls and towers were girdled round:
+    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
+    Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;
+    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
+    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
+
+      But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
+    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
+    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
+    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
+    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
+    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
+    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
+    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
+    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
+    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail.
+    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
+    And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
+    It flung up momently the sacred river.
+    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
+    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
+    Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
+    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
+    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
+    Ancestral voices prophesying war!
+
+        The shadow of the dome of pleasure
+      Floated midway on the waves;
+      Where was heard the mingled measure
+      From the fountain and the caves.
+    It was a miracle of rare device,
+    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
+      A damsel with a dulcimer
+      In a vision once I saw:
+      It was an Abyssinian maid,
+      And on her dulcimer she play'd,
+      Singing of Mount Abora.
+      Could I revive within me
+      Her symphony and song,
+    To such a deep delight 'twould win me
+    That with music loud and long,
+    I would build that dome in air,
+    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
+    And all who heard should see them there,
+    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
+    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
+    Weave a circle round him thrice,
+    And close your eyes with holy dread,
+    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
+    And drunk the milk of Paradise.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCCXVII
+
+_THE INNER VISION_
+
+    Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+    To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
+    While a fair region round the traveller lies
+    Which he forbears again to look upon;
+
+    Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
+    The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
+    Of meditation, slipping in between
+    The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
+
+    --If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
+    Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
+    With Thought and Love companions of our way--
+
+    Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,--
+    The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
+    Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXVIII
+
+_THE REALM OF FANCY_
+
+    Ever let the Fancy roam;
+    Pleasure never is at home:
+    At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
+    Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
+    Then let wingéd Fancy wander
+    Through the thought still spread beyond her:
+    Open wide the mind's cage-door,
+    She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
+    O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+    Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
+    And the enjoying of the Spring
+    Fades as does its blossoming;
+    Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
+    Blushing through the mist and dew,
+    Cloys with tasting: What do then?
+    Sit thee by the ingle, when
+    The sear faggot blazes bright,
+    Spirit of a winter's night;
+    When the soundless earth is muffled,
+    And the cakéd snow is shuffled
+    From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
+    When the Night doth meet the Noon
+    In a dark conspiracy
+    To banish Even from her sky.
+    Sit thee there, and send abroad,
+    With a mind self-overaw'd,
+    Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!
+    She has vassals to attend her:
+    She will bring, in spite of frost,
+    Beauties that the earth hath lost;
+    She will bring thee, all together,
+    All delights of summer weather;
+    All the buds and bells of May,
+    From dewy sward or thorny spray;
+    All the heapéd Autumn's wealth,
+    With a still, mysterious stealth:
+    She will mix these pleasures up
+    Like three fit wines in a cup,
+    And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear
+    Distant harvest-carols clear;
+    Rustle of the reapéd corn;
+    Sweet birds antheming the morn:
+    And, in the same moment--hark!
+    'Tis the early April lark,
+    Or the rooks, with busy caw,
+    Foraging for sticks and straw.
+    Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
+    The daisy and the marigold;
+    White-plumed lilies, and the first
+    Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
+    Shaded hyacinth, alway
+    Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
+    And every leaf, and every flower
+    Pearléd with the self-same shower.
+    Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
+    Meagre from its celléd sleep;
+    And the snake all winter-thin
+    Cast on sunny bank its skin;
+    Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
+    Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
+    When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
+    Quiet on her mossy nest;
+    Then the hurry and alarm
+    When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
+    Acorns ripe down-pattering,
+    While the autumn breezes sing.
+
+      Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+    Everything is spoilt by use:
+    Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
+    Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
+    Whose lip mature is ever new?
+    Where's the eye, however blue,
+    Doth not weary? Where's the face
+    One would meet in every place?
+    Where's the voice, however soft,
+    One would hear so very oft?
+    At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
+    Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
+    Let then wingéd Fancy find
+    Thee a mistress to thy mind:
+    Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
+    Ere the God of Torment taught her
+    How to frown and how to chide;
+    With a waist and with a side
+    White as Hebe's, when her zone
+    Slipt its golden clasp, and down
+    Fell her kirtle to her feet,
+    While she held the goblet sweet,
+    And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh
+    Of the Fancy's silken leash;
+    Quickly break her prison-string,
+    And such joys as these she'll bring.
+    --Let the wingéd Fancy roam,
+    Pleasure never is at home.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXIX
+
+_WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING_
+
+    I heard a thousand blended notes
+    While in a grove I sate reclined,
+    In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
+    Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
+
+    To her fair works did Nature link
+    The human soul that through me ran;
+    And much it grieved my heart to think
+    What Man has made of Man.
+
+    Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
+    The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
+    And 'tis my faith that every flower
+    Enjoys the air it breathes.
+
+    The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
+    Their thoughts I cannot measure,--
+    But the least motion which they made
+    It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
+
+    The budding twigs spread out their fan
+    To catch the breezy air;
+    And I must think, do all I can,
+    That there was pleasure there.
+
+    If this belief from heaven be sent,
+    If such be Nature's holy plan,
+    Have I not reason to lament
+    What Man has made of Man?
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXX
+
+_RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE_
+
+    When Ruth was left half desolate
+    Her father took another mate;
+    And Ruth, not seven years old,
+    A slighted child, at her own will
+    Went wandering over dale and hill,
+    In thoughtless freedom, bold.
+
+    And she had made a pipe of straw,
+    And music from that pipe could draw
+    Like sounds of winds and floods;
+    Had built a bower upon the green,
+    As if she from her birth had been
+    An infant of the woods.
+
+    Beneath her father's roof, alone
+    She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;
+    Herself her own delight:
+    Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay;
+    And passing thus the live-long day,
+    She grew to woman's height.
+
+    There came a youth from Georgia's shore--
+    A military casque he wore
+    With splendid feathers drest;
+    He brought them from the Cherokees;
+    The feathers nodded in the breeze
+    And made a gallant crest.
+
+    From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
+    But no! he spake the English tongue
+    And bore a soldier's name;
+    And, when America was free
+    From battle and from jeopardy,
+    He 'cross the ocean came.
+
+    With hues of genius on his cheek,
+    In finest tones the youth could speak:
+    --While he was yet a boy
+    The moon, the glory of the sun,
+    And streams that murmur as they run
+    Had been his dearest joy.
+
+    He was a lovely youth! I guess
+    The panther in the wilderness
+    Was not so fair as he;
+    And when he chose to sport and play,
+    No dolphin ever was so gay
+    Upon the tropic sea.
+
+    Among the Indians he had fought;
+    And with him many tales he brought
+    Of pleasure and of fear;
+    Such tales as, told to any maid
+    By such a youth, in the green shade,
+    Were perilous to hear.
+
+    He told of girls, a happy rout!
+    Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
+    Their pleasant Indian town,
+    To gather strawberries all day long;
+    Returning with a choral song
+    When daylight is gone down.
+
+    He spake of plants that hourly change
+    Their blossoms, through a boundless range
+    Of intermingling hues;
+    With budding, fading, faded flowers,
+    They stand the wonder of the bowers
+    From morn to evening dews.
+
+    He told of the magnolia, spread
+    High as a cloud, high over head!
+    The cypress and her spire;
+    --Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
+    Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
+    To set the hills on fire.
+
+    The youth of green savannahs spake,
+    And many an endless, endless lake
+    With all its fairy crowds
+    Of islands, that together lie
+    As quietly as spots of sky
+    Among the evening clouds.
+
+    'How pleasant,' then he said, 'it were
+    A fisher or a hunter there,
+    In sunshine or in shade
+    To wander with an easy mind,
+    And build a household fire, and find
+    A home in every glade!
+
+    'What days and what bright years! Ah me!
+    Our life were life indeed, with thee
+    So pass'd in quiet bliss;
+    And all the while,' said he, 'to know
+    That we were in a world of woe,
+    On such an earth as this!'
+
+    And then he sometimes interwove
+    Fond thoughts about a father's love,
+    'For there,' said he, 'are spun
+    Around the heart such tender ties,
+    That our own children to our eyes
+    Are dearer than the sun.
+
+    'Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
+    My helpmate in the woods to be,
+    Our shed at night to rear;
+    Or run, my own adopted bride,
+    A sylvan huntress at my side,
+    And drive the flying deer!
+
+    'Beloved Ruth!'--No more he said,
+    The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
+    A solitary tear:
+    She thought again--and did agree
+    With him to sail across the sea,
+    And drive the flying deer.
+
+    'And now, as fitting is and right,
+    We in the church our faith will plight,
+    A husband and a wife.'
+    Even so they did; and I may say
+    That to sweet Ruth that happy day
+    Was more than human life.
+
+    Through dream and vision did she sink,
+    Delighted all the while to think
+    That, on those lonesome floods
+    And green savannahs, she should share
+    His board with lawful joy, and bear
+    His name in the wild woods.
+
+    But, as you have before been told,
+    This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
+    And with his dancing crest
+    So beautiful, through savage lands
+    Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands
+    Of Indians in the West.
+
+    The wind, the tempest roaring high,
+    The tumult of a tropic sky
+    Might well be dangerous food
+    For him, a youth to whom was given
+    So much of earth--so much of heaven,
+    And such impetuous blood.
+
+    Whatever in those climes he found
+    Irregular in sight or sound
+    Did to his mind impart
+    A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
+    To his own powers, and justified
+    The workings of his heart.
+
+    Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
+    The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,--
+    Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
+    The breezes their own languor lent;
+    The stars had feelings, which they sent
+    Into those favour'd bowers.
+
+    Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
+    That sometimes there did intervene
+    Pure hopes of high intent:
+    For passions link'd to forms so fair
+    And stately, needs must have their share
+    Of noble sentiment.
+
+    But ill he lived, much evil saw,
+    With men to whom no better law
+    Nor better life was known;
+    Deliberately and undeceived
+    Those wild men's vices he received,
+    And gave them back his own.
+
+    His genius and his moral frame
+    Were thus impair'd, and he became
+    The slave of low desires:
+    A man who without self-control
+    Would seek what the degraded soul
+    Unworthily admires.
+
+    And yet he with no feign'd delight
+    Had woo'd the maiden, day and night
+    Had loved her, night and morn:
+    What could he less than love a maid
+    Whose heart with so much nature play'd--
+    So kind and so forlorn?
+
+    Sometimes most earnestly he said,
+    'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
+    False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
+    Encompass'd me on every side
+    When I, in confidence and pride,
+    Had cross'd the Atlantic main.
+
+    'Before me shone a glorious world
+    Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd
+    To music suddenly:
+    I look'd upon those hills and plains,
+    And seem'd as if let loose from chains
+    To live at liberty!
+
+    'No more of this--for now, by thee,
+    Dear Ruth! more happily set free,
+    With nobler zeal I burn;
+    My soul from darkness is released
+    Like the whole sky when to the east
+    The morning doth return.'
+
+    Full soon that better mind was gone;
+    No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,--
+    They stirr'd him now no more;
+    New objects did new pleasure give,
+    And once again he wish'd to live
+    As lawless as before.
+
+    Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
+    They for the voyage were prepared,
+    And went to the sea-shore:
+    But, when they thither came, the youth
+    Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
+    Could never find him more.
+
+    God help thee, Ruth!--Such pains she had
+    That she in half a year was mad
+    And in a prison housed;
+    And there, with many a doleful song
+    Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
+    She fearfully caroused.
+
+    Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
+    Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
+    Nor pastimes of the May,
+    --They all were with her in her cell;
+    And a clear brook with cheerful knell
+    Did o'er the pebbles play.
+
+    When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
+    There came a respite to her pain;
+    She from her prison fled;
+    But of the Vagrant none took thought;
+    And where it liked her best she sought
+    Her shelter and her bread.
+
+    Among the fields she breathed again:
+    The master-current of her brain
+    Ran permanent and free;
+    And, coming to the banks of Tone,
+    There did she rest; and dwell alone
+    Under the greenwood tree.
+
+    The engines of her pain, the tools
+    That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
+    And airs that gently stir
+    The vernal leaves--she loved them still,
+    Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
+    Which had been done to her.
+
+    A barn her Winter bed supplies;
+    But, till the warmth of Summer skies
+    And Summer days is gone,
+    (And all do in this tale agree)
+    She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
+    And other home hath none.
+
+    An innocent life, yet far astray!
+    And Ruth will, long before her day,
+    Be broken down and old.
+    Sore aches she needs must have! but less
+    Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
+    From damp, and rain, and cold.
+
+    If she is prest by want of food
+    She from her dwelling in the wood
+    Repairs to a road-side;
+    And there she begs at one steep place,
+    Where up and down with easy pace
+    The horsemen-travellers ride.
+
+    That oaten pipe of hers is mute
+    Or thrown away: but with a flute
+    Her loneliness she cheers;
+    This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
+    At evening in his homeward walk
+    The Quantock woodman hears.
+
+    I, too, have pass'd her on the hills
+    Setting her little water-mills
+    By spouts and fountains wild--
+    Such small machinery as she turn'd
+    Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,--
+    A young and happy child!
+
+    Farewell! and when thy days are told,
+    Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould
+    Thy corpse shall buried be;
+    For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
+    And all the congregation sing
+    A Christian psalm for thee.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXI
+
+_WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS_
+
+    Many a green isle needs must be
+    In the deep wide sea of Misery,
+    Or the mariner, worn and wan,
+    Never thus could voyage on
+    Day and night, and night and day,
+    Drifting on his dreary way,
+    With the solid darkness black
+    Closing round his vessel's track;
+    Whilst above, the sunless sky
+    Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
+    And behind the tempest fleet
+    Hurries on with lightning feet,
+    Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
+    Till the ship has almost drank
+    Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
+    And sinks down, down, like that sleep
+    When the dreamer seems to be
+    Weltering through eternity;
+    And the dim low line before
+    Of a dark and distant shore
+    Still recedes, as ever still
+    Longing with divided will,
+    But no power to seek or shun,
+    He is ever drifted on
+    O'er the unreposing wave,
+    To the haven of the grave.
+
+      Ah, many flowering islands lie
+    In the waters of wide Agony:
+    To such a one this morn was led
+    My bark, by soft winds piloted.
+    --'Mid the mountains Euganean
+    I stood listening to the paean
+    With which the legion'd rooks did hail
+    The Sun's uprise majestical:
+    Gathering round with wings all hoar,
+    Through the dewy mist they soar
+    Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
+    Bursts; and then,--as clouds of even
+    Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
+    In the unfathomable sky,--
+    So their plumes of purple grain
+    Starr'd with drops of golden rain
+    Gleam above the sunlight woods,
+    As in silent multitudes
+    On the morning's fitful gale
+    Through the broken mist they sail;
+    And the vapours cloven and gleaming
+    Follow down the dark steep streaming,
+    Till all is bright, and clear, and still
+    Round the solitary hill.
+
+      Beneath is spread like a green sea
+    The waveless plain of Lombardy,
+    Bounded by the vaporous air,
+    Islanded by cities fair;
+    Underneath Day's azure eyes,
+    Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,--
+    A peopled labyrinth of walls,
+    Amphitrite's destined halls,
+    Which her hoary sire now paves
+    With his blue and beaming waves.
+    Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
+    Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
+    On the level quivering line
+    Of the waters crystalline;
+    And before that chasm of light,
+    As within a furnace bright,
+    Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
+    Shine like obelisks of fire,
+    Pointing with inconstant motion
+    From the altar of dark ocean
+    To the sapphire-tinted skies;
+    As the flames of sacrifice
+    From the marble shrines did rise
+    As to pierce the dome of gold
+    Where Apollo spoke of old.
+
+      Sun-girt City! thou hast been
+    Ocean's child, and then his queen;
+    Now is come a darker day,
+    And thou soon must be his prey,
+    If the power that raised thee here
+    Hallow so thy watery bier.
+    A less drear ruin then than now,
+    With thy conquest-branded brow
+    Stooping to the slave of slaves
+    From thy throne among the waves
+    Wilt thou be,--when the sea-mew
+    Flies, as once before if flew,
+    O'er thine isles depopulate,
+    And all is in its ancient state,
+    Save where many a palace-gate
+    With green sea-flowers overgrown
+    Like a rock of ocean's own,
+    Topples o'er the abandon'd sea
+    As the tides change sullenly.
+    The fisher on his watery way
+    Wandering at the close of day,
+    Will spread his sail and seize his oar
+    Till he pass the gloomy shore,
+    Lest thy dead should, from their sleep,
+    Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
+    Lead a rapid masque of death
+    O'er the waters of his path.
+
+      Noon descends around me now:
+    'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
+    When a soft and purple mist
+    Like a vaporous amethyst,
+    Or an air-dissolvéd star
+    Mingling light and fragrance, far
+    From the curved horizon's bound
+    To the point of heaven's profound,
+    Fills the overflowing sky;
+    And the plains that silent lie
+    Underneath; the leaves unsodden
+    Where the infant Frost has trodden
+    With his morning-wingéd feet
+    Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
+    And the red and golden vines
+    Piercing with their trellised lines
+    The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
+    The dun and bladed grass no less,
+    Pointing from this hoary tower
+    In the windless air; the flower
+    Glimmering at my feet; the line
+    Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine
+    In the south dimly islanded;
+    And the Alps, whose snows are spread
+    High between the clouds and sun;
+    And of living things each one;
+    And my spirit, which so long
+    Darken'd this swift stream of song,--
+    Interpenetrated lie
+    By the glory of the sky;
+    Be it love, light, harmony,
+    Odour, or the soul of all
+    Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
+    Or the mind which feeds this verse,
+    Peopling the lone universe.
+
+      Noon descends, and after noon
+    Autumn's evening meets me soon,
+    Leading the infantine moon
+    And that one star, which to her
+    Almost seems to minister
+    Half the crimson light she brings
+    From the sunset's radiant springs:
+    And the soft dreams of the morn
+    (Which like wingéd winds had borne
+    To that silent isle, which lies
+    'Mid remember'd agonies,
+    The frail bark of this lone being),
+    Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
+    And its ancient pilot, Pain,
+    Sits beside the helm again.
+
+      Other flowering isles must be
+    In the sea of Life and Agony:
+    Other spirits float and flee
+    O'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps,
+    On some rock the wild wave wraps,
+    With folded wings they waiting sit
+    For my bark, to pilot it
+    To some calm and blooming cove;
+    Where for me, and those I love,
+    May a windless bower be built,
+    Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
+    In a dell 'mid lawny hills
+    Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
+    And soft sunshine, and the sound
+    Of old forests echoing round,
+    And the light and smell divine
+    Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
+    --We may live so happy there,
+    That the Spirits of the Air
+    Envying us, may ev'n entice
+    To our healing paradise
+    The polluting multitude:
+    But their rage would be subdued
+    By that clime divine and calm,
+    And the winds whose wings rain balm
+    On the uplifted soul, and leaves
+    Under which the bright sea heaves;
+    While each breathless interval
+    In their whisperings musical
+    The inspired soul supplies
+    With its own deep melodies;
+    And the Love which heals all strife
+    Circling, like the breath of life,
+    All things in that sweet abode
+    With its own mild brotherhood:--
+    They, not it, would change; and soon
+    Every sprite beneath the moon
+    Would repent its envy vain,
+    And the Earth grow young again.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXII
+
+_ODE TO THE WEST WIND_
+
+    O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
+    Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
+    Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
+    Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
+    Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
+    Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
+    The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
+    Each like a corpse within its grave, until
+    Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
+    Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
+    (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
+    With living hues and odours plain and hill:
+    Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
+    Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!
+
+      Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
+    Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
+    Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
+    Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
+    On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
+    Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
+    Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
+    Of the horizon to the zenith's height--
+    The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
+    Of the dying year, to which this closing night
+    Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
+    Vaulted with all thy congregated might
+    Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
+    Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!
+
+      Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
+    The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
+    Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
+    Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
+    And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
+    Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
+    All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
+    So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
+    For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
+    Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
+    The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
+    The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
+    Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
+    And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!
+
+      If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
+    If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
+    A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
+    The impulse of thy strength, only less free
+    Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even
+    I were as in my boyhood, and could be
+    The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
+    As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
+    Scarce seem'd a vision,--I would ne'er have striven
+    As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
+    Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
+    I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
+    A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
+    One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud.
+
+      Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
+    What if my leaves are falling like its own!
+    The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
+    Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
+    Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
+    My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
+    Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
+    Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
+    And, by the incantation of this verse,
+    Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
+    Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
+    Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
+    The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
+    If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXIII
+
+_NATURE AND THE POET_
+
+_Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir
+George Beaumont_
+
+    I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+    Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
+    I saw thee every day; and all the while
+    Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
+
+    So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
+    So like, so very like, was day to day!
+    Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
+    It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
+
+    How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
+    No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
+    I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
+    Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
+
+    Ah! then--if mine had been the painter's hand
+    To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
+    The light that never was on sea or land,
+    The consecration, and the Poet's dream,--
+
+    I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,
+    Amid a world how different from this!
+    Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
+    On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
+
+    Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine
+    Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;--
+    Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
+    The very sweetest had to thee been given.
+
+    A picture had it been of lasting ease,
+    Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
+    No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;
+    Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
+
+    Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
+    Such picture would I at that time have made;
+    And seen the soul of truth in every part,
+    A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.
+
+    So once it would have been,--'tis so no more;
+    I have submitted to a new control:
+    A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
+    A deep distress hath humanized my soul.
+
+    Not for a moment could I now behold
+    A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
+    The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
+    This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
+
+    Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend
+    If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
+    This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
+    This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
+
+    O 'tis a passionate work!--yet wise and well,
+    Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
+    That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
+    This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
+
+    And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
+    I love to see the look with which it braves,
+    --Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time--
+    The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
+
+    --Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
+    Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
+    Such happiness, wherever it be known,
+    Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
+
+    But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
+    And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
+    Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:--
+    Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXIV
+
+_THE POET'S DREAM_
+
+    On a Poet's lips I slept
+    Dreaming like a love-adept
+    In the sound his breathing kept;
+    Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
+    But feeds on the aërial kisses
+    Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.
+    He will watch from dawn to gloom
+    The lake-reflected sun illume
+    The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
+      Nor heed nor see what things they be--
+    But from these create he can
+    Forms more real than living Man,
+      Nurslings of Immortality!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXV
+
+_GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN_
+
+    In this still place, remote from men,
+    Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;
+    In this still place, where murmurs on
+    But one meek streamlet, only one:
+    He sang of battles, and the breath
+    Of stormy war, and violent death;
+    And should, methinks, when all was past,
+    Have rightfully been laid at last
+    Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent
+    As by a spirit turbulent;
+    Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
+    And everything unreconciled;
+    In some complaining, dim retreat,
+    For fear and melancholy meet;
+    But this is calm; there cannot be
+    A more entire tranquillity.
+
+      Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
+    Or is it but a groundless creed?
+    What matters it?--I blame them not
+    Whose fancy in this lonely spot
+    Was moved; and in such way express'd
+    Their notion of its perfect rest.
+    A convent, even a hermit's cell,
+    Would break the silence of this Dell:
+    It is not quiet, is not ease;
+    But something deeper far than these;
+    The separation that is here
+    Is of the grave; and of austere
+    Yet happy feelings of the dead:
+    And, therefore, was it rightly said
+    That Ossian, last of all his race!
+    Lies buried in this lonely place.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVI
+
+    The World is too much with us; late and soon,
+    Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
+    Little we see in Nature that is ours;
+    We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
+
+    This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
+    The winds that will be howling at all hours
+    And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
+    For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
+
+    It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
+    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,--
+    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
+
+    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
+    Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
+    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVII
+
+_WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE_
+
+    Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
+    With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
+    (Albeit labouring for a scanty band
+    Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense
+
+    And glorious work of fine intelligence!
+    --Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
+    Of nicely-calculated less or more:--
+    So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
+
+    These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
+    Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
+    Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
+
+    Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die;
+    Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
+    That they were born for immortality.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVIII
+
+_ODE ON A GRECIAN URN_
+
+    Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
+      Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
+    Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
+      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
+    What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
+      Of deities or mortals, or of both,
+        In Tempé or the dales of Arcady?
+    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
+      What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
+        What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
+
+    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
+      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
+    Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
+      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
+    Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
+      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
+        Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
+    Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
+      She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
+        For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
+
+    Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
+      Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
+    And, happy melodist, unweariéd,
+      For ever piping songs for ever new;
+    More happy love! more happy, happy love!
+      For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
+        For ever panting, and for ever young;
+    All breathing human passion far above,
+      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
+        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
+
+    Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
+      To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
+    Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
+      And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
+    What little town by river or sea shore,
+      Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
+        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
+    And, little town, thy streets for evermore
+      Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
+        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
+
+    O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
+      Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
+    With forest branches and the trodden weed;
+      Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
+    As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
+      When old age shall this generation waste,
+        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
+    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
+      'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'--that is all
+        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXXIX
+
+_YOUTH AND AGE_
+
+    Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
+    Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee--
+    Both were mine! Life went a-maying
+          With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
+                When I was young!
+    When I was young?--Ah, woful when!
+    Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
+    This breathing house not built with hands,
+    This body that does me grievous wrong,
+    O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
+    How lightly then it flash'd along:
+    Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
+    On winding lakes and rivers wide,
+    That ask no aid of sail or oar,
+    That fear no spite of wind or tide!
+    Nought cared this body for wind or weather
+    When Youth and I lived in't together.
+
+      Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
+    Friendship is a sheltering tree;
+    O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
+    Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
+                Ere I was old!
+    Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
+    Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
+    O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
+    'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
+    I'll think it but a a fond conceit--
+    It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
+    Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:--
+    And thou wert aye a masker bold!
+    What strange disguise hast now put on
+    To make believe that Thou art gone?
+    I see these locks in silvery slips,
+    This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
+    But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
+    And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
+    Life is but Thought: so think I will
+    That Youth and I are house-mates still.
+
+      Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
+    But the tears of mournful eve!
+    Where no hope is, life's a warning
+    That only serves to make us grieve
+                When we are old:
+    --That only serves to make us grieve
+    With oft and tedious taking-leave,
+    Like some poor nigh-related guest
+    That may not rudely be dismist,
+    Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
+    And tells the jest without the smile.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCCXXX
+
+_THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS_
+
+    We walked along, while bright and red
+    Uprose the morning sun;
+    And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said
+    'The will of God be done!'
+
+    A village schoolmaster was he,
+    With hair of glittering gray;
+    As blithe a man as you could see
+    On a spring holiday.
+
+    And on that morning, through the grass
+    And by the steaming rills
+    We travell'd merrily, to pass
+    A day among the hills.
+
+    'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun;
+    Then, from thy breast what thought,
+    Beneath so beautiful a sun,
+    So sad a sigh has brought?'
+
+    A second time did Matthew stop;
+    And fixing still his eye
+    Upon the eastern mountain-top,
+    To me he made reply:
+
+    'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
+    Brings fresh into my mind
+    A day like this, which I have left
+    Full thirty years behind.
+
+    'And just above yon slope of corn
+    Such colours, and no other,
+    Were in the sky that April morn,
+    Of this the very brother.
+
+    'With rod and line I sued the sport
+    Which that sweet season gave,
+    And to the church-yard come, stopp'd short
+    Beside my daughter's grave.
+
+    'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
+    The pride of all the vale;
+    And then she sang,--she would have been
+    A very nightingale.
+
+    'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
+    And yet I loved her more--
+    For so it seem'd,--than till that day
+    I e'er had loved before.
+
+    'And turning from her grave, I met,
+    Beside the churchyard yew,
+    A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
+    With points of morning dew.
+
+    'A basket on her head she bare;
+    Her brow was smooth and white:
+    To see a child so very fair,
+    It was a pure delight!
+
+    'No fountain from its rocky cave
+    E'er tripp'd with foot so free;
+    She seem'd as happy as a wave
+    That dances on the sea.
+
+    'There came from me a sigh of pain
+    Which I could ill confine;
+    I look'd at her, and look'd again:
+    And did not wish her mine!'
+
+    --Matthew is in his grave, yet now
+    Methinks I see him stand
+    As at that moment, with a bough
+    Of wilding in his hand.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXI
+
+_THE FOUNTAIN_
+
+_A Conversation_
+
+    We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+    Affectionate and true,
+    A pair of friends, though I was young,
+    And Matthew seventy-two.
+
+    We lay beneath a spreading oak,
+    Beside a mossy seat;
+    And from the turf a fountain broke
+    And gurgled at our feet.
+
+    'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us match
+    This water's pleasant tune
+    With some old border-song, or catch
+    That suits a summer's noon;
+
+    'Or of the church-clock and the chimes
+    Sing here beneath the shade
+    That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
+    Which you last April made!'
+
+    In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
+    The spring beneath the tree;
+    And thus the dear old man replied,
+    The gray-hair'd man of glee:
+
+    'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
+    How merrily it goes!
+    'Twill murmur on a thousand years
+    And flow as now it flows.
+
+    'And here, on this delightful day,
+    I cannot choose but think
+    How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
+    Beside this fountain's brink.
+
+    'My eyes are dim with childish tears,
+    My heart is idly stirr'd,
+    For the same sound is in my ears
+    Which in those days I heard.
+
+    'Thus fares it still in our decay:
+    And yet the wiser mind
+    Mourns less for what Age takes away,
+    Than what it leaves behind.
+
+    'The blackbird amid leafy trees,
+    The lark above the hill,
+    Let loose their carols when they please,
+    Are quiet when they will.
+
+    'With Nature never do they wage
+    A foolish strife; they see
+    A happy youth, and their old age
+    Is beautiful and free:
+
+    'But we are press'd by heavy laws;
+    And often, glad no more,
+    We wear a face of joy, because
+    We have been glad of yore.
+
+    'If there be one who need bemoan
+    His kindred laid in earth,
+    The household hearts that were his own,--
+    It is the man of mirth.
+
+    'My days, my friend, are almost gone,
+    My life has been approved,
+    And many love me; but by none
+    Am I enough beloved.'
+
+    'Now both himself and me he wrongs,
+    The man who thus complains!
+    I live and sing my idle songs
+    Upon these happy plains:
+
+    'And Matthew, for thy children dead
+    I'll be a son to thee!'
+    At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
+    'Alas! that cannot be.'
+
+    --We rose up from the fountain-side;
+    And down the smooth descent
+    Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
+    And through the wood we went;
+
+    And ere we came to Leonard's rock
+    He sang those witty rhymes
+    About the crazy old church-clock,
+    And the bewilder'd chimes.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXII
+
+_THE RIVER OF LIFE_
+
+    The more we live, more brief appear
+      Our life's succeeding stages:
+    A day to childhood seems a year,
+      And years like passing ages.
+
+    The gladsome current of our youth,
+      Ere passion yet disorders,
+    Steals lingering like a river smooth
+      Along its grassy borders.
+
+    But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
+      And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
+    Ye Stars, that measure life to man,
+      Why seem your courses quicker?
+
+    When joys have lost their bloom and breath
+      And life itself is vapid,
+    Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
+      Feel we its tide more rapid?
+
+    It may be strange--yet who would change
+      Time's course to slower speeding,
+    When one by one our friends have gone
+      And left our bosoms bleeding?
+
+    Heaven gives our years of fading strength
+      Indemnifying fleetness;
+    And those of youth, a seeming length,
+      Proportion'd to their sweetness.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXXXIII
+
+_THE HUMAN SEASONS_
+
+    Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
+    There are four seasons in the mind of man:
+    He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
+    Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
+
+    He has his Summer, when luxuriously
+    Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
+    To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
+    Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
+
+    His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
+    He furleth close; contented so to look
+    On mists in idleness--to let fair things
+    Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
+
+    He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
+    Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXXXIV
+
+_A DIRGE_
+
+    Rough wind, that meanest loud
+      Grief too sad for song;
+    Wild wind, when sullen cloud
+      Knells all the night long;
+    Sad storm whose tears are vain,
+    Bare woods whose branches stain,
+    Deep caves and dreary main,--
+      Wail for the world's wrong!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXXV
+
+_THRENOS_
+
+    O World! O Life! O Time!
+    On whose last steps I climb,
+      Trembling at that where I had stood before;
+    When will return the glory of your prime?
+        No more--Oh, never more!
+
+    Out of the day and night
+    A joy has taken flight:
+      Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
+    Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
+        No more--Oh, never more!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXXVI
+
+_THE TROSACHS_
+
+    There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
+    But were an apt confessional for One
+    Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
+    That Life is but a tale of morning grass
+
+    Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
+    That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
+    Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
+    Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
+
+    Untouch'd, unbreathed upon:--Thrice happy quest,
+    If from a golden perch of aspen spray
+    (October's workmanship to rival May),
+
+    The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
+    That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
+    Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXVII
+
+    My heart leaps up when I behold
+      A rainbow in the sky:
+    So was it when my life began,
+    So is it now I am a man,
+    So be it when I shall grow old
+        Or let me die!
+    The Child is father of the Man:
+    And I could wish my days to be
+    Bound each to each by natural piety.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXVIII
+
+_ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY
+CHILDHOOD_
+
+    There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
+    The earth, and every common sight
+                To me did seem
+            Apparell'd in celestial light,
+    The glory and the freshness of a dream.
+    It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
+            Turn wheresoe'er I may,
+                By night or day,
+    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
+
+            The rainbow comes and goes,
+            And lovely is the rose;
+            The moon doth with delight
+        Look round her when the heavens are bare;
+            Waters on a starry night
+            Are beautiful and fair;
+        The sunshine is a glorious birth;
+        But yet I know, where'er I go,
+    That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
+
+    Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
+        And while the young lambs bound
+            As to the tabor's sound,
+    To me alone there came a thought of grief:
+    A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
+            And I again am strong.
+    The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;--
+    No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
+    I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
+    The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
+            And all the earth is gay;
+                Land and sea
+        Give themselves up to jollity.
+            And with the heart of May
+        Doth every beast keep holiday;--
+                Thou child of joy
+    Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
+
+    Ye blesséd Creatures, I have heard the call
+        Ye to each other make; I see
+    The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
+        My heart is at your festival,
+          My head hath its coronal,
+    The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
+            Oh evil day! if I were sullen
+            While Earth herself is adorning
+                This sweet May-morning;
+            And the children are culling
+                On every side
+            In a thousand valleys far and wide,
+            Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm
+    And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:--
+            I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
+            --But there's a tree, of many, one,
+    A single field which I have look'd upon,
+    Both of them speak of something that is gone:
+                The pansy at my feet
+                Doth the same tale repeat:
+    Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
+    Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
+
+    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
+    The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
+            Hath had elsewhere its setting
+                And cometh from afar;
+            Not in entire forgetfulness,
+            And not in utter nakedness,
+    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
+                From God, who is our home:
+    Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
+    Shades of the prison-house begin to close
+                Upon the growing Boy,
+    But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
+                He sees it in his joy;
+    The Youth, who daily farther from the east
+        Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
+            And by the vision splendid
+            Is on his way attended;
+    At length the Man perceives it die away,
+    And fade into the light of common day.
+
+    Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
+    Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
+    And, even with something of a mother's mind
+                And no unworthy aim,
+            The homely nurse doth all she can
+    To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
+                Forget the glories he hath known,
+    And that imperial palace whence he came.
+
+    Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
+    A six years' darling of a pigmy size:
+    See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
+    Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
+    With light upon him from his father's eyes!
+    See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
+    Some fragment from his dream of human life,
+    Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art;
+            A wedding or a festival,
+            A mourning or a funeral;
+                And this hath now his heart,
+            And unto this he frames his song:
+                Then will he fit his tongue
+    To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
+            But it will not be long
+            Ere this be thrown aside,
+            And with new joy and pride
+    The little actor cons another part;
+    Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
+    With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
+    That life brings with her in her equipage;
+            As if his whole vocation
+            Were endless imitation.
+
+    Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
+            Thy soul's immensity;
+    Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
+    Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
+    That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
+    Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,--
+            Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
+            On whom those truths do rest
+    Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
+    In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave:
+    Thou, over whom thy Immortality
+    Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
+    A Presence which is not to be put by;
+    Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
+    Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
+    Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
+    The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
+    Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
+    Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
+    And custom lie upon thee with a weight
+    Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
+
+            O joy! that in our embers
+            Is something that doth live,
+            That Nature yet remembers
+            What was so fugitive!
+    The thought of our past years in me doth breed
+    Perpetual benediction: not indeed
+    For that which is most worthy to be blest,
+    Delight and liberty, the simple creed
+    Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
+    With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
+            --Not for these I raise
+            The song of thanks and praise;
+        But for those obstinate questionings
+        Of sense and outward things,
+        Fallings from us, vanishings;
+        Blank misgivings of a creature
+    Moving about in worlds not realized,
+    High instincts, before which our mortal nature
+    Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized:
+        But for those first affections,
+        Those shadowy recollections,
+            Which, be they what they may,
+    Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
+    Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
+        Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
+    Our noisy years seem moments in the being
+    Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
+                To perish never;
+    Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
+                Nor man nor boy
+    Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
+    Can utterly abolish or destroy!
+        Hence, in a season of calm weather
+            Though inland far we be,
+    Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
+                Which brought us hither;
+            Can in a moment travel thither--
+    And see the children sport upon the shore,
+    And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
+
+    Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
+            And let the young lambs bound
+            As to the tabor's sound!
+        We, in thought, will join your throng
+            Ye that pipe and ye that play,
+            Ye that through your hearts to-day
+            Feel the gladness of the May!
+    What though the radiance which was once so bright
+    Be now for ever taken from my sight,
+        Though nothing can bring back the hour
+    Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
+            We will grieve not, rather find
+            Strength in what remains behind;
+            In the primal sympathy
+            Which having been must ever be;
+            In the soothing thoughts that spring
+            Out of human suffering;
+            In the faith that looks through death,
+    In years that bring the philosophic mind.
+
+    And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
+    Forbode not any severing of our loves!
+    Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
+    I only have relinquish'd one delight
+    To live beneath your more habitual sway:
+    I love the brooks which down their channels fret
+    Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
+    The innocent brightness of a new-born day
+                Is lovely yet;
+    The clouds that gather round the setting sun
+    Do take a sober colouring from an eye
+    That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
+    Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
+    Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
+    Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
+    To me the meanest flower that blows can give
+    Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXIX
+
+    Music, when soft voices die,
+    Vibrates in the memory--
+    Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
+    Live within the sense they quicken.
+
+    Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
+    Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
+    And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
+    Love itself shall slumber on.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+End of the Golden Treasury
+
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS
+
+AND
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES
+
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+(1861--1891)
+
+_Summary of Book First_
+
+
+The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the
+substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry
+VIII to Shakespeare midway through the reign of James I, and Drummond
+who carried on the early manner to a still later period. There is here
+a wide range of style;--from simplicity expressed in a language hardly
+yet broken-in to verse,--through the pastoral fancies and Italian
+conceits of the strictly Elizabethan time,--to the passionate reality
+of Shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few readers
+can fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the
+single-hearted straightforwardness of the thoughts:--nor less, the
+limitation of subject to the many phases of one passion, which then
+characterized our lyrical poetry,--unless when, as in especial with
+Shakespeare, the 'purple light of Love' is tempered by a spirit of
+sterner reflection. For the didactic verse of the century, although
+lyrical in form, yet very rarely rises to the pervading emotion, the
+golden cadence, proper to the lyric.
+
+It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in
+the main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its
+restriction to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative or historical
+Anthology has not been aimed at. Great excellence, in human art as in
+human character, has from the beginning of things been even more
+uniform than mediocrity, by virtue of the closeness of its approach to
+Nature:--and so far as the standard of Excellence kept in view has
+been attained in this volume, a comparative absence of extreme or
+temporary phases in style, a similarity of tone and manner, will be
+found throughout:--something neither modern nor ancient, but true and
+speaking to the heart of man alike throughout all ages.
+
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+2 3 _whist_: hushed, quieted.
+
+-- 4 _Rouse Memnon's mother_: Awaken the Dawn from the dark Earth and
+the clouds where she is resting. This is one of that limited class of
+early mythes which may be reasonably interpreted as representations of
+natural phenomena. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of Memnon
+(the East), and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and Sky
+during the last hours of Night). She leaves him every morning in
+renewed youth, to prepare the way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst
+Tithonus remains in perpetual old age and grayness.
+
+3 -- l. 23 _by Peneus' stream_: Phoebus loved the Nymph Daphne whom he
+met by the river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. L. 27 _Amphion's lyre_:
+He was said to have built the walls of Thebes to the sound of his
+music. L. 35 _Night like a drunkard reels_: Compare Romeo and Juliet,
+Act II, Scene 3: 'The grey-eyed morn smiles,' &c.--It should be added
+that three lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been
+omitted in this Poem.
+
+4 6 _Time's chest_: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up
+past treasures. So in Troilus, Act III, Scene 3, 'Time hath a wallet
+at his back' &c. In the _Arcadia_, _chest_ is used to signify _tomb_.
+
+5 7 A fine example of the high wrought and conventional Elizabethan
+Pastoralism, which it would be unreasonable to criticize on the ground
+of the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested.
+Stanza 6 was perhaps inserted by Izaak Walton.
+
+6 8 This beautiful lyric is one of several recovered from the very
+rare Elizabethan Song-books, for the publication of which our thanks
+are due to Mr. A. H. Bullen (1887, 1888).
+
+8 12 One stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with the
+principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in a few
+other poems. The more serious abbreviation by which it has been
+attempted to bring Crashaw's 'Wishes' and Shelley's 'Euganean Hills,'
+with one or two more, within the scheme of this selection, is
+commended with much diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted
+with the original pieces.
+
+9 13 Sidney's poetry is singularly unequal; his short life, his
+frequent absorption in public employment, hindered doubtless the
+development of his genius. His great contemporary fame, second only,
+it appears, to Spenser's, has been hence obscured. At times he is
+heavy and even prosaic; his simplicity is rude and bare; his verse
+unmelodious. These, however, are the 'defects of his merits.' In a
+certain depth and chivalry of feeling,--in the rare and noble quality
+of disinterestedness (to put it in one word),--he has no superior,
+hardly perhaps an equal, amongst our Poets; and after or beside
+Shakespeare's Sonnets, his _Astrophel and Stella_, in the Editor's
+judgment, offers the most intense and powerful picture of the passion
+of love in the whole range of our poetry.--_Hundreds of years_: 'The
+very rapture of love,' says Mr. Ruskin; 'A lover like this does not
+believe his mistress can grow old or die.'
+
+12 19 Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more than one
+picture by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure in
+its Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to 'the
+Islands of Terceras and the Canaries;' and he seems to have caught, in
+those southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked
+the almost contemporary Art of Venice,--the glory and the glow of
+Veronese, Titian, or Tintoret.--From the same romance is No. 71: a
+charming picture in the purest style of the later Italian Renaissance.
+
+_The clear_ (l. 1) is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old
+cosmography. _For a fair there's fairer none_: If you desire a Beauty,
+there is none more beautiful than Rosaline.
+
+14 22 Another gracious lyric from an Elizabethan Song-book, first
+reprinted (it is believed) in Mr. W. J. Linton's 'Rare Poems,' in
+1883.
+
+15 23 _that fair thou owest_: that beauty thou ownest.
+
+16 25 From one of the three Song-books of T. Campion, who appears to
+have been author of the words which he set to music. His merit as a
+lyrical poet (recognized in his own time, but since then forgotten)
+has been again brought to light by Mr. Bullen's taste and
+research:--_swerving_ (st. 2) is his conjecture for _changing_ in the
+text of 1601.
+
+20 31 _the star Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken_:
+apparently, Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his
+angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon
+used by astrologers has been determined.
+
+20 32 This lovely song appears, as here given, in Puttenham's 'Arte of
+English Poesie,' 1589. A longer and inferior form was published in the
+'Arcadia' of 1590: but Puttenham's prefatory words clearly assign his
+version to Sidney's own authorship.
+
+23 37 _keel_: keep cooler by stirring round.
+
+24 39 _expense_: loss.
+
+-- 40 _prease_: press.
+
+25 41 _Nativity, once in the main of light_: when a star has risen and
+entered on the full stream of light;--another of the astrological
+phrases no longer familiar.
+
+_Crooked_ eclipses: as coming athwart the Sun's apparent course.
+
+Wordsworth, thinking probably of the 'Venus' and the 'Lucrece,' said
+finely of Shakespeare: 'Shakespeare _could_ not have written an Epic;
+he would have died of plethora of thought.' This prodigality of nature
+is exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The copious selection here
+given (which from the wealth of the material, required greater
+consideration than any other portion of the Editor's task),--contains
+many that will not be fully felt and understood without some
+earnestness of thought on the reader's part. But he is not likely to
+regret the labour.
+
+26 42 _upon misprision growing_: either, granted in error, or, on the
+growth of contempt.
+
+-- 43 With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's 'Give me that man
+That is not passion's slave' &c. Shakespeare's writings show the
+deepest sensitiveness to passion:--hence the attraction he felt in the
+contrasting effects of apathy.
+
+26 44 _grame_: sorrow. Renaissance influences long impeded the return
+of English poets to the charming realism of this and a few other poems
+by Wyat.
+
+28 45 Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela.
+
+29 47 In the old legend it is now Philomela, now Procne (the swallow)
+who suffers violence from Tereus. This song has a fascination in its
+calm intensity of passion; that 'sad earnestness and vivid exactness'
+which Cardinal Newman ascribes to the master-pieces of ancient poetry.
+
+31 50 _proved_: approved.
+
+-- 51 _censures_: judges.
+
+-- 52 Exquisite in its equably-balanced metrical flow.
+
+32 53 Judging by its style, this beautiful example of old simplicity
+and feeling may, perhaps, be referred to the earlier years of
+Elizabeth. _Late_ forgot: lately.
+
+35 57 Printed in a little Anthology by Nicholas Breton, 1597. It is,
+however, a stronger and finer piece of work than any known to be
+his.--St. 1 _silly_: simple; _dole_: grief; _chief_: chiefly. St. 3
+_If there be_ ...: obscure: Perhaps, if there be any who speak harshly
+of thee, thy pain may plead for pity from Fate.
+
+This poem, with 60 and 143, are each graceful variations of a long
+popular theme.
+
+36 58 _That busy archer:_ Cupid. _Descries_: used actively; _points
+out_.--'The last line of this poem is a little obscured by
+transposition. He means, _Do they call ungratefulness there a
+virtue?_' (C. Lamb).
+
+37 59 _White Iope_: suggested, Mr. Bullen notes, by a passage in
+Propertius (iii, 20) describing Spirits in the lower world:
+
+    Vobiscum est Iope, vobiscum candida Tyro.
+
+38 62 _cypres_ or cyprus,--used by the old writers for _crape_:
+whether from the French _crespe_ or from the Island whence it was
+imported. Its accidental similarity in spelling to _cypress_ has, here
+and in Milton's Penseroso, probably confused readers.
+
+39 63 _ramage_: confused noise.
+
+41 66 'I never saw anything like this funeral dirge,' says Charles
+Lamb, 'except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father
+in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the
+earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to
+resolve itself into the element which it contemplates.'
+
+43 70 Paraphrased from an Italian madrigal
+
+    ... Non so conoscer poi
+    Se voi le rose, o sian le rose in voi.
+
+44 72 _crystal_: fairness.
+
+45 73 _stare_: starling.
+
+-- 74 This 'Spousal Verse' was written in honour of the Ladies
+Elizabeth and Katherine Somerset. Nowhere has Spenser more
+emphatically displayed himself as the very poet of Beauty: The
+Renaissance impulse in England is here seen at its highest and purest.
+
+The genius of Spenser, like Chaucer's, does itself justice only in
+poems of some length. Hence it is impossible to represent it in this
+volume by other pieces of equal merit, but of impracticable
+dimensions. And the same applies to such poems as the _Lover's Lament_
+or the _Ancient Mariner_.
+
+46 -- _entrailed_: twisted. Feateously: elegantly.
+
+48 -- _shend_: shame.
+
+49 -- _a noble peer_: Robert Devereux, second Lord Essex, then at the
+height of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz: hence the allusion
+following to the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient
+legend.
+
+-- -- _Elisa_: Elizabeth.
+
+50 -- _twins of Jove_: the stars Castor and Pollux: _baldric_, belt;
+the zodiac.
+
+52 79 This lyric may with very high probability be assigned to
+Campion, in whose first Book of Airs it appeared (1601). The evidence
+sometimes quoted ascribing it to Lord Bacon appears to be valueless.
+
+
+_Summary of Book Second._
+
+This division, embracing generally the latter eighty years of the
+Seventeenth century, contains the close of our Early poetical style
+and the commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master
+of the new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in
+the former book,--the crown and consummation of the early period.
+Their splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts,
+Spenser's excepted: they exhibit that wider and grander range which
+years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on
+Poetry. Our Muses now give expression to political feeling, to
+religious thought, to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such
+as Marvell, Herbert, and Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again,
+we find noble attempts, hitherto rare in our literature, at pure
+description of nature, destined in our own age to be continued and
+equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although before 1660
+often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought, and
+afterwards by levity and an artificial tone,--produced in Herrick and
+Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan:
+until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself,
+and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of
+Wither and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.--That the change
+from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of
+nature and simplicity is undeniable; yet the bolder and wider scope
+which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts
+then made to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results
+have been no slight compensation.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+58 85 l. 8 _whist_: hushed.
+
+-- -- l. 32 _than_: obsolete for _then_: _Pan_: used here for the Lord
+of all.
+
+59 -- l. 38 _consort_: Milton's spelling of this word, here and
+elsewhere, has been followed, as it is uncertain whether he used it in
+the sense of _accompanying_, or simply for _concert_.
+
+61 -- l. 21 _Lars and Lemures_: household gods and spirits of
+relations dead. _Flamens_ (l. 24) Roman priests. _That twice-batter'd
+god_ (l. 29) Dagon.
+
+62 -- l. 6 _Osiris_, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, perhaps by
+confusion with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by Typho and
+embalmed after death in a sacred chest. This mythe, reproduced in Syria
+and Greece in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, may
+have originally signified the annual death of the Sun or the Year under
+the influences of the winter darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the
+New Year, in his turn overcomes Typho. L. 8 _unshower'd_ grass: as watered
+by the Nile only. L. 33 _youngest-teemed_: last-born. _Bright-harness'd_
+(l. 37) armoured.
+
+64 87 _The Late Massacre_: the Vaudois persecution, carried on in 1655
+by the Duke of Savoy. No more mighty Sonnet than this 'collect in
+verse,' as it has been justly named, probably can be found in any
+language. Readers should observe that it is constructed on the
+original Italian or Provençal model. This form, in a language such as
+ours, not affluent in rhyme, presents great difficulties; the rhymes
+are apt to be forced, or the substance commonplace. But, when
+successfully handled, it has a unity and a beauty of effect which
+place the strict Sonnet above the less compact and less lyrical
+systems adopted by Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and other Elizabethan
+poets.
+
+65 88 Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650, and Marvell probably
+wrote his lines soon after, whilst living at Nunappleton in the
+Fairfax household. It is hence not surprising that (st. 21-24) he
+should have been deceived by Cromwell's professed submissiveness to
+the Parliament which, when it declined to register his decrees, he
+expelled by armed violence:--one despotism, by natural law, replacing
+another. The poet's insight has, however, truly prophesied that result
+in his last two lines.
+
+This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in
+Milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is
+occasionally obscure from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The
+meaning of st. 5 is 'rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty
+spirit, and limitation more hateful than opposition.' The allusion in
+st. 11 is to the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a
+vacuum and the impenetrability of matter:--in st. 17 to the omen
+traditionally connected with the foundation of the Capitol at
+Rome:--_forced_, fated. The ancient belief that certain years in life
+complete natural periods and are hence peculiarly exposed to death, is
+introduced in st. 26 by the word _climacteric_.
+
+68 89 _Lycidas_: The person here lamented is Milton's college
+contemporary, Edward King, drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from
+Chester to Ireland.
+
+Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian
+Greeks settled in Sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited
+more magnificently in _Lycidas_ than in any other pastoral, is
+apparently of Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom of a
+great artist, has here united ancient mythology, with what may be
+called the modern mythology of Camus and Saint Peter,--to direct
+Christian images. Yet the poem, if it gains in historical interest,
+suffers in poetry by the harsh intrusion of the writer's narrow and
+violent theological politics.--The metrical structure of this glorious
+elegy is partly derived from Italian models.
+
+69 -- l. 11 _Sisters of the sacred well_: the Muses, said to frequent
+the Pierian Spring at the foot of Mount Olympus.
+
+70 -- l. 10 _Mona_: Anglesea, called by the Welsh poets, the Dark
+Island, from its dense forests. _Deva_ (l. 11) the Dee: a river which
+may have derived its magical character from Celtic traditions: it was
+long the boundary of Briton and English.--These places are introduced,
+as being near the scene of the shipwreck. _Orpheus_ (l. 14) was torn
+to pieces by Thracian women. _Amaryllis_ and _Neaera_ (l. 24, 25)
+names used here for the love-idols of poets: as _Damoetas_ previously
+for a shepherd. L. 31 _the blind Fury_: Atropos, fabled to cut the
+thread of life.
+
+71 89 _Arethuse_ (l. 1) and _Mincius_: Sicilian and Italian waters
+here alluded to as representing the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and
+Vergil. L. 4 _oat_: pipe, used here like Collins' _oaten stop_ l. 1,
+No. 186, for _Song_. L. 12 _Hippotades_: Aeolus, god of the Winds.
+_Panope_ (l. 15) a Nereid. Certain names of local deities in the
+Hellenic mythology render some feature in the natural landscape, which
+the Greeks studied and analysed with their usual unequalled insight
+and feeling. _Panope_ seems to express the boundlessness of the
+ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared with the limited
+sky-line of the land in hilly countries such as Greece or Asia Minor.
+_Camus_ (l. 19) the Cam: put for King's University. _The sanguine
+flower_ (l. 22) the Hyacinth of the ancients: probably our Iris. _The
+Pilot_ (l. 25) Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the
+Church on earth, to foretell 'the ruin of our corrupted clergy,' as
+Milton regarded them, 'then in their heighth' under Laud's primacy.
+
+72 -- l. 1 _scrannel_: screeching; apparently Milton's coinage
+(Masson). L. 5 _the wolf_: the Puritans of the time were excited to
+alarm and persecution by a few conversions to Roman Catholicism which
+had recently occurred. _Alpheus_ (l. 9) a stream in Southern Greece,
+supposed to flow underseas to join the Arethuse. _Swart star_ (l. 15)
+the Dog-star, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in ancient
+times occurred soon after midsummer: l. 19 _rathe_: early. L. 36
+_moist vows_: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea.
+_Bellerus_ (l. 37) a giant, apparently created here by Milton to
+personify Belerium, the ancient title of the Land's End. _The great
+Vision_:--the story was that the Archangel Michael had appeared on the
+rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name. Milton calls on
+him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to pity Lycidas, if
+his body has drifted into the troubled waters off the Land's End.
+Finisterre being the land due south of Marazion, two places in that
+district (then through our trade with Corunna probably less unfamiliar
+to English ears), are named,--_Namancos_ now Mujio in Galicia,
+_Bayona_ north of the Minho, or perhaps a fortified rock (one of the
+_Cies_ Islands) not unlike Saint Michael's Mount, at the entrance of
+Vigo Bay.
+
+73 89 l. 6 _ore_: rays of golden light. _Doric_ lay (l. 25) Sicilian,
+pastoral.
+
+75 93 _The assault_ was an attack on London expected in 1642, when the
+troops of Charles I reached Brentford. 'Written on his door' was in
+the original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in
+Aldersgate Street.
+
+_The Emathian Conqueror_: When Thebes was destroyed (B.C. 335) and the
+citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar
+to be spared.
+
+7 -- l. 2, _the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet_: Plutarch has a
+tale that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took Athens, a
+proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect produced on
+the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the _Electra_ of
+Euripides sung at a feast. There is however no apparent congruity
+between the lines quoted (167, 168 Ed. Dindorf) and the result
+ascribed to them.
+
+-- 95 A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry;--that written by
+thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Jeremy Taylor,
+Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay, have left similar
+specimens.
+
+78 98 These beautiful verses should be compared with Wordsworth's
+great Ode on _Immortality_: and a copy of Vaughan's very rare little
+volume appears in the list of Wordsworth's library.--In imaginative
+intensity, Vaughan stands beside his contemporary Marvell.
+
+79 99 _Favonius_: the spring wind.
+
+80 100 _Themis_: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grandson by his
+mother to Sir E. Coke:--hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley,
+Milton's allusion to the _bench_. L. 8: Sweden was then at war with
+Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands.
+
+82 103 l. 28 _Sidneian showers_: either in allusion to the
+conversations in the 'Arcadia,' or to Sidney himself as a model of
+'gentleness' in spirit and demeanour.
+
+85 105 Delicate humour, delightfully united to thought, at once simple
+and subtle. It is full of conceit and paradox, but these are
+imaginative, not as with most of our Seventeenth Century poets,
+intellectual only.
+
+88 110 _Elizabeth of Bohemia_: Daughter to James I, and ancestor of
+Sophia of Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant and
+courtly compliment.
+
+89 111 Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards Earl of
+Marlborough, who died March, 1629, coincidently with the dissolution
+of the third Parliament of Charles' reign. Hence Milton poetically
+compares his death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after
+Philip's victory in 328 B.C.
+
+93 118 A masterpiece of humour, grace, and gentle feeling, all, with
+Herrick's unfailing art, kept precisely within the peculiar key which
+he chose,--or Nature for him,--in his Pastorals. L. 2 _the god
+unshorn_: Imberbis Apollo. St. 2 _beads_: prayers.
+
+96 123 With better taste, and less diffuseness, Quarles might (one
+would think) have retained more of that high place which he held in
+popular estimate among his contemporaries.
+
+99 127 _From Prison_: to which his active support of Charles I twice
+brought the high-spirited writer. L. 7 _Gods_: thus in the original;
+Lovelace, in his fanciful way, making here a mythological allusion.
+_Birds_, commonly substituted, is without authority. St. 3, l. 1
+_committed_: to prison.
+
+100 128 St. 2 l. 4 _blue-god_: Neptune.
+
+104 133 _Waly waly_: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the
+pronunciation of which are preserved in the word _caterwaul_. _Brae_,
+hillside: _burn_, brook: _busk_, adorn. _Saint Anton's Well_: below
+Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh. _Cramasie_, crimson.
+
+105 134 This beautiful example of early simplicity is found in a
+Song-book of 1620.
+
+106 135 _burd_, maiden.
+
+107 136 _corbies_, crows: _fail_, turf: _hause_, neck: _theek_,
+thatch.--If not in their origin, in their present form this, with the
+preceding poem and 133, appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and
+have therefore been placed in Book II.
+
+108 137 The poetical and the prosaic, after Cowley's fashion, blend
+curiously in this deeply-felt elegy.
+
+112 141 Perhaps no poem in this collection is more delicately fancied,
+more exquisitely finished. By placing his description of the Fawn in a
+young girl's mouth, Marvell has, as it were, legitimated that
+abundance of 'imaginative hyperbole' to which he is always partial: he
+makes us feel it natural that a maiden's favourite should be whiter
+than milk, sweeter than sugar--'lilies without, roses within,' The
+poet's imagination is justified in its seeming extravagance by the
+intensity and unity with which it invests his picture.
+
+113 142 The remark quoted in the note to No. 65 applies equally to
+these truly wonderful verses. Marvell here throws himself into the
+very soul of the _Garden_ with the imaginative intensity of Shelley in
+his _West Wind_.--This poem appears also as a translation in Marvell's
+works. The most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is
+rare, answer more or less to stanzas 2 and 6:--
+
+    Alma Quies, teneo te! et te, germana Quietis,
+    Simplicitas! vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes
+    Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra:
+    Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe
+    Celarunt plantae virides, et concolor umbra.
+
+115 143 St. 3 _tutties_: nosegays. St. 4 _silly_: simple.
+
+_L'Allégro_ and _Il Penseroso_. It is a striking proof of Milton's
+astonishing power, that these, the earliest great Lyrics of the
+Landscape in our language, should still remain supreme in their style
+for range, variety, and melodious beauty. The Bright and the
+Thoughtful aspects of Nature and of Life are their subjects: but each
+is preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixed Classical and
+Italian manner.--With that of _L'Allégro_ may be compared a similar
+mythe in the first Section of the first Book of S. Marmion's graceful
+_Cupid and Psyche_, 1637.
+
+116 144 _The mountain-nymph_; compare Wordsworth's Sonnet, No. 254. L.
+38 is in _apposition_ to the preceding, by a syntactical license not
+uncommon with Milton.
+
+118 -- l. 14 _Cynosure_; the Pole Star. _Corydon_, _Thyrsis_, &c.:
+Shepherd names from the old Idylls. _Rebeck_ (l. 28) an elementary
+form of violin.
+
+119 -- l. 24 _Jonson's learned sock_: His comedies are deeply coloured
+by classical study. L. 28 _Lydian airs_: used here to express a light
+and festive style of ancient music. The 'Lydian Mode,' one of the
+seven original Greek Scales, is nearly identical with our 'Major.'
+
+120 145 l. 3 _bestead_: avail. L. 10 _starr'd Ethiop queen_:
+Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and thence translated
+amongst the constellations.
+
+121 -- _Cynthia_: the Moon: Milton seems here to have transferred to
+her chariot the dragons anciently assigned to Demeter and to Medea.
+
+122 -- _Hermes_, called Trismegistus, a mystical writer of the
+Neo-Platonist school. L. 27 _Thebes_, &c.: subjects of Athenian
+Tragedy. _Buskin'd_ (l. 30) tragic, in opposition to sock above. L. 32
+_Musaeus_: a poet in Mythology. L. 37 _him that left half-told_:
+Chaucer in his incomplete 'Squire's Tale.'
+
+123 -- _great bards_: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are here presumably
+intended. L. 9 _frounced_: curled. _The Attic Boy_ (l. 10) Cephalus.
+
+124 146 Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by the
+government of Charles I.
+
+125 -- l. 9, 10. _But apples_, &c. A fine example of Marvell's
+imaginative hyperbole.
+
+-- 147 l. 6 _concent_: harmony.
+
+128 149 A lyric of a strange, fanciful, yet solemn beauty:--Cowley's
+style intensified by the mysticism of Henry More.--St. 2 _monument_:
+the World.
+
+129 151 Entitled 'A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day: 1697.'
+
+
+_Summary of Book Third_
+
+It is more difficult to characterize 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 absolute contrasts as distinguish 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 conventional and of common language, 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 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 many
+complex causes which made the Eighteenth century the turning-time in
+modern European civilization are also more or less reflected 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.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+134 153 We have no poet more marked by rapture, by the ecstasy which
+Plato held the note of genuine inspiration, than Collins. Yet but
+twice or thrice do his lyrics reach that simplicity, that _sinceram
+sermonis Attici gratiam_ to which this ode testifies his enthusiastic
+devotion. His style, as his friend Dr. Johnson truly remarks, was
+obscure; his diction often harsh and unskilfully laboured; he
+struggles nobly against the narrow, artificial manner of his age, but
+his too scanty years did not allow him to reach perfect mastery. St.
+3 _Hybla_: near Syracuse. _Her whose ... woe_: the nightingale, 'for
+which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness';
+Collins here refers to the famous chorus in the _Oedipus at Colonus_.
+St. 4 _Cephisus_: the stream encircling Athens on the north and west,
+passing Colonus. St. 6 _stay'd to sing_: stayed her song when Imperial
+tyranny was established at Rome. St. 7 refers to the Italian amourist
+poetry of the Renaissance: In Collins' day, Dante was almost unknown
+in England. St. 8 _meeting soul_: which moves sympathetically towards
+Simplicity as she comes to inspire the poet. St. 9 _Of these_: Taste
+and Genius.
+
+_The Bard._ In 1757, when this splendid ode was completed, so very
+little had been printed, whether in Wales or in England, in regard to
+Welsh poetry, that it is hard to discover whence Gray drew his Cymric
+allusions. The fabled massacre of the Bards (shown to be wholly
+groundless in Stephens' _Literature of the Kymry_) appears first in
+the family history of Sir John Wynn of Gwydir (cir. 1600), not
+published till 1773; but the story seems to have passed in MS. to
+Carte's History, whence it may have been taken by Gray. The references
+to _high-born Hoel_ and _soft Llewellyn_; to _Cadwallo_ and _Urien_;
+may, similarly, have been derived from the 'Specimens' of early Welsh
+poetry, by the Rev. E. Evans:--as, although not published till 1764,
+the MS., we learn from a letter to Dr. Wharton, was in Gray's hands by
+July 1760, and may have reached him by 1757. It is, however, doubtful
+whether Gray (of whose acquaintance with Welsh we have no evidence)
+must not have been also aided by some Welsh scholar. He is one of the
+poets least likely to scatter epithets at random: 'soft' or gentle is
+the epithet emphatically and specially given to Llewelyn in
+contemporary Welsh poetry, and is hence here used with particular
+propriety. Yet, without such assistance as we have suggested, Gray
+could hardly have selected the epithet, although applied to the King
+(p. 141-3) among a crowd of others, in Llygad Gwr's Ode, printed by
+Evans.--After lamenting his comrades (st. 2, 3) the Bard prophesies
+the fate of Edward II, and the conquests of Edward III (4): his death
+and that of the Black Prince (5): of Richard II, with the wars of York
+and Lancaster, the murder of Henry VI (_the meek usurper_), and of
+Edward V and his brother (6). He turns to the glory and prosperity
+following the accession of the Tudors (7), through Elizabeth's reign
+(8): and concludes with a vision of the poetry of Shakespeare and
+Milton.
+
+140 159 l. 13 _Glo'ster_: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward.
+_Mortimer_, one of the Lords Marchers of Wales.
+
+141 159 _High-born Hoel, soft Llewellyn_ (l. 15); the _Dissertatio de
+Bardis_ of Evans names the first as son to the King Owain Gwynedd:
+Llewelyn, last King of North Wales, was murdered 1282. L. 16
+_Cadwallo_: Cadwallon (died 631) and Urien Rheged (early kings of
+Gwynedd and Cumbria respectively) are mentioned by Evans (p. 78) as
+bards none of whose poetry is extant. L. 20 _Modred_: Evans supplies
+no _data_ for this name, which Gray (it has been supposed) uses for
+Merlin (Myrddin Wyllt), held prophet as well as poet.--The Italicized
+lines mark where the Bard's song is joined by that of his predecessors
+departed. L. 22 _Arvon_: the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite
+Anglesey. Whether intentionally or through ignorance of the real
+dates, Gray here seems to represent the _Bard_ as speaking of these
+poets, all of earlier days, Llewelyn excepted, as his own
+contemporaries at the close of the thirteenth century.
+
+Gray, whose penetrating and powerful genius rendered him in many ways
+an initiator in advance of his age, is probably the first of our poets
+who made some acquaintance with the rich and admirable poetry in which
+Wales from the Sixth Century has been fertile,--before and since his
+time so barbarously neglected, not in England only. Hence it has been
+thought worth while here to enter into a little detail upon his Cymric
+allusions.
+
+142 -- l. 5 _She-wolf_: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward
+II.--L. 35 _Towers of Julius_: the Tower of London, built in part,
+according to tradition, by Julius Caesar.
+
+143 -- l. 2 _bristled boar_: the badge of Richard III. L. 7 _Half of
+thy heart_: Queen Eleanor died soon after the conquest of Wales. L. 18
+_Arthur_: Henry VII named his eldest son thus, in deference to native
+feeling and story.
+
+144 161 The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Drumossie.
+
+145 162 _lilting_, singing blithely: _loaning_, broad lane: _bughts_,
+pens: _scorning_, rallying: _dowie_, dreary: _daffin'_ and _gabbin'_,
+joking and chatting: _leglin_, milkpail: _shearing_, reaping:
+_bandsters_, sheaf-binders: _lyart_, grizzled: _runkled_, wrinkled:
+_fleeching_, coaxing: _gloaming_, twilight: _bogle_, ghost: _dool_,
+sorrow.
+
+147 164 The Editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, to
+his mind superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. Part
+is probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a
+more modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan's poem
+(163) exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old
+verses,--_Hecht_, promised; the obsolete _hight_: _mavis_, thrush:
+_ilka_, every: _lav'rock_, lark: _haughs_, valley-meadows: _twined_,
+parted from: _marrow_, mate: _syne_, then.
+
+148 165 The Royal George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial
+careening at Spithead, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The
+total loss was believed to be nearly 1000 souls.--This little poem
+might be called one of our trial-pieces, in regard to taste. The
+reader who feels the vigour of description and the force of pathos
+underlying Cowper's bare and truly Greek simplicity of phrase, may
+assure himself _se valde profecisse_ in poetry.
+
+151 167 A little masterpiece in a very difficult style: Catullus
+himself could hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness,
+simplicity, and humour, it is worthy of the Ancients: and even more
+so, from the completeness and unity of the picture presented.
+
+155 172 Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the
+poetic nature has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet this
+song, with 'Rule Britannia' and a few others, must make us regret that
+he did not more seriously apply himself to lyrical writing.
+
+156 174 With what insight and tenderness, yet in how few words, has
+this painter-poet here himself told _Love's Secret!_
+
+157 177 l. 1 _Aeolian lyre_: the Greeks ascribed the origin of their
+Lyrical Poetry to the Colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor.
+
+158 -- _Thracia's hills_ (l. 9) supposed a favourite resort of Mars.
+_Feather'd king_ (l. 13) the Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by
+Pindar in a passage here imitated by Gray. _Idalia_ (l. 19) in Cyprus,
+where _Cytherea_ (Venus) was especially worshipped.
+
+159 -- l. 6 _Hyperion_: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets of the
+Islands and Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England.
+
+160 -- l. 27 _Theban Eagle_: Pindar.
+
+163 178 l. 5 _chaste-eyed Queen_: Diana.
+
+164 179 From that wild rhapsody of mingled grandeur, tenderness, and
+obscurity, that 'medley between inspiration and possession,' which
+poor Smart is believed to have written whilst in confinement for
+madness.
+
+165 181 _the dreadful light_: of life and experience.
+
+166 182 _Attic warbler_: the nightingale.
+
+168 184 _sleekit_, sleek: _bickering brattle_, flittering flight: _laith_,
+loth: _pattle_, ploughstaff: _whyles_, at times: _a daimenicker_, a
+corn-ear now and then: _thrave_, shock: _lave_, rest: _foggage_,
+after-grass: _snell_, biting: _but hald_, without dwelling-place: _thole_,
+bear: _cranreuch_, hoar-frost: _thy lane_, alone: _a-gley_, off the right
+line, awry.
+
+175 188 _stoure_, dust-storm; _braw_, smart.
+
+176 189 _scaith_, hurt: _tent_, guard: _steer_, molest.
+
+177 191 _drumlie_, muddy: _birk_, birch.
+
+178 192 _greet_, cry: _daurna_, dare not.--There can hardly exist a
+poem more truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, perhaps,
+Sappho excepted, has any Poetess equalled it.
+
+180 193 _fou_, merry with drink: _coost_, carried: _unco skeigh_, very
+proud: _gart_, forced: _abeigh_, aside: _Ailsa craig_, a rock in the Firth
+of Clyde: _grat his een bleert_, cried till his eyes were bleared:
+_lowpin_, leaping: _linn_, waterfall: _sair_, sore: _smoor'd_, smothered:
+_crouse_ and _canty_, blithe and gay.
+
+181 194 Burns justly named this 'one of the most beautiful songs in
+the Scots or any other language.' One stanza, interpolated by Beattie,
+is here omitted:--it contains two good lines, but is out of harmony
+with the original poem. _Bigonet_, little cap: probably altered from
+_béguinette_: _thraw_, twist: _caller_, fresh.
+
+182 195 Burns himself, despite two attempts, failed to improve this
+little absolute masterpiece of music, tenderness, and simplicity: this
+'Romance of a life' in eight lines.--_Eerie_: strictly, scared:
+uneasy.
+
+183 196 _airts_, quarters: _row_, roll: _shaw_, small wood in a
+hollow, spinney: _knowes_, knolls. The last two stanzas are not by
+Burns.
+
+184 197 _jo_, sweetheart: _brent_, smooth: _pow_, head.
+
+-- 198 _leal_, faithful. St. 3 _fain_, happy.
+
+185 199 Henry VI founded Eton.
+
+188 200 Written in 1773, towards the beginning of Cowper's second
+attack of melancholy madness--a time when he altogether gave up
+prayer, saying, 'For him to implore mercy would only anger God the
+more.' Yet had he given it up when sane, it would have been 'maior
+insania.'
+
+191 203 The Editor would venture to class in the very first rank this
+Sonnet, which, with 204, records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose
+affectionate care for many years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to
+a life radically wretched. Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal
+grace and a more perfect finish; Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's
+stand supreme in stateliness; Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But
+Cowper's unites with an exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the
+ancients would have called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness
+peculiar to his loving and ingenuous nature.--There is much mannerism,
+much that is unimportant or of now exhausted interest in his poems:
+but where he is great, it is with that elementary greatness which
+rests on the most universal human feelings. Cowper is our highest
+master in simple pathos.
+
+193 205 Cowper's last original poem, founded upon a story told in
+Anson's 'Voyages.' It was written March 1799; he died in next year's
+April.
+
+195 206 Very little except his name appears recoverable with regard
+to the author of this truly noble poem, which appeared in the
+'Scripscrapologia, or Collins' Doggerel Dish of All Sorts,' with three
+or four other pieces of merit, Birmingham, 1804.--_Everlasting_; used
+with side-allusion to a cloth so named, at the time when Collins
+wrote.
+
+
+_Summary of Book Fourth_
+
+It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry,
+that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard
+of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few
+exceptions composed during the first thirty years of the Nineteenth
+century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely
+sudden appearance of individual genius: that, however, which assigns
+the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry to an impulse
+from the France of the first Republic and Empire is inadequate. The
+first French Revolution was rather one result,--the most conspicuous,
+indeed, yet itself in great measure essentially retrogressive,--of
+that wider and more potent spirit which through enquiry and attempt,
+through strength and weakness, sweeps mankind round the circles (not,
+as some too confidently argue, of Advance, but) of gradual
+Transformation: and it is to this that we must trace the literature of
+Modern Europe. But, without attempting discussion on the motive causes
+of Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley, and others, we may observe that these
+Poets carried to further perfection the later tendencies of the
+Century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human
+Passion and Character in every sphere, and love of Nature for
+herself:--that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art
+made since the Restoration, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and
+depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan writers:--that,
+lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in language
+and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a tenderness
+and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the Soul
+and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger sense of
+Humanity,--hitherto scarcely attained, and perhaps unattainable even
+by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the
+Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, may fairly claim that
+during six centuries it has proved itself the most richly gifted of
+all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
+and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to
+itself--hence the many phases of thought and style they present:--to
+sympathize with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and
+without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of
+the soul. For purity in taste is absolutely proportionate to
+strength--and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to
+delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most
+wisely.
+
+But the gallery which this Book offers to the reader will aid him more
+than any preface. It is a royal Palace of Poetry which he is invited
+to enter:
+
+    Adparet domus intus, et atria longa patescunt--
+
+though it is, indeed, to the sympathetic eye only that its treasures
+will be visible.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+197 208 This beautiful lyric, printed in 1783, seems to anticipate in
+its imaginative music that return to our great early age of song,
+which in Blake's own lifetime was to prove,--how gloriously! that the
+English Muses had resumed their 'ancient melody':--Keats, Shelley,
+Byron,--he overlived them all.
+
+199 210 _stout Cortez_: History would here suggest _Balbóa_: (A.T.) It
+may be noticed, that to find in Chapman's Homer the 'pure serene' of
+the original, the reader must bring with him the imagination of the
+youthful poet;--he must be 'a Greek himself,' as Shelley finely said
+of Keats.
+
+202 212 The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems.
+
+203 213 This poem exemplifies the peculiar skill with which Scott
+employs proper names:--a rarely misleading sign of true poetical
+genius.
+
+213 226 Simple as _Lucy Gray_ seems, a mere narrative of what 'has
+been, and may be again,' yet every touch in the child's picture is
+marked by the deepest and purest ideal character. Hence, pathetic as
+the situation is, this is not strictly a pathetic poem, such as
+Wordsworth gives us in 221, Lamb in 264, and Scott in his _Maid of
+Neidpath_,--'almost more pathetic,' as Tennyson once remarked, 'than a
+man has the right to be.' And Lyte's lovely stanzas (224) suggest,
+perhaps, the same remark.
+
+222 235 In this and in other instances the addition (or the change) of
+a Title has been risked, in hope that the aim of the piece following
+may be grasped more clearly and immediately.
+
+228 242 This beautiful Sonnet was the last word of a youth, in whom,
+if the fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise,
+England lost one of the most rarely gifted in the long roll of her
+poets. Shakespeare and Milton, had their lives been closed at
+twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less
+excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the
+London surgery, passed at once to a place with them of 'high
+collateral glory.'
+
+230 245 It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so
+little in this sweet and genuinely national style.
+
+231 246 A masterly example of Byron's command of strong thought and
+close reasoning in verse:--as the next is equally characteristic of
+Shelley's wayward intensity.
+
+240 253 Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in
+Chillon on the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of his
+country against the tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during
+the first half of the Seventeenth century.--This noble Sonnet is
+worthy to stand near Milton's on the Vaudois massacre.
+
+241 254 Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon in 1800:
+Venice in 1797 (255).
+
+243 259 This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians
+under Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near
+Munich. _Hohen Linden_ means _High Limetrees_.
+
+247 262 After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. Moore
+retreated before Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst
+covering the embarkation of his troops.
+
+257 272 The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and
+other choice spirits of that age.
+
+258 273 _Maisie_: Mary.--Scott has given us nothing more complete and
+lovely than this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic
+power to a wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn,
+far less any conscious analysis of feeling attempted:--the pathetic
+meaning is left to be suggested by the mere presentment of the
+situation. A narrow criticism has often named this, which maybe called
+the Homeric manner, superficial, from its apparent simple facility;
+but first-rate excellence in it is in truth one of the least common
+triumphs of Poetry.--This style should be compared with what is not
+less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner feeling, the
+expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart of Nature
+and of the Soul within the Soul,--the analytical method, in
+short,--most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shelley.
+
+263 277 Wolfe resembled Keats, not only in his early death by
+consumption and the fluent freshness of his poetical style, but in
+beauty of character:--brave, tender, energetic, unselfish, modest. Is
+it fanciful to find some reflex of these qualities in the _Burial_ and
+_Mary_? Out of the abundance of the _heart_ ...
+
+264 278 _correi_: covert on a hillside. _Cumber_: trouble.
+
+265 250 This book has not a few poems of greater power and more
+perfect execution than _Agnes_ and the extract which we have ventured
+to make from the deep-hearted author's _Sad Thoughts_ (No. 224). But
+none are more emphatically marked by the note of exquisiteness.
+
+266 281 st. 3 _inch_: island.
+
+270 283 From _Poetry for Children_ (1809), by Charles and
+Mary Lamb. This tender and original little piece seems clearly to
+reveal the work of that noble-minded and afflicted sister, who was at
+once the happiness, the misery, and the life-long blessing of her
+equally noble-minded brother.
+
+278 289 This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an
+exquisiteness of expression, which place it in the highest rank among
+the many masterpieces of its illustrious Author.
+
+289 300 _interlunar swoon_: interval of the moon's invisibility.
+
+294 304 _Calpe_: Gibraltar. _Lofoden_: the Maelstrom whirlpool off the
+N.W. coast of Norway.
+
+295 305 This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by Hamilton
+on the subject better treated in 163 and 164.
+
+307 315 _Arcturi_: seemingly used for _northern stars_. _And wild
+roses, &c._ Our language has perhaps no line modulated with more
+subtle sweetness.
+
+308 316 Coleridge describes this poem as the fragment of a
+dream-vision,--perhaps, an opium-dream?--which composed itself in his
+mind when fallen asleep after reading a few lines about 'the Khan
+Kubla' in Purchas' _Pilgrimage_.
+
+312 318 _Ceres' daughter_: Proserpine. _God of Torment_: Pluto.
+
+320 321 The leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's
+landscape in Italy appears to be--On the voyage of life are many
+moments of pleasure, given by the sight of Nature, who has power to
+heal even the worldliness and the uncharity of man.
+
+321 -- l. 23 Amphitrite was daughter to Ocean.
+
+325 322 l. 21 _Maenad_: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on Dionysos in the
+Greek mythology. May we not call this the most vivid, sustained, and
+impassioned amongst all Shelley's magical personifications of Nature?
+
+326 -- l. 5 Plants under water sympathize with the seasons of the
+land, and hence with the winds which affect them.
+
+327 323 Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's
+brother John. This poem may be profitably compared with Shelley's
+following it. Each is the most complete expression of the innermost
+spirit of his art given by these great Poets:--of that Idea which, as
+in the case of the true Painter, (to quote the words of Reynolds,)
+'subsists only in the mind: The sight never beheld it, nor has the
+hand expressed it: it is an idea residing in the breast of the artist,
+which he is always labouring to impart, and which he dies at last
+without imparting.'
+
+328 -- _the Kind_: the human race.
+
+331 327 _the Royal Saint_: Henry VI.
+
+331 328 st. 4 _this_ folk: _its_ has been here plausibly but, perhaps,
+unnecessarily, conjectured.--Every one knows the general story of the
+Italian Renaissance, of the Revival of Letters.--From Petrarch's day
+to our own, that ancient world has renewed its youth: Poets and
+artists, students and thinkers, have yielded themselves wholly to its
+fascination, and deeply penetrated its spirit. Yet perhaps no one more
+truly has vivified, whilst idealizing, the picture of Greek country
+life in the fancied Golden Age, than Keats in these lovely (if
+somewhat unequally executed) stanzas:--his quick imagination, by a
+kind of 'natural magic,' more than supplying the scholarship which his
+youth had no opportunity of gaining.
+
+105 134 These stanzas are by Richard Verstegan (--c. 1635), a poet and
+antiquarian, published in his rare Odes (1601), under the title _Our
+Blessed Ladies Lullaby_, and reprinted by Mr. Orby Shipley in his
+beautiful _Carmina Mariana_ (1893). The four stanzas here given form
+the opening of a hymn of twenty-four.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS
+
+WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH
+
+
+ALEXANDER, William (1580-1640)           29
+
+BARBAULD, Anna Laetitia (1743-1825)     207
+BARNEFIELD, Richard (16th Century)       45
+BEAUMONT, Francis (1586-1616)            90
+BLAKE, William (1757-1827)              174, 180, 181, 208
+BURNS, Robert (1759-1796)               161, 168, 176, 184, 188, 189, 190,
+                                        191, 193, 196, 197
+BYRON, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824)   212, 214, 216, 234, 246,
+                                        253, 266, 275
+
+CAMPBELL, Thomas (1777-1844)            225, 231, 241, 250, 251, 259, 295,
+                                        304, 310, 314, 332
+CAMPION, Thomas (c. 1567-1620)           25, 26, 50, 52, 55, 59, 76, 79,
+                                        101, 143
+CAREW, Thomas (1589-1639)               112
+CAREY, Henry (---- -1743)               167
+CIBBER, Colley (1671-1757)              155
+COLERIDGE, Hartley (1796-1849)          218
+COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834)    211, 316, 329
+COLLINS, John (18th Century)            206
+COLLINS, William (1720-1756)            153, 160, 178, 186
+COWLEY, Abraham (1618-1667)             130, 137
+COWPER, William (1731-1800)             165, 170, 183, 200, 202, 203, 204,
+                                        205
+CRASHAW, Richard (1615?-1652)           103
+CUNNINGHAM, Allan (1784-1842)           249
+
+DANIEL, Samuel (1562-1619)               46
+DEKKER, Thomas (---- -1638?)             75
+DEVEREUX, Robert (1567-1601)             83
+DONNE, John (1573-1631)                  12
+DRAYTON, Michael (1563-1631)             49
+DRUMMOND, William (1585-1649)             4, 61, 63, 77, 80, 81, 84
+DRYDEN, John (1631-1700)                 86, 151
+
+ELLIOTT, Jane (18th Century)            162
+
+FLETCHER, John (1576-1625)              132
+
+GAY, John (1685-1732)                   166
+GOLDSMITH, Oliver (1728-1774)           175
+GRAHAM, Robert (1735-1797)              169
+GRAY, Thomas (1716-1771)                152, 156, 159, 177, 182, 187, 199,
+                                        201
+GREENE, Robert (1561?-1592)              60
+
+HABINGTON, William (1605-1645)          148
+HERBERT, George (1593-1632)              97
+HERRICK, Robert (1591-1674?)            108, 113, 118, 119, 120, 124, 139,
+                                        140
+HEYWOOD, Thomas (---- -1649?)            73
+HOOD, Thomas (1798-1845)                268, 274, 279
+
+JONSON, Ben (1574-1637)                  96, 102, 116
+
+KEATS, John (1795-1821)                 209, 210, 235, 237, 242, 243,
+                                        272, 290, 292, 303, 318, 328, 333
+
+LAMB, Charles (1775-1835)               264, 276, 282
+LAMB, Mary (1764-1847)                  283
+LINDSAY, Anne (1750-1825)               192
+LODGE, Thomas (1556-1625)                19, 71
+LOGAN, John (1748-1788)                 163
+LOVELACE, Richard (1618-1658)           109, 127, 128
+LYLYE, John (1554-1600)                  72
+LYTE, Henry Francis (1793-1847)         224, 280
+
+MARLOWE, Christopher (1562-1593)          7
+MARVELL, Andrew (1620-1678)              88, 105, 141, 142, 146
+MICKLE, William Julius (1734-1788)      194
+MILTON, John (1608-1674)                 85, 87, 89, 93, 94, 99, 100, 111,
+                                        144, 145, 147
+MOORE, Thomas (1780-1852)               229, 245, 261, 265, 269
+
+NAIRN, Carolina (1766-1845)             198
+NASH, Thomas (1567-1601?)                 1
+NORRIS, John (1657-1711)                149
+
+PHILIPS, Ambrose (1671-1749)            157
+POPE, Alexander (1688-1744)             154
+PRIOR, Matthew (1662-1721)              173
+
+QUARLES, Francis (1592-1644)            123
+
+ROGERS, Samuel (1762-1855)              171, 185
+
+SCOTT, Walter (1771-1832)               213, 227, 230, 236, 238, 240, 248,
+                                        273, 278, 281, 285, 311
+SEDLEY, Charles (1639-1701)             106, 126
+SHAKESPEARE, William (1564-1616)          2, 3, 5, 6, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15,
+                                         16, 17, 18, 23, 24, 27, 31, 35,
+                                         37, 38, 39, 41, 42, 43, 48, 51,
+                                         56, 62, 64, 65, 67, 68, 69, 78, 82
+SHELLEY, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)       215, 219, 228, 232, 239, 247, 270,
+                                        287, 293, 300, 307, 308, 312, 315,
+                                        321, 322, 324, 334, 335, 339
+SHIRLEY, James (1596-1666)               91, 92
+SIDNEY, Philip (1554-1586)               13, 32, 40, 47, 58
+SMART, Christopher (1722-1770)          179
+SOUTHEY, Robert (1774-1843)             260, 271
+SPENSER, Edmund (1553-1598-9)            74
+SUCKLING, John (1608-9-1641)            129
+SYLVESTER, Joshua (1563-1618)            34
+
+THOMSON, James (1700-1748)              158, 172
+
+VAUGHAN, Henry (1621-1695)               98, 138, 150
+
+WALLER, Edmund (1605-1687)              115, 122
+WEBSTER, John (---- -1638?)              66
+WILMOT, John (1647-1680)                107
+WITHER, George (1588-1667)              131
+WOLFE, Charles (1791-1823)              262, 277
+WORDSWORTH, William (1770-1850)         217, 220, 221, 222, 223, 226, 233,
+                                        244, 252, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258,
+                                        263, 267, 284, 286, 288, 289, 291,
+                                        294, 296, 297, 298, 299, 301, 302,
+                                        305, 306, 309, 313, 317, 319, 320,
+                                        323, 325, 326, 327, 330, 331, 336,
+                                        337, 338
+WOTTON, Henry (1568-1639)                95, 110
+WYAT, Thomas (1503-1542)                 28, 44
+
+ANONYMOUS,                                8, 20, 21, 22, 30, 33, 36, 53,
+                                         54, 57, 70, 104, 114, 117, 121,
+                                        125, 133, 135, 136, 164, 195
+
+134 is by Richard Verstegan (-c. 1635).
+
+
+
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES
+
+PAGE
+
+A Chieftain to the Highlands bound                          211
+A child's a plaything for an hour                           270
+A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by                     305
+A slumber did my spirit seal                                210
+A sweet disorder in the dress                                95
+A weary lot is thine, fair maid                             225
+A wet sheet and a flowing sea                               235
+Absence, hear thou this protestation                          8
+Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit                             86
+Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh                            217
+All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd                       149
+All thoughts, all passions, all delights                    199
+And are ye sure the news is true                            181
+And is this--Yarrow?--This the Stream                       297
+And thou art dead, as young and fair                        231
+And wilt thou leave me thus                                  26
+Ariel to Miranda:--Take                                     288
+Art thou pale for weariness                                 305
+Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers                 50
+As it fell upon a day                                        27
+As I was walking all alane                                  107
+As slow our ship her foamy track                            251
+At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears         288
+At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly     230
+Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones          64
+Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake                                  157
+Awake, awake, my Lyre                                       101
+
+Bards of Passion and of Mirth                               197
+Beauty sat bathing by a spring                               13
+Behold her, single in the field                             287
+Being your slave, what should I do but tend                   9
+Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed                   277
+Best and brightest, come away                               299
+Bid me to live, and I will live                              97
+Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy               125
+Blow, blow, thou winter wind                                 34
+Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art             228
+
+Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren                    41
+Calm was the day, and through the trembling air              45
+Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms                       75
+Care-charmer Sleep, son of the Sable Night                   28
+Come away, come away, Death                                  38
+Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me                    51
+Come little babe, come silly soul                            35
+Come live with me and be my Love                              5
+Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace              24
+Come unto these yellow sands                                  2
+Crabbed Age and Youth                                         6
+Cupid and my Campaspe play'd                                 44
+Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench                 80
+
+Daughter of Jove, relentless power                          188
+Daughter to that good Earl, once President                   89
+Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord                   283
+Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move              54
+Down in yon garden sweet and gay                            147
+Drink to me only with thine eyes                             92
+Duncan Gray cam here to woo                                 180
+
+Earl March look'd on his dying child                        228
+Earth has not anything to show more fair                    281
+E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks                    96
+Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind                        240
+Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky                       273
+Ever let the Fancy roam                                     310
+
+Fain would I change that note                                 6
+Fair Daffodils, we weep to see                              111
+Fair pledges of a fruitful tree                             110
+Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing                25
+Fear no more the heat o' the sun                             40
+Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new         22
+Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow                          30
+For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove                          155
+Forget not yet the tried intent                              18
+Four Seasons fill the measure of the year                   339
+From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony                          63
+From Stirling Castle we had seen                            295
+Full fathom five thy father lies                             40
+
+Gather ye rose-buds while ye may                             87
+Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even                            218
+Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn                  93
+Go fetch to me a pint o' wine                               152
+Go, lovely Rose                                              91
+
+Hail thou most sacred venerable thing                       128
+Hail to thee, blithe Spirit                                 274
+Happy the man, whose wish and care                          136
+Happy those early days, when I                               78
+Happy were he could finish forth his fate                    55
+He that loves a rosy cheek                                   90
+He is gone on the mountain                                  264
+Hence, all you vain delights                                103
+Hence, loathéd Melancholy                                   116
+Hence, vain deluding Joys                                   120
+He sang of God, the mighty source                           164
+High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be                     9
+How happy is he born and taught                              76
+How like a winter hath my absence been                       10
+How sleep the brave who sink to rest                        144
+How sweet the answer Echo makes                             217
+How vainly men themselves amaze                             113
+
+I am monarch of all I survey                                190
+I arise from dreams of Thee                                 205
+I cannot change, as others do                                87
+I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way                     307
+I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden                            208
+I have had playmates, I have had companions                 250
+I have no name                                              165
+I heard a thousand blended notes                            312
+I meet thy pensive, moonlight face                          211
+I met a traveller from an antique land                      282
+I remember, I remember                                      254
+I saw Eternity the other night                              129
+I saw her in childhood                                      265
+I saw my lady weep                                           19
+I saw where in the shroud did lurk                          268
+I travell'd among unknown men                               208
+I wander'd lonely as a cloud                                291
+I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile                  327
+I wish I were where Helen lies                              106
+If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song                     170
+If doughty deeds my lady please                             153
+If I had thought thou couldst have died                     263
+If Thou survive my well-contented day                        41
+If to be absent were to be                                  100
+I'm wearing awa', Jean                                      184
+In a drear-nighted December                                 222
+In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining          195
+In the sweet shire of Cardigan                              248
+In this still place, remote from men                        329
+In Xanadu did Kubla Khan                                    308
+It is a beauteous evening, calm and free                    303
+It is not growing like a tree                                77
+It was a dismal and a fearful night                         108
+It was a lover and his lass                                   8
+It was a summer evening                                     244
+I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking                  145
+
+Jack and Joan, they think no ill                            115
+John Anderson my jo, John                                   185
+
+Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting                      43
+Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son                    79
+Let me not to the marriage of true minds                     20
+Life! I know not what thou art                              196
+Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore             25
+Like to the clear in highest sphere                          12
+Love in my bosom, like a bee                                 43
+Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise                        90
+Love not me for comely grace                                 98
+Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours                            166
+
+Many a green isle needs must be                             320
+Mary! I want a lyre with other strings                      191
+Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour                242
+Mine be a cot beside the hill                               169
+Mortality, behold and fear                                   73
+Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes                       309
+Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold                 199
+Music, when soft voices die                                 346
+My days among the Dead are past                             257
+My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains                 279
+My heart leaps up when I behold                             341
+My Love in her attire doth shew her wit                      96
+My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow                39
+My thoughts hold mortal strife                               38
+My true-love hath my heart, and I have his                   20
+
+Never love unless you can                                    16
+Never seek to tell thy love                                 156
+No longer mourn for me when I am dead                        42
+Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note                    247
+Not, Celia, that I juster am                                 98
+Now the golden Morn aloft                                   133
+Now the last day of many days                               301
+
+O blithe new-comer! I have heard                            278
+O Brignall banks are wild and fair                          203
+O Friend! I know not which way I must look                  242
+O happy shades! to me unblest                               188
+O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm                 18
+O leave this barren spot to me                              283
+O listen, listen, ladies gay                                266
+O lovers' eyes are sharp to see                             227
+O Mary, at thy window be                                    175
+O me! what eyes hath love put in my head                     31
+O Mistress mine, where are you roaming                       22
+O my Luve's like a red, red rose                            177
+O never say that I was false of heart                        11
+O saw ye bonnie Lesley                                      176
+O say what is that thing call'd Light                       136
+O talk not to me of a name great in story                   202
+O Thou, by Nature taught                                    134
+O waly waly up the bank                                     104
+O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms                         224
+O wild West Wind, thou breath Of Autumn's being             325
+O World! O Life! O Time                                     340
+Obscurest night involved the sky                            193
+Of all the girls that are so smart                          151
+Of a' the airts the wind can blaw                           183
+Of Nelson and the North                                     237
+Of Neptune's empire let us sing                              80
+Of this fair volume which we World do name                   53
+Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray                                213
+Oft in the stilly night                                     255
+Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom                          262
+On a day, alack the day                                      17
+On a Poet's lips I slept                                    329
+Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee                  241
+One more Unfortunate                                        259
+One word is too often profaned                              233
+On Linden, when the sun was low                             243
+Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd      306
+Over the mountains      84
+
+Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day                          45
+Phoebus, arise                                                2
+Pibroch of Donuil Dhu                                       233
+Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth                     52
+Proud Maisie is in the wood                                 258
+
+Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair                          81
+
+Rough Wind, that moanest loud                               339
+Ruin seize thee, ruthless King                              140
+
+Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness                      293
+See with what simplicity                                     85
+Shall I compare thee to a summer's day                       15
+Shall I, wasting in despair                                 102
+She dwelt among the untrodden ways                          208
+She is not fair to outward view                             207
+She walks in beauty, like the night                         206
+She was a Phantom of delight                                206
+Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea          4
+Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part             30
+Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me                   31
+Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile                        154
+Sleep, sleep, beauty bright                                 165
+Souls of Poets dead and gone                                257
+Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king         1
+Star that bringest home the bee                             304
+Stern Daughter of the Voice of God                          239
+Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind                     230
+Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes                        90
+Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower                          285
+Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory              14
+Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade               154
+Swiftly walk over the western wave                          219
+
+Take, O take those lips away                                 29
+Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense                   331
+Tell me not, Sweet, I an unkind                              88
+Tell me where is Fancy bred                                  42
+That time of year thou may'st in me behold                   23
+That which her slender waist confined                        96
+The curfew tolls the knell of parting day                   172
+The forward youth that would appear                          65
+The fountains mingle with the river                         216
+The glories of our blood and state                           74
+The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King                55
+The lovely lass o' Inverness                                144
+The man of life upright                                      52
+The merchant, to secure his treasure                        155
+The more we live, more brief appear                         338
+The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth                   28
+The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade               167
+There be none of Beauty's daughters                         204
+There is a flower, the lesser Celandine                     253
+There is a garden in her face                                92
+There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 252
+There's not a nook within this solemn Pass                  340
+There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream             341
+The sea hath many thousand sands                             33
+The sun is warm, the sky is clear                           256
+The sun upon the lake is low                                304
+The twentieth year is well-nigh past                        192
+The world is too much with us; late and soon                330
+They are all gone into the world of light                   109
+They that have power to hurt, and will do none               26
+This is the month, and this the happy morn                   56
+This Life, which seems so fair                               51
+Though others may her brow adore                             21
+Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white                 34
+Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness                    331
+Three years she grew in sun and shower                      209
+Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream                         146
+Timely blossom, Infant fair                                 138
+Tired with all these, for restful death I cry                54
+Toll for the Brave                                          148
+To me, fair Friend, you never can be old                     11
+To one who has been long in city pent                       282
+Turn back, you wanton flyer                                  16
+'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won                     129
+'Twas on a lofty vase's side                                137
+Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea                     241
+
+Under the greenwood tree                                      7
+Upon my lap my sovereign sits                               105
+
+Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying                      333
+Victorious men of earth, no more                             74
+
+Waken, lords and ladies gay                                 272
+Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie                    168
+Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee                      37
+Weep you no more, sad fountains                              14
+Were I as base as is the lowly plain                         21
+We talk'd with open heart, and tongue                       336
+We walk'd along, while bright and red                       334
+We watch'd her breathing thro' the night                    265
+Whenas in silks my Julia goes                                95
+When Britain first at Heaven's command                      139
+When first the fiery-mantled Sun                            294
+When God at first made Man                                   78
+When he who adores thee has left but the name               246
+When icicles hang by the wall                                23
+When I consider how my light is spent                        76
+When I have borne in memory what has tamed                  243
+When I have fears that I may cease to be                    229
+When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced                  4
+When I survey the bright                                    126
+When I think on the happy days                              182
+When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes                 10
+When in the chronicle of wasted time                         15
+When lovely woman stoops to folly                           156
+When Love with unconfinéd wings                              99
+When maidens such as Hester die                             262
+When Music, heavenly maid, was young                        161
+When Ruth was left half desolate                            313
+When the lamp is shatter'd                                  226
+When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame        178
+When thou must home to shades of underground                 37
+When to the sessions of sweet silent thought                 24
+When we two parted                                          221
+Where art thou, my beloved Son                              270
+Where shall the lover rest                                  222
+Where the bee sucks, there suck I                             2
+Where the remote Bermudas ride                              124
+Whether on Ida's shady brow                                 197
+While that the sun with his beams hot                        32
+Whoe'er she be                                               82
+Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant                    220
+Why so pale and wan, fond lover                             100
+Why weep ye by the tide, ladie                              215
+With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies          36
+With little here to do or see                               291
+With sweetest milk and sugar first                          112
+
+Ye banks and braes and streams around                       177
+Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon                           157
+Ye distant spires, ye antique towers                        185
+Ye Mariners of England                                      235
+Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye                    284
+Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more                   68
+You meaner beauties of the night                             88
+
+
+RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
+
+LONDON AND BUNGAY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.
+
+     Uniformly printed, with Vignette Titles by Sir J. E.
+     MILLAIS, Sir NOEL PATON, T. WOOLNER, W. HOLMAN HUNT, ARTHUR
+     HUGHES, &c., engraved on Steel. In uniform binding. Pott
+     8vo, 2s. 6d. net each.
+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL
+
+Poems in the English Language. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by
+Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE. The First and Second Series, separately, or 2
+Vols. in box, 5s. net.
+
+
+POET'S WALK. An Introduction to English Poetry, chosen and arranged by
+MOWBRAY MORRIS. New and Revised Edition.
+
+LYRIC LOVE: An Anthology. Edited by WILLIAM WATSON.
+
+THE CHILDREN'S GARLAND FROM THE BEST POETS. Selected by COVENTRY
+PATMORE.
+
+CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF LYRICAL POETRY. Arranged by F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+THE FAIRY BOOK. The Best Popular Fairy Stories. Selected by Mrs.
+CRAIK.
+
+THE JEST BOOK. The Choicest Anecdotes and Sayings. Arranged by MARK
+LEMON.
+
+A BOOK OF GOLDEN THOUGHTS. By HENRY ATTWELL.
+
+THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY FOR THE YOUNG. Selected by C. F. ALEXANDER.
+
+GOLDEN TREASURY PSALTER. The Student's Edition. Being an Edition with
+briefer Notes of "The Psalms Chronologically arranged by Four
+Friends."
+
+THE BOOK OF PRAISE. From the best English Hymn Writers. Selected by
+ROUNDELL, EARL OF SELBORNE.
+
+THEOLOGIA GERMANICA. Translated by S. WINKWORTH. Preface by C.
+KINGSLEY.
+
+THE BALLAD BOOK. A Selection of the Choicest British Ballads. Edited
+by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
+
+THE SONG BOOK. Words and Tunes selected and arranged by JOHN HULLAH.
+
+LA LYRE FRANÇAISE. Selected and arranged with Notes by G. MASSON.
+
+BALLADEN UND ROMANZEN. Being a Selection of the Best German Ballads
+and Romances. Edited with Introduction and Notes by Dr. BUCHHEIM.
+
+DEUTSCHE LYRIK. The Golden Treasury of the best German Lyrical Poems.
+Selected by Dr. BUCHHEIM.
+
+HEINRICH HEINE'S LIEDER UND GEDICHTE. Selected and arranged, with
+Notes and a Literary Introduction, by C. A. BUCHHEIM, Ph.D. With
+Portrait.
+
+THE ESSAYS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. Edited by J. R. GREEN.
+
+SELECTED POEMS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+BACON'S ESSAYS, AND COLOURS OF GOOD AND EVIL. With Notes and
+Glossarial Index by W. ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.
+
+SIR THOMAS BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI; LETTER TO A Friend, &c., and
+Christian Morals. Edited by W. A. GREENHILL, M.D.
+
+HYDRIOTAPHIA, AND THE GARDEN OF CYRUS. Edited by W. A. GREENHILL, M.D.
+
+THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT which is to come. By
+JOHN BUNYAN.
+
+POETRY OF BYRON. Chosen and arranged by MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+SELECTED POEMS OF A. H. CLOUGH.
+
+TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS. By AN OLD BOY.
+
+LETTERS OF WILLIAM COWPER. Edited, with Introduction, by Rev. W.
+BENHAM.
+
+SELECTIONS FROM COWPER'S POEMS. With an Introduction by Mrs. OLIPHANT.
+
+THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. Edited by J. W. CLARK, M.A.
+
+BALTHASAR GRACIAN. Art of Worldly Wisdom. Translated by J. JACOBS.
+
+CHRYSOMELA. A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick. By
+Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS. Edited by Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+KEBLE. The Christian Year. Edited by C. M. YONGE.
+
+LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. Edited by Rev. ALFRED AINGER, M.A.
+
+SELECTIONS FROM WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Edited by SIDNEY COLVIN.
+
+THE SPEECHES AND TABLE TALK OF THE PROPHET MOHAMMAD. Translated by
+STANLEY LANE-POOLE.
+
+THE CAVALIER AND HIS LADY. Selections from the Works of the first Duke
+and Duchess of Newcastle. With an Introductory Essay by EDWARD
+JENKINS.
+
+RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. The Astronomer-Poet of Persia. Rendered into
+English Verse.
+
+MISCELLANIES (including Euphranor, Polonius, etc.). By EDWARD
+FITZGERALD.
+
+TWO ESSAYS ON OLD AGE AND FRIENDSHIP. Translated from the Latin of
+Cicero, with Introduction, by E. S. SHUCKBURGH.
+
+MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS TO HIMSELF. An English Version of the Works
+of Marcus Aurelius. By Rev. Dr. G. H. RENDALL.
+
+THE HOUSE OF ATREUS: being the Agamemnon, Libation-Bearers, and Furies
+of Æschylus. Translated into English verse by E. D. A. MORSHEAD, M.A.
+
+THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. Translated by J. LL. DAVIES, M.A., and D. J.
+VAUGHAN.
+
+THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. Being the Euthyphron, Apology, Crito,
+and Phaedo of Plato. Translated by F. J. CHURCH.
+
+PHAEDRUS, LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS OF PLATO. A New Translation by J.
+WRIGHT.
+
+SHAKESPEARE'S SONGS AND SONNETS. Edited with Notes, by F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+POEMS OF SHELLEY. Edited by S. A. BROOKE.
+
+SOUTHEY. POEMS. Chosen and arranged by E. DOWDEN.
+
+LYRICAL POEMS. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. Selected and Annotated by $1
+
+IN MEMORIAM. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
+
+THE PRINCESS. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
+
+THEOCRITUS, BION, AND MOSCHUS. Rendered into English Prose by ANDREW
+LANG.
+
+POEMS, RELIGIOUS AND DEVOTIONAL. By J. G. WHITTIER.
+
+POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. Edited by MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS OF ALL TIMES AND ALL COUNTRIES. By C. M. YONGE.
+
+A BOOK OF WORTHIES. By C. M. YONGE.
+
+THE STORY OF THE CHRISTIANS AND MOORS IN SPAIN. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.
+
+
+MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED, LONDON.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Golden Treasury
+       Selected from the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the
+              English Language and arranged with Notes
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Francis T. Palgrave
+
+Release Date: May 14, 2010 [EBook #32373]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Juliet Sutherland, and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p>
+<p class="center">The source of the Greek quote and its meaning are from the 1914 edition.
+</p></div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+
+
+
+
+<h1>THE<br />
+
+GOLDEN TREASURY</h1>
+
+<h3><span class="smcap">SELECTED FROM THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL</span><br />
+<span class="smcap">POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE</span><br />
+<span class="smcap">AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES</span></h3>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h3><span class="smcap">BY</span></h3>
+
+<h2>FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE</h2>
+
+<h5><span class="smcap">LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD</span></h5>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h3><i>REVISED AND ENLARGED</i></h3>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
+<img src="images/seal.jpg" width="200" height="283" alt="Seal"  />
+</div>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h3>London</h3>
+
+<h2>MACMILLAN AND CO., <span class="smcap">Limited</span></h2>
+
+<h3><span class="smcap">NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</span></h3>
+<h3>1902
+</h3>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3><a name="Dedication" id="Dedication"></a>TO</h3>
+
+<h2>ALFRED TENNYSON</h2>
+
+<h3><span class="smcap">POET LAUREATE</span></h3>
+
+
+<p>This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with
+whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English
+Literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts
+of Nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the
+rarest,&mdash;just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been
+hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have
+endeavoured to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to
+Henry Hallam. But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love
+and reverence; and I desire therefore to place before it a name united
+with his by associations which, while Poetry retains her hold on the
+minds of Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.</p>
+
+<p>Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn
+Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your
+advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second
+reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet,
+and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common
+value.</p>
+
+<p>Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be
+found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a
+source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten
+solitude itself with best society,&mdash;with the companionship of the wise
+and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music
+only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of
+delight to Labour and to Poverty,&mdash;if it teaches those indifferent to
+the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the
+aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully
+accomplished.</p>
+
+<p class="p2">F.T.P.</p>
+
+<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">May: 1861</span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2>
+
+
+<p>This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the
+attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and
+Songs in our language (save a very few regretfully omitted on account
+of length), by writers not living,&mdash;and none beside the best. Many
+familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be
+familiar:&mdash;the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who
+love Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known
+and valued.</p>
+
+<p>The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of
+Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision
+increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work,
+whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here
+held essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single
+thought, feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative,
+descriptive, and didactic poems,&mdash;unless accompanied by rapidity of
+movement, brevity, and the colouring of human passion,&mdash;have been
+excluded. Humourous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances
+where a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly
+personal, occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to
+the idea of the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with
+all pieces markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is
+commonly understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical
+conditions in treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it
+possible, that all readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some
+poems, as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and Penseroso, Wordsworth's Ruth
+or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice
+for a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference
+especially to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he
+has taken his utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.</p>
+
+<p>This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to
+question;&mdash;what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That
+a poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,&mdash;that it shall reach a
+perfection commensurate with its aim,&mdash;that we should require finish
+in proportion to brevity,&mdash;that passion, colour, and originality
+cannot atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity or
+truth,&mdash;that a few good lines do not make a good poem, that popular
+estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,&mdash;above
+all, that excellence should be looked for rather in the whole than in
+the parts,&mdash;such and other such canons have been always steadily
+regarded. He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger
+number rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and
+that he has been aided throughout by two friends of independent and
+exercised judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the
+Dedication. It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been
+freed from that one-sidedness which must beset individual
+decisions:&mdash;but for the final choice the Editor is alone responsible.</p>
+
+<p>Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible
+poets not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different
+periods, have been twice systematically read through: and it is hence
+improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are due to
+oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a very few
+instances where a stanza or passage has been omitted. These omissions
+have been risked only when the piece could be thus brought to a closer
+lyrical unity: and, as essentially opposed to this unity, extracts,
+obviously such, are excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of
+the book has appeared to justify the choice of the most poetical
+version, wherever more than one exists; and much labour has been given
+to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to
+the greatest advantage.</p>
+
+<p>In the arrangement, the most poetically-effective order has been
+attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and
+cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of
+Poetry, that a rapid passage between old and new, like rapid
+alteration of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always
+be wearisome and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been
+therefore distributed into Books corresponding, I to the ninety years
+closing about 1616, II thence to 1700, III to 1800, IV to the half
+century just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give
+each portion its distinctive character, they might be called the Books
+of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this
+respect, so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately
+reflects the natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly
+chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at
+instruction than at pleasure, and the wisdom which comes through
+pleasure:&mdash;within each book the pieces have therefore been arranged in
+gradations of feeling or subject. And it is hoped that the contents of
+this Anthology will thus be found to present a certain unity, 'as
+episodes,' in the noble language of Shelley, 'to that great Poem which
+all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have
+built up since the beginning of the world.'</p>
+
+<p>As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without
+egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame
+more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism,
+would confine judgments on Poetry to 'the selected few of many
+generations.' Not many appear to have gained reputation without some
+gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses
+by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more
+thought than mastery of expression, are printed in this volume, it
+should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much
+hesitation and regret,&mdash;far less that they have been slighted.
+Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few
+have been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill
+in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or
+seriousness in reflection, which render their works, although never
+perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence here
+required,&mdash;better worth reading than much of what fills the scanty
+hours that most men spare for self-improvement, or for pleasure in any
+of its more elevated and permanent forms.&mdash;And if this be true of even
+mediocre poetry, for how much more are we indebted to the best! Like
+the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a more various power, the
+magic of this Art can confer on each period of life its appropriate
+blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity Calm, on age,
+Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures 'more golden than gold,' leading
+us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world, and
+interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for
+herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success,
+may be heard throughout the following pages:&mdash;wherever the Poets of
+England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is
+spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.</p>
+
+<p class="p2">1861</p>
+
+<p>Some poems, especially in Book I, have been added:&mdash;either on better
+acquaintance;&mdash;in deference to critical suggestions;&mdash;or unknown to
+the Editor when first gathering his harvest. For aid in these
+after-gleanings he is specially indebted to the excellent reprints of
+rare early verse given us by Dr. Hannah, Dr. Grosart, Mr. Arber, Mr.
+Bullen, and others,&mdash;and (in regard to the additions of 1883) to the
+advice of that distinguished Friend, by whom the final choice has been
+so largely guided. The text has also been carefully revised from
+authoritative sources. It has still seemed best, for many reasons, to
+retain the original limit by which the selection was confined to those
+then no longer living. But the editor hopes that, so far as in him
+lies, a complete and definitive collection of our best Lyrics, to the
+central year of this fast-closing century, is now offered.</p>
+
+<p class="p2">1883-1890-1891</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>Contents</h2>
+
+<table class="tab1" summary="Contents">
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#Dedication">Dedication</a></span></td>
+<td></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#PREFACE">Preface</a></span></td>
+<td class="tocpg f1">PAGE</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#BOOK_I">Book I.</a></span></td>
+<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#BOOK_II">Book II.</a></span></td>
+<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#BOOK_III">Book III.</a></span></td>
+<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#BOOK_IV">Book IV.</a></span></td>
+<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#NOTES">Notes</a></span></td>
+<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_349">349</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#INDEX_OF_WRITERS">Index of Writers</a></span></td>
+<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_371">371</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap"><a href="#INDEX_OF_FIRST_LINES">Index of First Lines</a></span></td>
+<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_375">375</a></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza1">
+<span class="i0">&Epsilon;&#7984;&sigmaf; &tau;&#8056;&nu; &lambda;&epsilon;&iota;&mu;&#8182;&nu;&alpha; &kappa;&alpha;&theta;&#8055;&sigma;&alpha;&sigmaf;,</span> <span class="i0">&#7956;&delta;&rho;&epsilon;&pi;&epsilon;&nu; &#7957;&tau;&epsilon;&rho;&omicron;&nu; &#7952;&phi;' &#7953;&tau;&#8051;&rho;&#8179;</span> <span class="i0">&alpha;&#7984;&rho;&#8057;&mu;&epsilon;&nu;&omicron;&sigmaf; &#7940;&gamma;&rho;&epsilon;&upsilon;&mu;' &#7936;&nu;&theta;&#8051;&omega;&nu;</span> <span class="i0">&#7937;&delta;&omicron;&mu;&#8051;&nu;&#8115; &psi;&upsilon;&chi;&#8119;&mdash; &mdash;</span> </div>
+</div>
+<p class="p4">[Eurip. frag. 754.]</p>
+<p class="center">[&#8216;He sat in the meadow and plucked<br />
+with glad heart the spoil of the<br />
+flowers,gathering them one by one.&#8217;]</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
+<h2>The Golden Treasury</h2>
+
+<h2><a name="BOOK_I" id="BOOK_I"></a>Book First</h2>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SPRING</i></h2>
+
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The palm and may make country houses gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In every street these tunes our ears do greet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Spring! the sweet Spring!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Nash.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE FAIRY LIFE</i></h2>
+
+<h3>1</h3>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where the bee sucks, there suck I:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a cowslip's bell I lie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There I couch, when owls do cry:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the bat's back I do fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">After summer merrily.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2>
+
+<h3>2</h3>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come unto these yellow sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And then take hands:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The wild waves whist,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Foot it featly here and there;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Hark, hark!<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Bow-bow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The watch-dogs bark:<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Bow-wow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Hark, hark! I hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The strain of strutting chanticleer<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SUMMONS TO LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Phoebus, arise!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And paint the sable skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With azure, white, and red:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span><span class="i0">That she may thy career with roses spread:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make an eternal Spring!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spread forth thy golden hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In larger locks than thou wast wont before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And emperor-like decore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chase hence the ugly night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;This is that happy morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That day, long-wish&eacute;d day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all my life so dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fates my hopes betray),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which, purely white, deserves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An everlasting diamond should it mark.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This is the morn should bring unto this grove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My Love, to hear and recompense my love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair King, who all preserves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But show thy blushing beams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thou two sweeter eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shalt see than those which by Pen&eacute;us' streams<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did once thy heart surprize.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If that ye winds would hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your furious chiding stay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let Zephyr only breathe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with her tresses play.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;The winds all silent are,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Phoebus in his chair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ensaffroning sea and air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Makes vanish every star:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night like a drunkard reels<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here is the pleasant place&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Drummond of Hawthornden</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TIME AND LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<h3>1</h3>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I have seen the hungry ocean gain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the firm soil win of the watery main,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I have seen such interchange of state,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or state itself confounded to decay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Time will come and take my Love away:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;This thought is as a death, which cannot choose<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But weep to have that which it fears to lose.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2>
+
+<h3>2</h3>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But sad mortality o'ersways their power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose action is no stronger than a flower?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O how shall summer's honey breath hold out<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the wreckful siege of battering days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When rocks impregnable are not so stout<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O fearful meditation! where, alack!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O! none, unless this miracle have might,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That in black ink my love may still shine bright.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come live with me and be my Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we will all the pleasures prove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That hills and valleys, dale and field,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the craggy mountains yield.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There will we sit upon the rocks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And see the shepherds feed their flocks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By shallow rivers, to whose falls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Melodious birds sing madrigals.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There will I make thee beds of roses<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a thousand fragrant posies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A cap of flowers, and a kirtle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A gown made of the finest wool,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which from our pretty lambs we pull,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair lin&eacute;d slippers for the cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With buckles of the purest gold.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A belt of straw and ivy buds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With coral clasps and amber studs:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And if these pleasures may thee move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come live with me and be my Love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy silver dishes for thy meat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As precious as the gods do eat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall on an ivory table be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Prepared each day for thee and me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The shepherd swains shall dance and sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For thy delight each May-morning:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If these delights thy mind may move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then live with me and be my Love.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>C. Marlowe</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>OMNIA VINCIT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fain would I change that note<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To which fond Love hath charm'd me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long long to sing by rote,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fancying that that harm'd me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet when this thought doth come<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Love is the perfect sum<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of all delight,'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I have no other choice<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Either for pen or voice<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To sing or write.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Love! they wrong thee much<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That say thy sweet is bitter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When thy rich fruit is such<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As nothing can be sweeter.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair house of joy and bliss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where truest pleasure is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I do adore thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I know thee what thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I serve thee with my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And fall before thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A MADRIGAL</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Crabbed Age and Youth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cannot live together:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Youth is full of pleasance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age is full of care;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Youth like summer morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age like winter weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Youth like summer brave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age like winter bare:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span><span class="i0">Youth is full of sport,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age's breath is short,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Youth is nimble, Age is lame:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Youth is hot and bold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age is weak and cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Youth is wild, and Age is tame:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age, I do abhor thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Youth, I do adore thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O! my Love, my Love is young!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age, I do defy thee&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O sweet shepherd, hie thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For methinks thou stay'st too long.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Under the greenwood tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who loves to lie with me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And turn his merry note<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Unto the sweet bird's throat&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come hither, come hither, come hither!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Here shall he see<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">No enemy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But winter and rough weather.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Who doth ambition shun<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And loves to live i' the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Seeking the food he eats<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And pleased with what he gets&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come hither, come hither, come hither!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Here shall he see<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">No enemy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But winter and rough weather.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was a lover and his lass<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That o'er the green corn-field did pass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When birds do sing hey ding a ding:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet lovers love the Spring.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Between the acres of the rye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These pretty country folks would lie:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This carol they began that hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How that life was but a flower:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And therefore take the present time<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For love is crowned with the prime<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In spring time, the only pretty ring time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When birds do sing hey ding a ding:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet lovers love the Spring.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>PRESENT IN ABSENCE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Absence, hear thou this protestation<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Against thy strength,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Distance, and length;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do what thou canst for alteration:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For hearts of truest mettle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who loves a mistress of such quality,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">His mind hath found<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Affection's ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond time, place, and mortality.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To hearts that cannot vary<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Absence is present, Time doth tarry.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By absence this good means I gain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That I can catch her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Where none can match her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In some close corner of my brain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There I embrace and kiss her;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And so I both enjoy and miss her.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Donne</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>VIA AMORIS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More oft than to a chamber-melody,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now, bless&eacute;d you bear onward bless&eacute;d me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My Muse and I must you of duty greet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that you know I envy you no lot<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir P. Sidney</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ABSENCE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Being your slave, what should I do but tend<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the hours and times of your desire?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I have no precious time at all to spend<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor services to do, till you require:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor think the bitterness of absence sour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you have bid your servant once adieu:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor dare I question with my jealous thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save, where you are, how happy you make those;&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So true a fool is love, that in your will<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How like a winter hath my absence been<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What old December's bareness every where!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And yet this time removed was summer's time:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bearing the wanton burden of the prime<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, thou away, the very birds are mute;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A CONSOLATION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I all alone beweep my outcast state,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And look upon myself, and curse my fate;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Featured like him, like him with friends possest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With what I most enjoy contented least;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Haply I think on Thee&mdash;and then my state,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like to the lark at break of day arising<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That then I scorn to change my state with kings.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE UNCHANGEABLE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O never say that I was false of heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As easy might I from myself depart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That is my home of love; if I have ranged,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like him that travels, I return again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So that myself bring water for my stain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Never believe, though in my nature reign'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That it could so preposterously be stain'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For nothing this wide universe I call,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For as you were when first your eye I eyed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In process of the seasons have I seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span><span class="i0">So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ROSALINE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Like to the clear in highest sphere<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where all imperial glory shines,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of selfsame colour is her hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whether unfolded, or in twines:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Resembling heaven by every wink;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Gods do fear whenas they glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I do tremble when I think<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, would she were mine!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That beautifies Aurora's face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or like the silver crimson shroud<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her lips are like two budded roses<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Within which bounds she balm encloses<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Apt to entice a deity:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, would she were mine!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her neck is like a stately tower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Love himself imprison'd lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To watch for glances every hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From her divine and sacred eyes:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, for Rosaline!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her paps are centres of delight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Nature moulds the dew of light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To feed perfection with the same:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, would she were mine!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With orient pearl, with ruby red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With marble white, with sapphire blue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her body every way is fed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nature herself her shape admires;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Gods are wounded in her sight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Love forsakes his heavenly fires<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And at her eyes his brand doth light:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, would she were mine!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The absence of fair Rosaline,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since for a fair there's fairer none,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor for her virtues so divine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Lodge</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XX" id="XX"></a>XX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>COLIN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beauty sat bathing by a spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where fairest shades did hide her;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The cool streams ran beside her.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To see what was forbidden:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But better memory said, fie!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So vain desire was chidden:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Hey nonny nonny O!<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Hey nonny nonny!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Into a slumber then I fell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When fond imagination<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seemed to see, but could not tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her feature or her fashion.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And sometimes fall a-weeping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I awaked, as wise this while<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As when I fell a-sleeping:&mdash;-<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Hey nonny nonny O!<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Hey nonny nonny!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>The Shepherd Tonie</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a>XXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A PICTURE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Out of thy golden quiver<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Take thou thy strongest arrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That will through bone and marrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But come behind, for if she look upon thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXII" id="XXII"></a>XXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A SONG FOR MUSIC</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Weep you no more, sad fountains:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What need you flow so fast?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Look how the snowy mountains<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heaven's sun doth gently waste!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">But my Sun's heavenly eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">View not your weeping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">That now lies sleeping<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Softly, now softly lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Sleeping.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sleep is a reconciling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A rest that peace begets:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Doth not the sun rise smiling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When fair at even he sets?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">&mdash;Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Melt not in weeping!<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">While She lies sleeping<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Softly, now softly lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Sleeping!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="XXIII" id="XXIII"></a>XXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO HIS LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art more lovely and more temperate:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And summer's lease hath all too short a date:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every fair from fair sometime declines,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But thy eternal summer shall not fade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When in eternal lines to time thou growest:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXIV" id="XXIV"></a>XXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO HIS LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When in the chronicle of wasted time<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I see descriptions of the fairest wights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And beauty making beautiful old rhyme<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I see their antique pen would have exprest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So all their praises are but prophecies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And for they look'd but with divining eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They had not skill enough your worth to sing:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For we, which now behold these present days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="XXV" id="XXV"></a>XXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>BASIA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Turn back, you wanton flyer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And answer my desire<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With mutual greeting.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet bend a little nearer,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">True beauty still shines clearer<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In closer meeting!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hearts with hearts delighted<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Should strive to be united,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each other's arms with arms enchaining,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Hearts with a thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">What harvest half so sweet is<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As still to reap the kisses<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Grown ripe in sowing?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And straight to be receiver<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of that which thou art giver,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Rich in bestowing?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There is no strict observing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of times' or seasons' swerving,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is ever one fresh spring abiding;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then what we sow with our lips<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Let us reap, love's gains dividing.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXVI" id="XXVI"></a>XXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ADVICE TO A GIRL</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Never love unless you can<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bear with all the faults of man!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men sometimes will jealous be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though but little cause they see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hang the head as discontent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And speak what straight they will repent.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Men, that but one Saint adore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make a show of love to more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beauty must be scorn'd in none,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though but truly served in one:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For what is courtship but disguise?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">True hearts may have dissembling eyes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Men, when their affairs require,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Must awhile themselves retire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And not ever sit and talk:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If these and such-like you can bear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then like, and love, and never fear!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXVII" id="XXVII"></a>XXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LOVE'S PERJURIES</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">On a day, alack the day!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love, whose month is ever May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spied a blossom passing fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Playing in the wanton air:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the velvet leaves the wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All unseen, 'gan passage find;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the lover, sick to death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Air, would I might triumph so!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, alack, my hand is sworn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do not call it sin in me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I am forsworn for thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou for whom Jove would swear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Juno but an Ethiope were,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And deny himself for Jove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Turning mortal for thy love.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="XXVIII" id="XXVIII"></a>XXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A SUPPLICATION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Forget not yet the tried intent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of such a truth as I have meant;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My great travail so gladly spent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Forget not yet!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Forget not yet when first began<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The weary life ye know, since whan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The suit, the service none tell can;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Forget not yet!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Forget not yet the great assays,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The painful patience in delays,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Forget not yet!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Forget not! O, forget not this,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How long ago hath been, and is<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mind that never meant amiss&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Forget not yet!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Forget not then thine own approved<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The which so long hath thee so loved,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose steadfast faith yet never moved&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Forget not this!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir T. Wyat</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXIX" id="XXIX"></a>XXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO AURORA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O if thy pride did not our joys controul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No, I would have my share in what were thine:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This happy harmony would make them none.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Alexander, Earl of Sterline</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXX" id="XXX"></a>XXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>IN LACRIMAS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">I saw my Lady weep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Sorrow proud to be advanc&eacute;d so<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In those fair eyes where all perfections keep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her face was full of woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Sorrow was there made fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She made her sighs to sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all things with so sweet a sadness move<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As made my heart at once both grieve and love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">O fairer than aught else<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Tears kill the heart, believe.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O strive not to be excellent in woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="XXXI" id="XXXI"></a>XXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TRUE LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Let me not to the marriage of true minds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Admit impediments. Love is not love<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which alters when it alteration finds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or bends with the remover to remove:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O no! it is an ever-fix&eacute;d mark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is the star to every wandering bark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Within his bending sickle's compass come;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If this be error, and upon me proved,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I never writ, nor no man ever loved.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXXII" id="XXXII"></a>XXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A DITTY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By just exchange one for another given:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There never was a better bargain driven:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His heart in me keeps him and me in one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loves my heart, for once it was his own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I cherish his because in me it bides:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir P. Sidney</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="XXXIII" id="XXXIII"></a>XXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LOVE'S INSIGHT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though others may Her brow adore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet more must I, that therein see far more<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than any other's eyes have power to see:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">She is to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More than to any others she can be!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I can discern more secret notes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than any else besides have art to read:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">No looks proceed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXXIV" id="XXXIV"></a>XXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Were I as base as is the lowly plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Were I as high as heaven above the plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you, my Love, as humble and as low<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As are the deepest bottoms of the main,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My love should shine on you like to the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And look upon you with ten thousand eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Sylvester</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="XXXV" id="XXXV"></a>XXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>CARPE DIEM</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O stay and hear! your true-love's coming<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That can sing both high and low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trip no further, pretty sweeting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Journeys end in lovers meeting&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Every wise man's son doth know.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What is love? 'tis not hereafter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Present mirth hath present laughter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What's to come is still unsure:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In delay there lies no plenty,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Youth's a stuff will not endure.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXXVI" id="XXXVI"></a>XXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>AN HONEST AUTOLYCUS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Good penny-worths,&mdash;but money cannot move:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I keep a fair but for the Fair to view;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A beggar may be liberal of love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">The heart is true.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My trifles come as treasures from my mind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is a precious jewel to be plain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Of me a grain!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="XXXVII" id="XXXVII"></a>XXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>WINTER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When icicles hang by the wall<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Tom bears logs into the hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And milk comes frozen home in pail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then nightly sings the staring owl<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Tu-whit!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tu-who! A merry note!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When all about the wind doth blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And coughing drowns the parson's saw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And birds sit brooding in the snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Marian's nose looks red and raw;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then nightly sings the staring owl<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Tu-whit!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tu-who! A merry note!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXXVIII" id="XXXVIII"></a>XXXVIII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That time of year thou may'st in me behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In me thou see'st the twilight of such day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As after sunset fadeth in the west,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which by and by black night doth take away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That on the ashes of his youth doth lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the death-bed whereon it must expire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To love that well which thou must leave ere long.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XXXIX" id="XXXIX"></a>XXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>MEMORY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When to the sessions of sweet silent thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I summon up remembrance of things past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sad account of fore-bemoan&eacute;d moan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which I new pay as if not paid before:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All losses are restored, and sorrows end.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XL" id="XL"></a>XL</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SLEEP</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With shield of proof shield me from out the prease<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O make in me those civil wars to cease;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rosy garland and a weary head:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And if these things, as being thine in right,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir P. Sidney</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XLI" id="XLI"></a>XLI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>REVOLUTIONS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So do our minutes hasten to their end;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each changing place with that which goes before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In sequent toil all forwards do contend.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nativity, once in the main of light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XLII" id="XLII"></a>XLII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My bonds in thee are all determinate.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And for that riches where is my deserving?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And so my patent back again is swerving.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comes home again, on better judgment making.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XLIII" id="XLIII"></a>XLIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They that have power to hurt, and will do none,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That do not do the thing they most do show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unmov&eacute;d, cold, and to temptation slow,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And husband nature's riches from expense;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They are the lords and owners of their faces,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Others, but stewards of their excellence.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though to itself it only live and die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But if that flower with base infection meet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The basest weed outbraves his dignity:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XLIV" id="XLIV"></a>XLIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE LOVER'S APPEAL</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And wilt thou leave me thus?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say nay! say nay! for shame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To save thee from the blame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all my grief and grame.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wilt thou leave me thus?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say nay! say nay!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And wilt thou leave me thus,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That hath loved thee so long<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In wealth and woe among:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And is thy heart so strong<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As for to leave me thus?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say nay! say nay!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And wilt thou leave me thus,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That hath given thee my heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never for to depart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Neither for pain nor smart:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wilt thou leave me thus?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say nay! say nay!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And wilt thou leave me thus,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And have no more pity<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of him that loveth thee?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alas! thy cruelty!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wilt thou leave me thus?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say nay! say nay!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir T. Wyat</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XLV" id="XLV"></a>XLV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE NIGHTINGALE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As it fell upon a day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the merry month of May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sitting in a pleasant shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which a grove of myrtles made,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beasts did leap and birds did sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trees did grow and plants did spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every thing did banish moan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save the Nightingale alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She, poor bird, as all forlorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there sung the dolefull'st ditty<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That to hear it was great pity.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Teru, teru, by and by:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That to hear her so complain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scarce I could from tears refrain;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span><span class="i0">For her griefs so lively shown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made me think upon mine own.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">None takes pity on thy pain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">King Pandion, he is dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All thy fellow birds do sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Careless of thy sorrowing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even so, poor bird, like thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">None alive will pity me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Barnefield</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XLVI" id="XLVI"></a>XLVI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Relieve my languish, and restore the light;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With dark forgetting of my care return.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And let the day be time enough to mourn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Without the torment of the night's untruth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To model forth the passions of the morrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never let rising Sun approve you liars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never wake to feel the day's disdain.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>S. Daniel</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XLVII" id="XLVII"></a>XLVII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">And mournfully bewailing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Her throat in tunes expresseth<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">What grief her breast oppresseth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Full womanlike complains her will was broken.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">But I, who, daily craving,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Cannot have to content me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Have more cause to lament me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since wanting is more woe than too much having.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Philomela fair, O take some gladness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir P. Sidney</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XLVIII" id="XLVIII"></a>XLVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>FRUSTRA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Take, O take those lips away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That so sweetly were forsworn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And those eyes, the break of day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lights that do mislead the morn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But my kisses bring again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Bring again&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Seal'd in vain!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="XLIX" id="XLIX"></a>XLIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LOVE'S FAREWELL</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nay I have done, you get no more of me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That thus so cleanly I myself can free;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when we meet at any time again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be it not seen in either of our brows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That we one jot of former love retain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And innocence is closing up his eyes,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>M. Drayton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="L" id="L"></a>L</h2>
+
+<h2><i>IN IMAGINE PERTRANSIT HOMO</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though thou be black as night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she made all of light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though here thou liv'st disgraced,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she in heaven is placed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That so have scorch&eacute;d thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As thou still black must be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There comes a luckless night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That will dim all her light;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;And this the black unhappy shade divineth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Follow still, since so thy fates ordain&eacute;d!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sun must have his shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Till both at once do fade,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun still proved, the shadow still disdain&eacute;d.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LI" id="LI"></a>LI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>BLIND LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which have no correspondence with true sight:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or if they have, where is my judgment fled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That censures falsely what they see aright?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What means the world to say it is not so?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If it be not, then love doth well denote<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How can it? O how can love's eye be true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No marvel then though I mistake my view:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LII" id="LII"></a>LII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It shall suffice me here to sit and see<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What sight can more content a lover's mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dreams often more than waking passions move.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That she in peace may wake and pity me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LIII" id="LIII"></a>LIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">While that the sun with his beams hot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scorch&eacute;d the fruits in vale and mountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Philon the shepherd, late forgot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sitting beside a crystal fountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In shadow of a green oak tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Upon his pipe this song play'd he:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So long as I was in your sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Burning in flames beyond all measure:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">&mdash;Three days endured your love to me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And it was lost in other three!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Another Shepherd you did see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To whom your heart was soon enchain&eacute;d;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full soon your love was leapt from me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full soon my place he had obtain&eacute;d.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Soon came a third, your love to win,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And we were out and he was in.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sure you have made me passing glad<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That you your mind so soon remov&eacute;d,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before that I the leisure had<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To choose you for my best belov&eacute;d:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For all your love was past and done<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Two days before it was begun:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LIV" id="LIV"></a>LIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ADVICE TO A LOVER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The sea hath many thousand sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun hath motes as many;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sky is full of stars, and Love<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As full of woes as any:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Believe me, that do know the elf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And make no trial by thyself!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It is in truth a pretty toy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For babes to play withal:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But O! the honeys of our youth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are oft our age's gall!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Self-proof in time will make thee know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He was a prophet told thee so;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A prophet that, Cassandra-like,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tells truth without belief;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For headstrong Youth will run his race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Although his goal be grief:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Proves Care's Confessor at the last.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LV" id="LV"></a>LV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A RENUNCIATION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For all those rosy ornaments in thee,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor fair, nor sweet&mdash;unless thou pity me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That beauty is no beauty without love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Now show it, if thou be a woman right&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LVI" id="LVI"></a>LVI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Blow, blow, thou winter wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thou art not so unkind<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As man's ingratitude;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy tooth is not so keen<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Because thou art not seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Although thy breath be rude.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Then, heigh ho! the holly!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">This life is most jolly.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thou dost not bite so nigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As benefits forgot:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Though thou the waters warp,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy sting is not so sharp<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As friend remember'd not.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Then, heigh ho! the holly!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">This life is most jolly.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LVII" id="LVII"></a>LVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A SWEET LULLABY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come little babe, come silly soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Born as I doubt to all our dole,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to thy self unhappy chief:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Sing Lullaby and lap it warm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou little think'st and less dost know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cause of this thy mother's moan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I myself am all alone:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come little wretch, ah silly heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mine only joy, what can I more?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If there be any wrong thy smart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That may the destinies implore:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">'Twas I, I say, against my will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">I wail the time, but be thou still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And dost thou smile, oh thy sweet face!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would God Himself He might thee see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No doubt thou would'st soon purchase grace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I know right well, for thee and me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">But come to mother, babe, and play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">For father false is fled away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy father home again to send,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If death do strike me with his lance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet mayst thou me to him commend:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">If any ask thy mother's name,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Tell how by love she purchased blame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then will his gentle heart soon yield,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I know him of a noble mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Although a Lion in the field,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span><span class="i0">A Lamb in town thou shalt him find:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Although in woe I seem to moan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy father is no rascal lad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A noble youth of blood and bone:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">His glancing looks, if he once smile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Right honest women may beguile.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come, little boy, and rock asleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sing lullaby and be thou still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I that can do nought else but weep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will sit by thee and wail my fill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">God bless my babe, and lullaby<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From this thy father's quality!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LVIII" id="LVIII"></a>LVIII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How silently, and with how wan a face!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are beauties there as proud as here they be?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do they above love to be loved, and yet<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir P. Sidney</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LIX" id="LIX"></a>LIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>O CRUDELIS AMOR</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When thou must home to shades of underground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there arrived, a new admired guest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">White Iop&eacute;, blithe Helen, and the rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hear the stories of thy finish'd love<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When thou hast told' these honours done to thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LX" id="LX"></a>LX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Mother's wag, pretty boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Father's sorrow, father's joy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">When thy father first did see<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Such a boy by him and me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">He was glad, I was woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Fortune changed made him so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">When he left his pretty boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Last his sorrow, first his joy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Streaming tears that never stint,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Like pearl drops from a flint,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Fell by course from his eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That one another's place supplies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thus he grieved in every part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Tears of blood fell from his heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">When he left his pretty boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Father's sorrow, father's joy.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The wanton smiled, father wept,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Mother cried, baby leapt;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">More he crow'd, more we cried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Nature could not sorrow hide:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">He must go, he must kiss<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Child and mother, baby bless,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">For he left his pretty boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Father's sorrow, father's joy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Greene</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXI" id="LXI"></a>LXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A LAMENT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My thoughts hold mortal strife;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I do detest my life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with lamenting cries<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Peace to my soul to bring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;But he, grim grinning King,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Drummond</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXII" id="LXII"></a>LXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>DIRGE OF LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Come away, come away, Death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in sad cypres let me be laid;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fly away, fly away, breath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I am slain by a fair cruel maid.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span><span class="i0">My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">O prepare it!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My part of death, no one so true<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Did share it.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Not a flower, not a flower sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On my black coffin let there be strown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Not a friend, not a friend greet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A thousand thousand sighs to save,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Lay me, O where<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sad true lover never find my grave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To weep there.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXIII" id="LXIII"></a>LXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO HIS LUTE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With thy green mother in some shady grove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When immelodious winds but made thee move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What art thou but a harbinger of woe?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For which be silent as in woods before:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Drummond</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXIV" id="LXIV"></a>LXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>FIDELE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fear no more the heat o' the sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor the furious winter's rages;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou thy worldly task hast done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Golden lads and girls all must,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fear no more the frown o' the great,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Care no more to clothe and eat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To thee the reed is as the oak:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sceptre, learning, physic, must<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All follow this, and come to dust.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fear no more the lightning-flash<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fear not slander, censure rash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All lovers young, all lovers must<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Consign to thee, and come to dust.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXV" id="LXV"></a>LXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A SEA DIRGE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Full fathom five thy father lies:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of his bones are coral made;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those are pearls that were his eyes:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nothing of him that doth fade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But doth suffer a sea-change<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into something rich and strange.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hark! now I hear them,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ding, dong, bell.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXVI" id="LXVI"></a>LXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A LAND DIRGE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since o'er shady groves they hover<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with leaves and flowers do cover<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The friendless bodies of unburied men.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Call unto his funeral dole<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For with his nails he'll dig them up again.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Webster</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXVII" id="LXVII"></a>LXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>POST MORTEM</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If Thou survive my well-contented day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shalt by fortune once more re-survey<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Compare them with the bettering of the time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Exceeded by the height of happier men.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dearer birth than this his love had brought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To march in ranks of better equipage:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But since he died, and poets better prove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXVIII" id="LXVIII"></a>LXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No longer mourn for me when I am dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give warning to the world, that I am fled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nay, if you read this line, remember not<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hand that writ it; for I love you so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If thinking on me then should make you woe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O if, I say, you look upon this verse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I perhaps compounded am with clay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But let your love even with my life decay;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lest the wise world should look into your moan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mock you with me after I am gone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXIX" id="LXIX"></a>LXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>YOUNG LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tell me where is Fancy bred,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or in the heart, or in the head?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How begot, how nourish&eacute;d?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Reply, reply.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It is engender'd in the eyes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With gazing fed; and Fancy dies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the cradle where it lies:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let us all ring Fancy's knell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll begin it,&mdash;Ding, dong, bell.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">&mdash;Ding, dong, bell.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXX" id="LXX"></a>LXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A DILEMMA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My eyes present me with a double doubting:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXI" id="LXXI"></a>LXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Love in my bosom, like a bee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Doth suck his sweet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now with his wings he plays with me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Now with his feet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Within mine eyes he makes his nest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His bed amidst my tender breast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My kisses are his daily feast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And yet he robs me of my rest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ah! wanton, will ye?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And if I sleep, then percheth he<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With pretty flight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And makes his pillow of my knee<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The livelong night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He music plays if so I sing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He lends me every lovely thing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Whist, wanton, will ye?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Else I with roses every day<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Will whip you hence,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span><span class="i0">And bind you, when you long to play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">For your offence;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'll make you fast it for your sin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'll count your power not worth a pin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">&mdash;Alas! what hereby shall I win,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">If he gainsay me?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What if I beat the wanton boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With many a rod?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He will repay me with annoy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Because a god.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then sit thou safely on my knee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And let thy bower my bosom be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O Cupid! so thou pity me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Spare not, but play thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Lodge</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXII" id="LXXII"></a>LXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>CUPID AND CAMPASPE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Cupid and my Campaspe play'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loses them too; then down he throws<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The coral of his lip, the rose<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With these, the crystal of his brow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then the dimple on his chin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All these did my Campaspe win:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And last he set her both his eyes&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She won, and Cupid blind did rise.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O Love! has she done this to thee?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What shall, alas! become of me?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Lylye</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXXIII" id="LXXIII"></a>LXXIII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With night we banish sorrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To give my Love good-morrow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wings from the wind to please her mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Notes from the lark I'll borrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To give my Love good-morrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To give my Love good-morrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Notes from them both I'll borrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing, birds, in every furrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from each hill, let music shrill<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Give my fair Love good-morrow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blackbird and thrush in every bush,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You pretty elves, amongst yourselves<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing my fair Love good-morrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To give my Love good-morrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Sing, birds, in every furrow!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Heywood</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXIV" id="LXXIV"></a>LXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>PROTHALAMION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Calm was the day, and through the trembling air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I, (whom sullen care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through discontent of my long fruitless stay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In princes' court, and expectation vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of idle hopes, which still do fly away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Walk'd forth to ease my pain<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span><span class="i0">Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was painted all with variable flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fit to deck maidens' bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And crown their paramours<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the bridal day, which is not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There in a meadow by the river's side<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A flock of nymphs I chanc&eacute;d to espy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With goodly greenish locks all loose untied<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As each had been a bride;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And each one had a little wicker basket<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made of fine twigs, entrail&eacute;d curiously.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with fine fingers cropt full feateously<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tender stalks on high.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of every sort which in that meadow grew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The little daisy that at evening closes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The virgin lily and the primrose true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With store of vermeil roses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To deck their bridegrooms' posies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the bridal day, which was not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With that I saw two Swans of goodly hue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come softly swimming down along the Lee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two fairer birds I yet did never see;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did never whiter show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For love of Leda, whiter did appear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So purely white they were<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To wet their silken feathers, lest they might<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span><span class="i0">And mar their beauties bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That shone as Heaven's light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against their bridal day, which was not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ran all in haste to see that silver brood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As they came floating on the crystal flood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whom when they saw, they stood amaz&eacute;d still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their wondering eyes to fill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For sure they did not seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be begot of any earthly seed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In sweetest season, when each flower and weed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The earth did fresh array;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So fresh they seem'd as day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then forth they all out of their baskets drew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All which upon those goodly birds they threw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the waves did strew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That like old Peneus' waters they did seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a bride's chamber-floor.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The which presenting all in trim array,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst one did sing this lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Prepared against that day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against their bridal day, which was not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of your love's couplement;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For ever to assoil.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bless&eacute;d plenty wait upon your board;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That fruitful issue may to you afford<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which may your foes confound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And make your joys redound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon your bridal day, which is not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So ended she; and all the rest around<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To her redoubled that her undersong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which said their bridal day should not be long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their accents did resound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So forth those joyous birds did pass along<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adown the Lee that to them murmur'd low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet did by signs his glad affection show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Making his stream run slow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lesser stars. So they, enrang&eacute;d well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did on those two attend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And their best service lend<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against their wedding day, which was not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At length they all to merry London came,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To merry London, my most kindly nurse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That to me gave this life's first native source,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though from another place I take my name,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span><span class="i0">An house of ancient fame:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There when they came whereas those bricky towers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The which on Thames' broad ag&eacute;d back do ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till they decay'd through pride;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Next whereunto there stands a stately place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where oft I gain&eacute;d gifts and goodly grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ah! here fits not well<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old woes, but joys to tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the bridal day, which is not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Hercules' two pillars standing near<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did make to quake and fear:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joy have thou of thy noble victory,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And endless happiness of thine own name<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That promiseth the same;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That through thy prowess and victorious arms<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And great Elisa's glorious name may ring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which some brave Muse may sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To ages following:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the bridal day, which is not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From those high towers this noble lord iss&uacute;ing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In th' ocean billows he hath bath&eacute;d fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Descended to the river's open viewing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a great train ensuing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Above the rest were goodly to be seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span><span class="i0">Beseeming well the bower of any queen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fit for so goodly stature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They two, forth pacing to the river's side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which, at th' appointed tide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each one did make his bride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against their bridal day, which is not long:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>E. Spenser</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXV" id="LXXV"></a>LXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE HAPPY HEART</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">O sweet content!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">O punishment!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Work apace, apace, apace, apace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Honest labour bears a lovely face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Canst drink the waters of the crisp&eacute;d spring?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">O sweet content!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">O punishment!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then he that patiently want's burden bears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No burden bears, but is a king, a king!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Work apace, apace, apace, apace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Honest labour bears a lovely face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Dekker</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXXVI" id="LXXVI"></a>LXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SIC TRANSIT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For while thou view'st me with thy fading light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Part of my life doth still depart with thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I still onward haste to my last night:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So every day we live a day we die.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How are my days deprived of life in you<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By feign&eacute;d death life sweetly to renew!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Part of my life, in that, you life deny:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So every day we live, a day we die.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXVII" id="LXXVII"></a>LXXVII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This Life, which seems so fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is like a bubble blown up in the air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By sporting children's breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who chase it everywhere<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And strive who can most motion it bequeath.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And though it sometimes seem of its own might<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And firm to hover in that empty height,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That only is because it is so light.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;But in that pomp it doth not long appear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Drummond</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXXVIII" id="LXXVIII"></a>LXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SOUL AND BODY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">[Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Why so large cost, having so short a lease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And let that pine to aggravate thy store;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Within be fed, without be rich no more:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And death once dead, there's no more dying then.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXIX" id="LXXIX"></a>LXXIX</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The man of life upright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose guiltless heart is free<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From all dishonest deeds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or thought of vanity;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The man whose silent days<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In harmless joys are spent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whom hopes cannot delude<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor sorrow discontent:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That man needs neither towers<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor armour for defence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor secret vaults to fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From thunder's violence:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He only can behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With unaffrighted eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The horrors of the deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And terrors of the skies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thus scorning all the cares<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That fate or fortune brings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He makes the heaven his book,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His wisdom heavenly things;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Good thoughts his only friends,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His wealth a well-spent age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The earth his sober inn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And quiet pilgrimage.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXX" id="LXXX"></a>LXXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE LESSONS OF NATURE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of this fair volume which we World do name<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His providence extending everywhere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In every page, no period of the same.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But silly we, like foolish children, rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is some picture on the margin wrought.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Drummond</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXXXI" id="LXXXI"></a>LXXXI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is this the justice which on Earth we find?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are these your influences, Powers above?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why should best minds groan under most distress?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or why should pride humility make thrall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And injuries the innocent oppress?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Drummond</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXXII" id="LXXXII"></a>LXXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE WORLD'S WAY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tired with all these, for restful death I cry&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As, to behold desert a beggar born,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And purest faith unhappily forsworn,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And strength by limping sway disabled,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And art made tongue-tied by authority,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And captive Good attending captain Ill:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Shakespeare</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXXXIII" id="LXXXIII"></a>LXXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A WISH</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Happy were he could finish forth his fate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From all society, from love and hate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of worldly folk, there should he sleep secure;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then wake again, and yield God ever praise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In contemplation passing still his days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And change of holy thoughts to make him merry:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bush<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where harmless robin resteth with the thrush:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">&mdash;Happy were he!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Devereux, Earl of Essex</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXXIV" id="LXXXIV"></a>LXXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SAINT JOHN BAPTIST</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Only the echoes, which he made relent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Drummond</i></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>
+<h2>The Golden Treasury</h2>
+
+<h2><a name="BOOK_II" id="BOOK_II"></a>Book Second</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="LXXXV" id="LXXXV"></a>LXXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This is the month, and this the happy morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our great redemption from above did bring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For so the holy sages once did sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That He our deadly forfeit should release,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He laid aside; and, here with us to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forsook the courts of everlasting day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Afford a present to the Infant God?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To welcome Him to this His new abode,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath took no print of the approaching light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">See how from far, upon the eastern road,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O run, prevent them with thy humble ode<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And join thy voice unto the Angel quire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><i>THE HYMN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was the winter wild<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the heaven-born Child<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nature in awe to Him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had doff'd her gaudy trim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With her great Master so to sympathize:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was no season then for her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Only with speeches fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She woos the gentle air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on her naked shame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pollute with sinful blame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Confounded, that her Maker's eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Should look so near upon her foul deformities.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But He, her fears to cease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down through the turning sphere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His ready harbinger,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And waving wide her myrtle wand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No war, or battle's sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was heard the world around:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The idle spear and shield were high uphung;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hook&eacute;d chariot stood<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span><span class="i0">Unstain'd with hostile blood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The trumpet spake not to the arm&eacute;d throng;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And kings sat still with awful eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But peaceful was the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wherein the Prince of Light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His reign of peace upon the earth began:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The winds, with wonder whist,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smoothly the waters kist<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whispering new joys to the mild oce&aacute;n&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who now hath quite forgot to rave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While birds of calm sit brooding on the charm&eacute;d wave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The stars, with deep amaze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bending one way their precious influence;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And will not take their flight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For all the morning light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But in their glimmering orbs did glow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And though the shady gloom<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had given day her room,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hid his head for shame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As his inferior flame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The new-enlighten'd world no more should need;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw a greater Sun appear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The shepherds on the lawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or ere the point of dawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full little thought they than<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the mighty Pan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was kindly come to live with them below;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When such music sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their hearts and ears did greet<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span><span class="i0">As never was by mortal finger strook&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Divinely-warbled voice<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Answering the string&eacute;d noise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As all their souls in blissful rapture took:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The air, such pleasure loth to lose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With thousand echoes, still prolongs each heavenly close.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nature, that heard such sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beneath the hollow round<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now was almost won<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To think her part was done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She knew such harmony alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At last surrounds their sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A globe of circular light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The helm&eacute;d Cherubim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sworded Seraphim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Harping in loud and solemn quire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Such music (as 'tis said)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before was never made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the Creator great<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His constellations set<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cast the dark foundations deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ring out, ye crystal spheres!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Once bless our human ears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If ye have power to touch our senses so;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And let your silver chime<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Move in melodious time;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with your ninefold harmony<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For if such holy song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enwrap our fancy long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And speckled Vanity<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will sicken soon and die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Hell itself will pass away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yea, Truth and Justice then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will down return to men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mercy will sit between<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Throned in celestial sheen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Heaven, as at some festival,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But wisest Fate says No;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This must not yet be so;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That on the bitter cross<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Must redeem our loss;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So both Himself and us to glorify:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With such a horrid clang<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As on Mount Sinai rang<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The aged Earth aghast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With terror of that blast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall from the surface to the centre shake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When, at the world's last sessi&oacute;n,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And then at last our bliss<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full and perfect is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now begins; for from this happy day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The old Dragon under ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In straiter limits bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not half so far casts his usurp&eacute;d sway;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span><span class="i0">And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Oracles are dumb;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No voice or hideous hum<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Runs through the arch&eacute;d roof in words deceiving.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Apollo from his shrine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can no more divine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No nightly trance or breath&eacute;d spell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The lonely mountains o'er<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the resounding shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From haunted spring and dale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Edged with poplar pale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The parting Genius is With sighing sent;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With flower-inwoven tresses torn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In consecrated earth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on the holy hearth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Lars and Lemur&eacute;s moan with midnight plaint;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In urns, and altars round<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A drear and dying sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the chill marble seems to sweat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Peor and Baalim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forsake their temples dim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And moon&eacute;d Ashtaroth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heaven's queen and mother both,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And sullen Moloch, fled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath left in shadows dread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His burning idol all of blackest hue;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span><span class="i0">In vain with cymbals' ring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They call the grisly king,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In dismal dance about the furnace blue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The brutish gods of Nile as fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Isis; and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor is Osiris seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Memphian grove, or green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor can he be at rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Within his sacred chest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sable-stol&eacute;d sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He feels from Juda's land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dreaded Infant's hand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor all the gods beside<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Longer dare abide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can in His swaddling bands control the damn&eacute;d crew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So, when the sun in bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Curtain'd with cloudy red<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The flocking shadows pale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Troop to the infernal jail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the yellow-skirted fays<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But see! the Virgin blest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath laid her Babe to rest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heaven's youngest-teem&eacute;d star<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath fix'd her polish'd car,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all about the courtly stable<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="LXXXVI" id="LXXXVI"></a>LXXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">This universal frame began:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When Nature underneath a heap<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of jarring atoms lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And could not heave her head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tuneful voice was heard from high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Arise, ye more than dead!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then cold and hot and moist and dry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In order to their stations leap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And Music's power obey.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From harmony, from heavenly harmony<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">This universal frame began:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From harmony to harmony<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through all the compass of the notes it ran,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The diapason closing full in Man.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What passion cannot Music raise and quell?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">When Jubal struck the chorded shell<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His listening brethren stood around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And, wondering, on their faces fell<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To worship that celestial sound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Less than a god they thought there could not dwell<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Within the hollow of that shell<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That spoke so sweetly and so well.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What passion cannot Music raise and quell?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The trumpet's loud clangor<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Excites us to arms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With shrill notes of anger<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And mortal alarms.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The double double double beat<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of the thundering drum<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Cries 'Hark! the foes come;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">The soft complaining flute<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In dying notes discovers<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span><span class="i2">The woes of hopeless lovers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Sharp violins proclaim<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their jealous pangs and desperation,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fury, frantic indignation,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Depth of pains, and height of passion<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For the fair disdainful dame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But oh! what art can teach,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What human voice can reach<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sacred organ's praise?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Notes inspiring holy love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Notes that wing their heavenly ways<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To mend the choirs above.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Orpheus could lead the savage race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And trees unrooted left their place<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sequacious of the lyre:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When to her Organ vocal breath was given<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An Angel heard, and straight appear'd&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Mistaking Earth for Heaven.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Grand Chorus</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As from the power of sacred lays<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The spheres began to move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sung the great Creator's praise<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To all the blest above;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So when the last and dreadful hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This crumbling pageant shall devour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The trumpet shall be heard on high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dead shall live, the living die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Music shall untune the sky.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Dryden</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXXVII" id="LXXXVII"></a>LXXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Forget not: In Thy book record their groans<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The vales redoubled to the hills, and they<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Early may fly the Babylonian woe.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXXVIII" id="LXXXVIII"></a>LXXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The forward youth that would appear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Must now forsake his Muses dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor in the shadows sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His numbers languishing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis time to leave the books in dust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And oil the unus&eacute;d armour's rust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Removing from the wall<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The corslet of the hall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So restless Cromwell could not cease<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the inglorious arts of peace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But through adventurous war<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Urg&eacute;d his active star:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And like the three-fork'd lightning, first<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Did thorough his own Side<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His fiery way divide:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For 'tis all one to courage high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The emulous, or enemy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And with such, to enclose<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Is more than to oppose;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then burning through the air he went<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And palaces and temples rent;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Caesar's head at last<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Did through his laurels blast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis madness to resist or blame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The face of angry heaven's flame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And if we would speak true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Much to the Man is due<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who, from his private gardens, where<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He lived reserv&eacute;d and austere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">(As if his highest plot<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To plant the bergamot,)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Could by industrious valour climb<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To ruin the great work of time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And cast the Kingdoms old<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Into another mould;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though Justice against Fate complain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And plead the ancient Rights in vain&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But those do hold or break<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As men are strong or weak;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nature, that hateth emptiness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Allows of penetration less,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And therefore must make room<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where greater spirits come.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What field of all the civil war<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where his were not the deepest scar?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Hampton shows what part<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He had of wiser art,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where, twining subtle fears with hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He wove a net of such a scope<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That Charles himself might chase<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To Carisbrook's narrow case,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That thence the Royal actor borne<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tragic scaffold might adorn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While round the arm&eacute;d bands<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Did clap their bloody hands.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He nothing common did or mean<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon that memorable scene,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But with his keener eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The axe's edge did try;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To vindicate his helpless right;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But bow'd his comely head<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Down, as upon a bed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;This was that memorable hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which first assured the forc&eacute;d power:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So when they did design<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Capitol's first line,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A Bleeding Head, where they begun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did fright the architects to run;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And yet in that the State<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Foresaw its happy fate!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And now the Irish are ashamed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see themselves in one year tamed:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So much one man can do<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That does both act and know.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They can affirm his praises best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And have, though overcome, confest<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How good he is, how just<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And fit for highest trust.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor yet grown stiffer with command,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But still in the Republic's hand&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How fit he is to sway<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That can so well obey!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He to the Commons' feet presents<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A Kingdom for his first year's rents,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And (what he may) forbears<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His fame, to make it theirs:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And has his sword and spoils ungirt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To lay them at the Public's skirt.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So when the falcon high<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Falls heavy from the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She, having kill'd, no more doth search<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But on the next green bough to perch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where, when he first does lure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The falconer has her sure.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;What may not then our Isle presume<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While victory his crest does plume?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What may not others fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If thus he crowns each year?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Italy an Hannibal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And to all States not free<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall climacteric be.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Pict no shelter now shall find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Within his parti-colour'd mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But from this valour sad<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shrink underneath the plaid&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Happy, if in the tufted brake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The English hunter him mistake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor lay his hounds in near<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Caledonian deer.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">March indefatigably on;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And for the last effect<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Still keep the sword erect:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Besides the force it has to fright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The spirits of the shady night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The same arts that did gain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A power, must it maintain.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Marvell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="LXXXIX" id="LXXXIX"></a>LXXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LYCIDAS</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel 1637</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with forced fingers rude<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span><span class="i0">Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Compels me to disturb your season due:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He must not float upon his watery bier<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Without the meed of some melodious tear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So may some gentle Muse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With lucky words favour my destined urn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And as he passes, turn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We drove a-field, and both together heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oft till the star that rose at evening bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Temper'd to the oaten flute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the glad sound would not be absent long;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now thou art gone, and never must return!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all their echoes, mourn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The willows and the hazel copses green<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall now no more be seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span><span class="i0">As killing as the canker to the rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When first the white-thorn blows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For neither were ye playing on the steep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ay me! I fondly dream&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had ye been there ... For what could that have done?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whom universal nature did lament,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When by the rout that made the hideous roar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His gory visage down the stream was sent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Alas! what boots it with uncessant care<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were it not better done, as others use,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(That last infirmity of noble mind)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To scorn delights, and live laborious days;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And think to burst out into sudden blaze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And slits the thin-spun life.  'But not the praise'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor in the glistering foil<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he pronounces lastly on each deed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That strain I heard was of a higher mood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now my oat proceeds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And listens to the herald of the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That came in Neptune's plea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And question'd every gust of rugged wings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That blows from off each beaked promontory:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They knew not of his story;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sage Hippotad&eacute;s their answer brings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The air was calm, and on the level brine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleek Panop&eacute; with all her sisters play'd.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was that fatal and perfidious bark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Last came, and last did go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Pilot of the Galilean lake;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two massy keys he bore of metals twain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of other care they little reckoning make<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shove away the worthy bidden guest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when they list, their lean and flashy songs<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span><span class="i0">Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Daily devours apace, and nothing said:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;But that two-handed engine at the door<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Return, Alph&eacute;us; the dread voice is past<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And call the vales, and bid them hither cast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The glowing violet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every flower that sad embroidery wears:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And daffadillies fill their cups with tears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For so to interpose a little ease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wash far away,&mdash;where'er thy bones are hurl'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the great Vision of the guarded mount<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet anon repairs his drooping head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where, other groves and other streams along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hears the unexpressive nuptial song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There entertain him all the Saints above<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In solemn troops, and sweet societies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That sing, and singing, in their glory move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In thy large recompense, and shalt be good<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To all that wander in that perilous flood.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the still morn went out with sandals gray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now was dropt into the western bay:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XC" id="XC"></a>XC</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Mortality, behold and fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What a change of flesh is here!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Think how many royal bones<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleep within these heaps of stones;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here they lie, had realms and lands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who now want strength to stir their hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span><span class="i0">Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here's an acre sown indeed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the richest royallest seed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the earth did e'er suck in<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since the first man died for sin:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here the bones of birth have cried<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Though gods they were, as men they died!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here are sands, ignoble things,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here's a world of pomp and state<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Buried in dust, once dead by fate.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>F. Beaumont</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XCI" id="XCI"></a>XCI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE LAST CONQUEROR</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Victorious men of earth, no more<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Proclaim how wide your empires are;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though you bind-in every shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And your triumphs reach as far<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As night or day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mingle with forgotten ashes, when<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Each able to undo mankind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death's servile emissaries are;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor to these alone confined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">He hath at will<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">More quaint and subtle ways to kill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Shirley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XCII" id="XCII"></a>XCII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>DEATH THE LEVELLER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The glories of our blood and state<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Are shadows, not substantial things;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is no armour against fate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Death lays his icy hand on kings:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Sceptre and Crown<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Must tumble down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in the dust be equal made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the poor crooked scythe and spade.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Some men with swords may reap the field,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And plant fresh laurels where they kill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But their strong nerves at last must yield;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They tame but one another still:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Early or late<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">They stoop to fate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And must give up their murmuring breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When they, pale captives, creep to death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The garlands wither on your brow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then boast no more your mighty deeds;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon Death's purple altar now<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">See where the victor-victim bleeds:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Your heads must come<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To the cold tomb;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only the actions of the just<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Shirley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XCIII" id="XCIII"></a>XCIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If deed of honour did thee ever please,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Guard them, and him within protect from harms.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He can requite thee; for he knows the charms<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That call fame on such gentle acts as these,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The great Emathian conqueror bid spare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span><span class="i0">Went to the ground: and the repeated air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of sad Electra's poet had the power<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XCIV" id="XCIV"></a>XCIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON HIS BLINDNESS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I consider how my light is spent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that one talent which is death to hide<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To serve therewith my Maker, and present<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My true account, lest He returning chide,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Doth God exact day labour, light denied?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I fondly ask:&mdash;But Patience, to prevent<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And post o'er land and ocean without rest:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They also serve who only stand and wait.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XCV" id="XCV"></a>XCV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How happy is he born and taught<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That serveth not another's will;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose armour is his honest thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And simple truth his utmost skill!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whose passions not his masters are,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose soul is still prepared for death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Untied unto the world by care<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of public fame, or private breath;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who envies none that chance doth raise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor vice; Who never understood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How deepest wounds are given by praise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor rules of state, but rules of good:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who hath his life from rumours freed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose conscience is his strong retreat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose state can neither flatterers feed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor ruin make oppressors great;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who God doth late and early pray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More of His grace than gifts to lend;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And entertains the harmless day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a religious book or friend;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;This man is freed from servile bands<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lord of himself, though not of lands;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And having nothing, yet hath all.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir H. Wotton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XCVI" id="XCVI"></a>XCVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE NOBLE NATURE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">It is not growing like a tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In bulk, doth make Man better be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">A lily of a day<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Is fairer far in May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Although it fall and die that night&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">It was the plant and flower of Light.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In small proportions we just beauties see;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in short measures life may perfect be.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>B. Jonson</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="XCVII" id="XCVII"></a>XCVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE GIFTS OF GOD</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">When God at first made Man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Having a glass of blessings standing by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let us (said He) pour on him all we can:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let the world's riches, which dispers&eacute;d lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Contract into a span.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">So strength first made a way;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When almost all was out, God made a stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Rest in the bottom lay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">For if I should (said He)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bestow this jewel also on My creature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He would adore My gifts instead of Me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So both should losers be.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Yet let him keep the rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But keep them with repining restlessness:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let him be rich and weary, that at least,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If goodness lead him not, yet weariness<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">May toss him to My breast.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>G. Herbert</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XCVIII" id="XCVIII"></a>XCVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE RETREAT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Happy those early days, when I<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shined in my Angel-infancy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before I understood this place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Appointed for my second race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or taught my soul to fancy aught<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But a white, celestial thought;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When yet I had not walk'd above<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A mile or two from my first Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span><span class="i0">And looking back, at that short space<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could see a glimpse of His bright face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When on some gilded cloud or flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My gazing soul would dwell an hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in those weaker glories spy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some shadows of eternity;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before I taught my tongue to wound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My conscience with a sinful sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or had the black art to dispense<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A several sin to every sense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But felt through all this fleshly dress<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright shoots of everlastingness.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O how I long to travel back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tread again that ancient track!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I might once more reach that plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where first I left my glorious train;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That shady City of palm trees!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ah! my soul with too much stay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is drunk, and staggers in the way:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some men a forward motion love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I by backward steps would move;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when this dust falls to the urn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In that state I came, return.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>H. Vaughan</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="XCIX" id="XCIX"></a>XCIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO MR. LAWRENCE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Help waste a sullen day, what may be won<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From the hard season gaining? Time will run<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He who of those delights can judge, and spare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To interpose them oft, is not unwise.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="C" id="C"></a>C</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO CYRIACK SKINNER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of British Themis, with no mean applause<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which others at their bar so often wrench;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In mirth, that after no repenting draws;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And what the Swede intend, and what the French.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To measure life learn thou betimes, and know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And disapproves that care, though wise in show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That with superfluous burden loads the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CI" id="CI"></a>CI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of Neptune's empire let us sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At whose command the waves obey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To whom the rivers tribute pay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down the high mountains sliding;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To whom the scaly nation yields<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Homage for the crystal fields<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Wherein they dwell;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span><span class="i0">And every sea-god pays a gem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yearly out of his watery cell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To deck great Neptune's diadem.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Tritons dancing in a ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before his palace gates do make<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The water with their echoes quake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the great thunder sounding:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sea-nymphs chaunt their accents shrill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Syrens taught to kill<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With their sweet voice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make every echoing rock reply,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unto their gentle murmuring noise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The praise of Neptune's empery.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CII" id="CII"></a>CII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HYMN TO DIANA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Now the sun is laid to sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seated in thy silver chair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">State in wonted manner keep:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Hesperus entreats thy light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Goddess excellently bright.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Earth, let not thy envious shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dare itself to interpose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cynthia's shining orb was made<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Heaven to clear when day did close:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Bless us then with wish&eacute;d sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Goddess excellently bright.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lay thy bow of pearl apart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And thy crystal-shining quiver;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give unto the flying hart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Space to breathe, how short soever:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thou that mak'st a day of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Goddess excellently bright!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>B. Jonson</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CIII" id="CIII"></a>CIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whoe'er she be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That not impossible She<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That shall command my heart and me;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where'er she lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lock'd up from mortal eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In shady leaves of destiny:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Till that ripe birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of studied Fate stand forth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And teach her fair steps tread our earth;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Till that divine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Idea take a shrine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Meet you her, my Wishes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bespeak her to my blisses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">I wish her beauty<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That owes not all its duty<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Something more than<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Taffata or tissue can,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or rampant feather, or rich fan.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A face that's best<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By its own beauty drest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And can alone commend the rest:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A face made up<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of no other shop<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sidneian showers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of sweet discourse, whose powers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whate'er delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can make day's forehead bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or give down to the wings of night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Soft silken hours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Open suns, shady bowers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Days, that need borrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No part of their good morrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From a fore-spent night of sorrow:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Days, that in spite<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of darkness, by the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a clear mind are day all night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Life, that dares send<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A challenge to his end,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I wish her store<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of worth may leave her poor<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of wishes; and I wish&mdash;&mdash;no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Now, if Time knows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Her, whose radiant brows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weave them a garland of my vows;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her that dares be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What these lines wish to see:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I seek no further, it is She.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis She, and here<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lo! I unclothe and clear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My wishes' cloudy character.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Such worth as this is<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall fix my flying wishes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And determine them to kisses.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Let her full glory,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My fancies, fly before ye;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be ye my fictions:&mdash;but her story.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Crashaw</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CIV" id="CIV"></a>CIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE GREAT ADVENTURER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Over the mountains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And over the waves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the fountains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And under the graves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under floods that are deepest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which Neptune obey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over rocks that are steepest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love will find out the way.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where there is no place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the glow-worm to lie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where there is no space<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For receipt of a fly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the midge dares not venture<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lest herself fast she lay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If love come, he will enter<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And soon find out his way.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You may esteem him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A child for his might;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or you may deem him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A coward from his flight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But if she whom love doth honour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be conceal'd from the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Set a thousand guards upon her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love will find out the way.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Some think to lose him<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By having him confined;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some do suppose him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor thing, to be blind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But if ne'er so close ye wall him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do the best that you may,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blind love, if so ye call him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will find out his way.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You may train the eagle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To stoop to your fist;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or you may inveigle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The phoenix of the east;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lioness, ye may move her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To give o'er her prey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But you'll ne'er stop a lover:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He will find out his way.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CV" id="CV"></a>CV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T.C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">See with what simplicity<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This nymph begins her golden days!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the green grass she loves to lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there with her fair aspect tames<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wilder flowers, and gives them names;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But only with the roses plays,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And them does tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What colours best become them, and what smell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who can foretell for what high cause<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This darling of the Gods was born?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet this is she whose chaster laws<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wanton Love shall one day fear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, under her command severe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Happy who can<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Appease this virtuous enemy of man!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O then let me in time compound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And parley with those conquering eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere they have tried their force to wound;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere with their glancing wheels they drive<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In triumph over hearts that strive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And them that yield but more despise:<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Let me be laid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where I may see the glories from some shade.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Mean time, whilst every verdant thing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Itself does at thy beauty charm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Reform the errors of the Spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make that the tulips may have share<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And roses of their thorns disarm;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">But most procure<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That violets may a longer age endure.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But O young beauty of the woods,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lest <span class="smcap">Flora</span>, angry at thy crime<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To kill her infants in their prime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Should quickly make th' example yours;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And ere we see&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nip in the blossom&mdash;all our hopes and thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Marvell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CVI" id="CVI"></a>CVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>CHILD AND MAIDEN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As unconcern'd as when<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your infant beauty could beget<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No happiness or pain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I the dawn used to admire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And praised the coming day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I little thought the rising fire<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Would take my rest away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Your charms in harmless childhood lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like metals in a mine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age from no face takes more away<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than youth conceal'd in thine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But as your charms insensibly<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To their perfection prest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So love as unperceived did fly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And center'd in my breast.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My passion with your beauty grew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While Cupid at my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still as his mother favour'd you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Threw a new flaming dart:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each gloried in their wanton part;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To make a lover, he<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Employ'd the utmost of his art&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To make a beauty, she.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir C. Sedley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CVII" id="CVII"></a>CVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>CONSTANCY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I cannot change, as others do,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though you unjustly scorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since that poor swain that sighs for you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For you alone was born;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A surer way I'll try,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to revenge my slighted love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Will still love on, and die.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And you to mind shall call<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sighs that now unpitied rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The tears that vainly fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That welcome hour that ends his smart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Will then begin your pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For such a faithful tender heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Can never break in vain.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Wilmot, Earl of Rochester</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CVIII" id="CVIII"></a>CVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>COUNSEL TO GIRLS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Old Time is still a-flying:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And this same flower that smiles to-day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To-morrow will be dying.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The higher he's a-getting<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sooner will his race be run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And nearer he's to setting.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That age is best which is the first,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When youth and blood are warmer;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But being spent, the worse, and worst<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Times, still succeed the former.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then be not coy, but use your time;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And while ye may, go marry:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For having lost but once your prime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You may for ever tarry.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Herrick</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CIX" id="CIX"></a>CIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That from the nunnery<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To war and arms I fly.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">True, a new mistress now I chase,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The first foe in the field;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with a stronger faith embrace<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A sword, a horse, a shield.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet this inconstancy is such<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As you too shall adore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I could not love thee, Dear, so much,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Loved I not Honour more.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Colonel Lovelace</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CX" id="CX"></a>CX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You meaner beauties of the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That poorly satisfy our eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More by your number than your light,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span><span class="i2">You common people of the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What are you, when the Moon shall rise?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You curious chanters of the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That warble forth dame Nature's lays,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thinking your passions understood<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By your weak accents; what's your praise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Philomel her voice doth raise?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You violets that first appear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By your pure purple mantles known<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the proud virgins of the year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As if the spring were all your own,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What are you, when the Rose is blown?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So when my Mistress shall be seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In form and beauty of her mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Tell me, if she were not design'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir H. Wotton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXI" id="CXI"></a>CXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Daughter to that good Earl, once President<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of England's Council and her Treasury,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And left them both, more in himself content,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Till the sad breaking of that Parliament<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broke him, as that dishonest victory<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At Chaeroneia, fatal to liberty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though later born than to have known the days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Madam, methinks I see him living yet;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So well your words his noble virtues praise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That all both judge you to relate them true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXII" id="CXII"></a>CXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE TRUE BEAUTY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He that loves a rosy cheek<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or a coral lip admires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or from star-like eyes doth seek<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fuel to maintain his fires;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As old Time makes these decay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So his flames must waste away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But a smooth and steadfast mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hearts with equal love combined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Kindle never-dying fires:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where these are not, I despise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Carew</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXIII" id="CXIII"></a>CXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO DIANEME</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which starlike sparkle in their skies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor be you proud, that you can see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All hearts your captives; yours yet free:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be you not proud of that rich hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which wantons with the lovesick air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whenas that ruby which you wear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will last to be a precious stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all your world of beauty's gone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Herrick.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXIV" id="CXIV"></a>CXIV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Old Time will make thee colder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And though each morning new arise<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet we each day grow older.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span><span class="i0">Thou as Heaven art fair and young,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thine eyes like twin stars shining;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ere another day be sprung<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All these will be declining.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then winter comes with all his fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And all thy sweets shall borrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I too late shall sorrow!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXV" id="CXV"></a>CXV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Go, lovely Rose!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell her, that wastes her time and me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That now she knows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I resemble her to thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How sweet and fair she seems to be.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Tell her that's young<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shuns to have her graces spied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That hadst thou sprung<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In deserts, where no men abide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou must have uncommended died.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Small is the worth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of beauty from the light retired:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Bid her come forth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Suffer herself to be desired,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And not blush so to be admired.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Then die! that she<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The common fate of all things rare<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">May read in thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How small a part of time they share<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That are so wondrous sweet and fair!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>E. Waller</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXVI" id="CXVI"></a>CXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO CELIA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Drink to me only with thine eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I will pledge with mine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or leave a kiss but in the cup<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I'll not look for wine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The thirst that from the soul doth rise<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Doth ask a drink divine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But might I of Jove's nectar sup,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I would not change for thine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I sent thee late a rosy wreath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Not so much honouring thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As giving it a hope that there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">It could not wither'd be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But thou thereon didst only breathe<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And sent'st it back to me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Not of itself but thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>B. Jonson</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXVII" id="CXVII"></a>CXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>CHERRY-RIPE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There is a garden in her face<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where roses and white lilies blow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A heavenly paradise is that place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There cherries grow that none may buy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Those cherries fairly do enclose<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of orient pearl a double row,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which when her lovely laughter shows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her eyes like angels watch them still;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her brows like bended bows do stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All that approach with eye or hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These sacred cherries to come nigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXVIII" id="CXVIII"></a>CXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>CORINNA'S MAYING</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">See how Aurora throws her fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fresh-quilted colours through the air:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The dew bespangling herb and tree.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Above an hour since; yet you not drest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nay! not so much as out of bed?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When all the birds have matins said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nay, profanation, to keep in,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch-in May,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And sweet as Flora. Take no care<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For jewels for your gown, or hair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fear not; the leaves will strew<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gems in abundance upon you:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Come, and receive them while the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Titan on the eastern hill<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Retires himself, or else stands still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How each field turns a street; each street a park<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Devotion gives each house a bough<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or branch: Each porch, each door, ere this,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An ark, a tabernacle is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if here were those cooler shades of love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Can such delights be in the street,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And open fields, and we not see't?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The proclamation made for May:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But is got up, and gone to bring in May.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A deal of youth, ere this, is come<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Back, and with white-thorn laden home.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Before that we have left to dream:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Many a green-gown has been given;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Many a kiss, both odd and even:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Many a glance too has been sent<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From out the eye, Love's firmament:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Many a jest told of the keys betraying<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This night, and locks pick'd:&mdash;Yet we're not a Maying.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Come, let us go, while we are in our prime;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And take the harmless folly of the time!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We shall grow old apace, and die<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Before we know our liberty.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our life is short; and our days run<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As fast away as does the sun:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And as a vapour, or a drop of rain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Once lost, can ne'er be found again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So when or you or I are made<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A fable, song, or fleeting shade;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span><span class="i2">All love, all liking, all delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lies drown'd with us in endless night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Herrick</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXIX" id="CXIX"></a>CXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE POETRY OF DRESS</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><b>I</b></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A sweet disorder in the dress<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kindles in clothes a wantonness:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lawn about the shoulders thrown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into a fine distracti&oacute;n,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An erring lace, which here and there<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enthrals the crimson stomacher,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A cuff neglectful, and thereby<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ribbands to flow confusedly,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A winning wave, deserving note,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the tempestuous petticoat,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A careless shoe-string, in whose tie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I see a wild civility,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do more bewitch me, than when art<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is too precise in every part.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Herrick</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXX" id="CXX"></a>CXX</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><b>2</b></p>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whenas in silks my Julia goes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That liquefaction of her clothes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Next, when I cast mine eyes and see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That brave vibration each way free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O how that glittering taketh me!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Herrick</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXXI" id="CXXI"></a>CXXI</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><b>3</b></p>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">It doth so well become her:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For every season she hath dressings fit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For Winter, Spring, and Summer.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No beauty she doth miss<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all her robes are on:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Beauty's self she is<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all her robes are gone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXII" id="CXXII"></a>CXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON A GIRDLE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That which her slender waist confined<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall now my joyful temples bind:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No monarch but would give his crown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His arms might do what this has done.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pale which held that lovely deer:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My joy, my grief, my hope, my love<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did all within this circle move.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A narrow compass! and yet there<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give me but what this ribband bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Take all the rest the Sun goes round.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>E. Waller</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXIII" id="CXXIII"></a>CXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A MYSTICAL ECSTASY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Where in a greater current they conjoin:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I my Best-Belov&eacute;d's am; so He is mine.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">E'en so we join'd; we both became entire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No need for either to renew a suit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For I was flax and he was flames of fire:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our firm-united souls did more than twine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So I my Best-Belov&eacute;d's am; so He is mine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If all those glittering Monarchs that command<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The servile quarters of this earthly ball,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I would not change my fortunes for them all:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world's but theirs; but my Belov&eacute;d's mine.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>F. Quarles</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXIV" id="CXXIV"></a>CXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bid me to live, and I will live<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy Protestant to be:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or bid me love, and I will give<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A loving heart to thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A heart as soft, a heart as kind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A heart as sound and free<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As in the whole world thou canst find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That heart I'll give to thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To honour thy decree:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or bid it languish quite away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And 't shall do so for thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bid me to weep, and I will weep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While I have eyes to see:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And having none, yet I will keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A heart to weep for thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bid me despair, and I'll despair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Under that cypress tree:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or bid me die, and I will dare<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">E'en Death, to die for thee.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou art my life, my love, my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The very eyes of me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hast command of every part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To live and die for thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Herrick</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXV" id="CXXV"></a>CXXV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Love not me for comely grace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For my pleasing eye or face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor for any outward part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No, nor for my constant heart,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For those may fail, or turn to ill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">So thou and I shall sever:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Keep therefore a true woman's eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And love me still, but know not why&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So hast thou the same reason still<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To doat upon me ever!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXVI" id="CXXVI"></a>CXXVI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not, Celia, that I juster am<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or better than the rest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I would change each hour, like them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Were not my heart at rest,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But I am tied to very thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By every thought I have;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy face I only care to see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy heart I only crave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All that in woman is adored<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In thy dear self I find&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the whole sex can but afford<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The handsome and the kind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Why then should I seek further store,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And still make love anew?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When change itself can give no more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Tis easy to be true.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir C. Sedley</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXXVII" id="CXXVII"></a>CXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When Love with unconfin&eacute;d wings<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hovers within my gates,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my divine Althea brings<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To whisper at the grates;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I lie tangled in her hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And fetter'd to her eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Gods that wanton in the air<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Know no such liberty.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When flowing cups run swiftly round<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With no allaying Thames,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our careless heads with roses bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our hearts with loyal flames;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When thirsty grief in wine we steep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When healths and draughts go free&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fishes that tipple in the deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Know no such liberty.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When, (like committed linnets), I<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With shriller throat shall sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sweetness, mercy, majesty<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And glories of my King;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I shall voice aloud how good<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He is, how great should be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enlarg&eacute;d winds, that curl the flood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Know no such liberty.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Stone walls do not a prison make,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor iron bars a cage;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Minds innocent and quiet take<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That for an hermitage;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If I have freedom in my love<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And in my soul am free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Angels alone, that soar above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Enjoy such liberty.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Colonel Lovelace</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXXVIII" id="CXXVIII"></a>CXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">If to be absent were to be<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Away from thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or that when I am gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">You or I were alone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then, my Lucasta, might I crave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">But I'll not sigh one blast or gale<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">To swell my sail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or pay a tear to 'suage<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The foaming blue-god's rage;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For whether he will let me pass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Though seas and land betwixt us both,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Our faith and troth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Like separated souls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">All time and space controls:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Above the highest sphere we meet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">So then we do anticipate<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Our after-fate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And are alive i' the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">If thus our lips and eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Can speak like spirits unconfined<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Colonel Lovelace</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXIX" id="CXXIX"></a>CXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Why so pale and wan, fond lover?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Prythee, why so pale?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will, if looking well can't move her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Looking ill prevail?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Prithee, why so pale?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Why so dull and mute, young sinner?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Prythee, why so mute?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will, when speaking well can't win her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Saying nothing do't?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Prythee, why so mute?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">This cannot take her;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If of herself she will not love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nothing can make her:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The D&mdash;l take her!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir J. Suckling</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXX" id="CXXX"></a>CXXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A SUPPLICATION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Awake, awake, my Lyre!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tell thy silent master's humble tale<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In sounds that may prevail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Though so exalted she<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And I so lowly be<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Hark, how the strings awake!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, though the moving hand approach not near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Themselves with awful fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A kind of numerous trembling make.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Now all thy forces try;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Now all thy charms apply;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is useless here, since thou art only found<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To cure, but not to wound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she to wound, but not to cure.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Too weak too wilt thou prove<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My passion to remove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For thou canst never tell my humble tale<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In sounds that will prevail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">All thy vain mirth lay by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Bid thy strings silent lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Cowley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXXI" id="CXXXI"></a>CXXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE MANLY HEART</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Shall I, wasting in despair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Die because a woman's fair?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or make pale my cheeks with care<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Cause another's rosy are?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be she fairer than the day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or the flowery meads in May&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If she think not well of me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What care I how fair she be?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Shall my silly heart be pined<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Cause I see a woman kind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or a well disposed nature<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Join&eacute;d with a lovely feature?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be she meeker, kinder, than<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Turtle-dove or pelican,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If she be not so to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What care I how kind she be?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Shall a woman's virtues move<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Me to perish for her love?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or her well-deservings known<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make me quite forget mine own?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be she with, that goodness blest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which may merit name of Best;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If she be not such to me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What care I how good she be?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Cause her fortune seems too high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall I play the fool and die?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She that bears a noble mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If not outward helps she find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thinks what with them he would do<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who without them dares her woo;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And unless that mind I see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What care I how great she be?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Great or good, or kind or fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will ne'er the more despair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If she love me, this believe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will die ere she shall grieve;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If she slight me when I woo,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I can scorn and let her go;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For if she be not for me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What care I for whom she be?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>G. Wither</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXXII" id="CXXXII"></a>CXXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>MELANCHOLY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Hence, all you vain delights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As short as are the nights<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wherein you spend your folly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There's nought in this life sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If man were wise to see't,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But only melancholy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O sweetest Melancholy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Welcome, folded arms, and fix&eacute;d eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sigh that piercing mortifies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A look that's fasten'd to the ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A tongue chain'd up without a sound!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fountain-heads and pathless groves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Places which pale passion loves!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Moonlight walks, when all the fowls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are warmly housed save bats and owls!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A midnight bell, a parting groan!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These are the sounds we feed upon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Fletcher</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXXXIII" id="CXXXIII"></a>CXXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>FORSAKEN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O waly waly up the bank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And waly waly down the brae,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And waly waly yon burn-side<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where I and my Love wont to gae!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I leant my back unto an aik,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I thought it was a trusty tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sae my true Love did lichtly me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O waly waly, but love be bonny<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A little time while it is new;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And fades awa' like morning dew.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O wherefore should I busk my head?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or wherefore should I kame my hair?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For my true Love has me forsook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And says he'll never loe me mair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Since my true Love has forsaken me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And shake the green leaves aff the tree?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For of my life I am wear&iacute;e.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we came in by Glasgow town<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We were a comely sight to see;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My Love was clad in the black velv&eacute;t,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I mysell in cramasie.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But had I wist, before I kist,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That love had been sae ill to win;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And pinn'd it with a siller pin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, O! if my young babe were born,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And set upon the nurse's knee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I mysell were dead and gane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the green grass growing over me!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXXIV" id="CXXXIV"></a>CXXXIV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Upon my lap my sovereign sits<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sucks upon my breast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Meantime his love maintains my life<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gives my sense her rest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing lullaby, my little boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing lullaby, mine only joy!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When thou hast taken thy repast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Repose, my babe, on me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So may thy mother and thy nurse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy cradle also be.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing lullaby, my little boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing lullaby, mine only joy!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I grieve that duty doth not work<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All that my wishing would,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Because I would not be to thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But in the best I should.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing lullaby, my little boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing lullaby, mine only joy!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet as I am, and as I may,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I must and will be thine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though all too little for thy self<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Vouchsafing to be mine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing lullaby, my little boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sing lullaby, mine only joy!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXXXV" id="CXXXV"></a>CXXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>FAIR HELEN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I wish I were where Helen lies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night and day on me she cries;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O that I were where Helen lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On fair Kirconnell lea!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Curst be the heart that thought the thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And curst the hand that fired the shot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When in my arms burd Helen dropt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And died to succour me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O think na but my heart was sair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I laid her down wi' meikle care<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On fair Kirconnell lea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As I went down the water-side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">None but my foe to be my guide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">None but my foe to be my guide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On fair Kirconnell lea;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I lighted down my sword to draw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hack&eacute;d him in pieces sma',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hack&eacute;d him in pieces sma',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For her sake that died for me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Helen fair, beyond compare!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll make a garland of thy hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall bind my heart for evermair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Until the day I die.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O that I were where Helen lies!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night and day on me she cries;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of my bed she bids me rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Says, 'Haste and come to me!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If I were with thee, I were blest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where thou lies low and takes thy rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On fair Kirconnell lea.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I wish my grave were growing green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I in Helen's arms lying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On fair Kirconnell lea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I wish I were where Helen lies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night and day on me she cries;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I am weary of the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Since my Love died for me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXXVI" id="CXXXVI"></a>CXXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE TWA CORBIES</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As I was walking all alane<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I heard twa corbies making a mane;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tane unto the t'other say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Where sall we gang and dine today?'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'&mdash;In behint yon auld fail dyke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And naebody kens that he lies there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'His hound is to the hunting gane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His lady's ta'en another mate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So we may mak our dinner sweet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Mony a one for him makes mane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But nane sall ken where he is gane;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er his white banes, when they are bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wind sall blaw for evermair.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXXXVII" id="CXXXVII"></a>CXXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was a dismal and a fearful night,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">By something liker death possest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And on my soul hung the dull weight<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of some intolerable fate.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">O thou hast left me all alone!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy soul and body, when death's agony<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Besieged around thy noble heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Did not with more reluctance part<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have ye not seen us walking every day?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was there a tree about which did not know<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The love betwixt us two?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or your sad branches thicker join,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And into darksome shades combine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Submitted to inform a body here;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">But low and humble as his grave;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So high that all the virtues there did come<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As to the chiefest seat<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Conspicuous, and great;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So low that for me too it made a room.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if for him knowledge had rather sought;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor did more learning ever crowded lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In such a short mortality.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Still did the notions throng<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">About his eloquent tongue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet never did his God or friends forget.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Retired, and gave to them their due.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the rich help of books he always took,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Though his own searching mind before<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Was so with notions written o'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if wise Nature had made that her book.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With as much zeal, devotion, piety,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He always lived, as other saints do die.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still with his soul severe account he kept,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Weeping all debts out ere he slept.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then down in peace and innocence he lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Like the sun's laborious light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Which still in water sets at night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unsullied with his journey of the day.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Cowley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXXVIII" id="CXXXVIII"></a>CXXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>FRIENDS IN PARADISE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They are all gone into the world of light!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I alone sit lingering here;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their very memory is fair and bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And my sad thoughts doth clear:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like stars upon some gloomy grove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">After the sun's remove.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I see them walking in an air of glory,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose light doth trample on my days:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Mere glimmering and decays.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O holy Hope! and high Humility,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">High as the heavens above!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To kindle my cold love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shining no where, but in the dark;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Could man outlook that mark!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">At first sight, if the bird be flown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But what fair well or grove he sings in now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That is to him unknown.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Call to the soul, when man doth sleep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And into glory peep.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>H. Vaughan</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXXXIX" id="CXXXIX"></a>CXXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO BLOSSOMS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Why do ye fall so fast?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Your date is not so past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But you may stay yet here awhile<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To blush and gently smile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And go at last.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What, were ye born to be<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An hour or half's delight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And so to bid good-night?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Merely to show your worth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And lose you quite.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But you are lovely leaves, where we<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">May read how soon things have<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their end, though ne'er so brave:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And after they have shown their pride<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like you, awhile, they glide<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Into the grave.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Herrick</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXL" id="CXL"></a>CXL</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO DAFFODILS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fair Daffodils, we weep to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You haste away so soon:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As yet the early-rising Sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Has not attain'd his noon.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Stay, stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Until the hasting day<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Has run<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But to the even-song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, having pray'd together, we<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Will go with you along.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We have short time to stay, as you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We have as short a Spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As quick a growth to meet decay<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As you, or any thing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">We die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As your hours do, and dry<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Away<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like to the Summer's rain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or as the pearls of morning's dew<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ne'er to be found again.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Herrick</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXLI" id="CXLI"></a>CXLI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With sweetest milk and sugar first<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I it at my own fingers nursed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And as it grew, so every day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It wax'd more white and sweet than they&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It had so sweet a breath! and oft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I blush'd to see its foot more soft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And white,&mdash;shall I say,&mdash;than my hand?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nay, any lady's of the land!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It is a wondrous thing how fleet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas on those little silver feet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With what a pretty skipping grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It oft would challenge me the race:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when 't had left me far away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twould stay, and run again, and stay:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For it was nimbler much than hinds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And trod as if on the four winds.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have a garden of my own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But so with roses overgrown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lilies, that you would it guess<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be a little wilderness:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the spring-time of the year<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It only lov&eacute;d to be there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the beds of lilies I<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have sought it oft, where it should lie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet could not, till itself would rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Find it, although before mine eyes:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For in the flaxen lilies' shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It like a bank of lilies laid.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Upon the roses it would feed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then to me 'twould boldly trip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And print those roses on my lip.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But all its chief delight was still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On roses thus itself to fill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And its pure virgin limbs to fold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In whitest sheets of lilies cold:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had it lived long, it would have been<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lilies without&mdash;roses within.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Marvell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXLII" id="CXLII"></a>CXLII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How vainly men themselves amaze<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To win the palm, the oak, or bays,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And their uncessant labours see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crown'd from some single herb or tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose short and narrow-verg&eacute;d shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Does prudently their toils upbraid;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While all the flowers and trees do close<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To weave the garlands of Repose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Innocence thy sister dear!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mistaken long, I sought you then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In busy companies of men:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your sacred plants, if here below,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only among the plants will grow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Society is all but rude<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To this delicious solitude.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No white nor red was ever seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So amorous as this lovely green.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cut in these trees their mistress' name:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little, alas, they know or heed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How far these beauties hers exceed!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No name shall but your own be found.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When we have run our passions' heat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love hither makes his best retreat:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gods, who mortal beauty chase,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still in a tree did end their race;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Apollo hunted Daphne so<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only that she might laurel grow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Pan did after Syrinx speed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not as a nymph, but for a reed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What wondrous life is this I lead!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ripe apples drop about my head;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The luscious clusters of the vine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon my mouth do crush their wine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The nectarine and curious peach<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into my hands themselves do reach;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stumbling on melons, as I pass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Withdraws into its happiness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mind, that ocean where each kind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Does straight its own resemblance find;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet it creates, transcending these,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Far other worlds, and other seas;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Annihilating all that's made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To a green thought in a green shade.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here at the fountain's sliding foot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Casting the body's vest aside<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My soul into the boughs does glide;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There, like a bird, it sits and sings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then whets and claps its silver wings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, till prepared for longer flight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Waves in its plumes the various light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Such was that happy Garden-state<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While man there walk'd without a mate:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">After a place so pure and sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What other help could yet be meet!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But 'twas beyond a mortal's share<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To wander solitary there:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span><span class="i0">Two paradises 'twere in one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To live in Paradise alone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How well the skilful gardener drew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of flowers and herbs this dial new!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where, from above, the milder sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Does through a fragrant zodiac run:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, as it works, th' industrious bee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Computes its time as well as we.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How could such sweet and wholesome hours<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Marvell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXLIII" id="CXLIII"></a>CXLIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>FORTUNATI NIMIUM</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Jack and Joan, they think no ill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But loving live, and merry still;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do their week-day's work, and pray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Devoutly on the holy-day:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Skip and trip it on the green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And help to choose the Summer Queen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lash out at a country feast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their silver penny with the best.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Well can they judge of nappy ale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tell at large a winter tale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Climb up to the apple loft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And turn the crabs till they be soft.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tib is all the father's joy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And little Tom the mother's boy:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All their pleasure is, Content,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And care, to pay their yearly rent.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Joan can call by name her cows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And deck her windows with green boughs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She can wreaths and tutties make,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And trim with plums a bridal cake.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jack knows what brings gain or loss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And his long flail can stoutly toss:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Makes the hedge which others break,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And ever thinks what he doth speak.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Now, you courtly dames and knights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That study only strange delights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though you scorn the homespun gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And revel in your rich array;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though your tongues dissemble deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And can your heads from danger keep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet, for all your pomp and train,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Securer lives the silly swain!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campion</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXLIV" id="CXLIV"></a>CXLIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>L'ALLEGRO</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hence, loath&eacute;d Melancholy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Stygian cave forlorn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Find out some uncouth cell<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the night-raven sings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As ragged as thy locks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i6">But come, thou Goddess fair and free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And by men, heart-easing Mirth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Whom lovely Venus at a birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With two sister Graces more<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To ivy-crown&eacute;d Bacchus bore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or whether (as some sager sing)<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The frolic wind that breathes the spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Zephyr, with Aurora playing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As he met her once a-Maying&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">There on beds of violets blue<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">So buxom, blithe, and debonair.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i6">Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Jest, and youthful jollity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Nods, and becks, and wreath&eacute;d smiles<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And love to live in dimple sleek;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Sport that wrinkled Care derides,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And Laughter holding both his sides:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Come, and trip it as you go<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">On the light fantastic toe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And in thy right hand lead with thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And if I give thee honour due<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Mirth, admit me of thy crew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To live with her, and live with thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In unreprov&eacute;d pleasures free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To hear the lark begin his flight<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And singing startle the dull night<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From his watch-tower in the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Till the dappled dawn doth rise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Then to come, in spite of sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And at my window bid good-morrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or the twisted eglantine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">While the cock with lively din<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Scatters the rear of darkness thin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And to the stack, or the barn-door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Stoutly struts his dames before:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Oft listening how the hounds and horn<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From the side of some hoar hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Through the high wood echoing shrill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Sometime walking, not unseen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Right against the eastern gate<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Where the great Sun begins his state<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Robed in flames and amber light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The clouds in thousand liveries dight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">While the ploughman, near at hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And the milkmaid singeth blithe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And the mower whets his scythe,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span><span class="i4">And every shepherd tells his tale<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Under the hawthorn in the dale.<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Whilst the landscape round it measures;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Russet lawns, and fallows gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Where the nibbling flocks do stray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Mountains, on whose barren breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The labouring clouds do often rest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Meadows trim with daisies pied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Towers and battlements it sees<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Bosom'd high in tufted trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Where perhaps some Beauty lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From betwixt two aged oaks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Are at their savoury dinner set<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of herbs, and other country messes<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And then in haste her bower she leaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or, if the earlier season lead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To the tann'd haycock in the mead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Sometimes with secure delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The upland hamlets will invite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">When the merry bells ring round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And the jocund rebecks sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To many a youth and many a maid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Dancing in the chequer'd shade;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And young and old come forth to play<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">On a sunshine holyday,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Till the live-long day-light fail:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With stories told of many a feat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">How Faery Mab the junkets eat:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And he, by Friar's lantern led;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To earn his cream-bowl duly set,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span><span class="i4">That ten day-labourers could not end;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Then lies him down the lubber fiend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Basks at the fire his hairy strength;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And crop-full out of doors he flings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ere the first cock his matin rings.<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Tower'd cities please us then<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And the busy hum of men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Where throngs of knights and barons bold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With store of ladies, whose bright eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Rain influence, and judge the prize<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of wit or arms, while both contend<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To win her grace, whom all commend.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">There let Hymen oft appear<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In saffron robe, with taper clear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And pomp, and feast, and revelry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With mask, and antique pageantry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Such sights as youthful poets dream<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">On summer eves by haunted stream.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Then to the well-trod stage anon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">If Jonson's learned sock be on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Warble his native wood-notes wild.<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And ever against eating cares<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Lap me in soft Lydian airs<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Married to immortal verse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Such as the meeting soul may pierce<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In notes, with many a winding bout<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of link&eacute;d sweetness long drawn out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With wanton heed and giddy cunning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The melting voice through mazes running,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Untwisting all the chains that tie<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The hidden soul of harmony;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That Orpheus' self may heave his head<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From golden slumber, on a bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Such strains as would have won the ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of Pluto, to have quite set free<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">His half-regain'd Eurydice.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span><span class="i4">These delights if thou canst give,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Mirth, with thee I mean to live.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXLV" id="CXLV"></a>CXLV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>IL PENSEROSO</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hence, vain deluding Joys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The brood of Folly without father bred!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How little you bestead<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or fill the fix&eacute;d mind with all your toys!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dwell in some idle brain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As thick and numberless<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or likest hovering dreams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hail, divinest Melancholy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose saintly visage is too bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To hit the sense of human sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And therefore to our weaker view<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Black, but such as in esteem<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To set her beauty's praise above<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet thou art higher far descended:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To solitary Saturn bore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His daughter she; in Saturn's reign<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Such mixture was not held a stain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Oft in glimmering bowers and glades<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He met her, and in secret shades<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of woody Ida's inmost grove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While yet there was no fear of Jove.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sober, steadfast, and demure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All in a robe of darkest grain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Flowing with majestic train,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And sable stole of Cipres lawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Over thy decent shoulders drawn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Come, but keep thy wonted state,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With even step, and musing gait,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And looks commercing with the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There, held in holy passion still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Forget thyself to marble, till<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With a sad leaden downward cast<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou fix them on the earth as fast:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And hears the Muses in a ring<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Aye round about Jove's altar sing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And add to these retired Leisure<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But first and chiefest, with thee bring<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Him that yon soars on golden wing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Guiding the fiery-wheel&eacute;d throne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The cherub Contemplati&oacute;n;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the mute Silence hist along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Less Philomel will deign a song<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In her sweetest saddest plight<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">&mdash;Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Most musical, most melancholy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I woo, to hear thy even-song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And missing thee, I walk unseen<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On the dry smooth-shaven green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To behold the wandering Moon<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Riding near her highest noon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like one that had been led astray<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Through the heaven's wide pathless way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And oft, as if her head she bow'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stooping through a fleecy cloud.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Oft, on a plat of rising ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I hear the far-off Curfeu sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Over some wide-water'd shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Swinging slow with sullen roar:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or, if the air will not permit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Some still remov&eacute;d place will fit,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where glowing embers through the room<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Far from all resort of mirth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Save the cricket on the hearth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or the bellman's drowsy charm<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To bless the doors from nightly harm.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or let my lamp at midnight hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Be seen in some high lonely tower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where I may oft out-watch the Bear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The spirit of Plato, to unfold<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What worlds or what vast regions hold<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The immortal mind, that hath forsook<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her mansion in this fleshly nook:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And of those demons that are found<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In fire, air, flood, or under ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose power hath a true consent<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With planet, or with element.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or the tale of Troy divine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or what (though rare) of later age<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">But, O sad Virgin, that thy power<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Might raise Musaeus from his bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Such notes as, warbled to the string,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And made Hell grant what Love did seek!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or call up him that left half-told<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The story of Cambuscan bold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of Camball, and of Algarsife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And who had Canac&eacute; to wife<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And of the wondrous horse of brass<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span><span class="i2">On which the Tartar king did ride:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And if aught else great bards beside<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In sage and solemn tunes have sung<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of turneys, and of trophies hung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of forests, and enchantments drear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where more is meant than meets the ear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Till civil-suited Morn appear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With the Attic Boy to hunt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But kercheft in a comely cloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While rocking winds are piping loud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or usher'd with a shower still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When the gust hath blown his fill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ending on the rustling leaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With minute drops from off the eaves.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And when the sun begins to fling<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To arch&eacute;d walks of twilight groves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of pine, or monumental oak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where the rude axe, with heav&eacute;d stroke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was never heard the nymphs to daunt<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There in close covert by some brook<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where no profaner eye may look,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hide me from day's garish eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While the bee with honey'd thigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That at her flowery work doth sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the waters murmuring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With such consort as they keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And let some strange mysterious dream<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wave at his wings in airy stream<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of lively portraiture display'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Softly on my eyelids laid:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And, as I wake, sweet music breathe<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Above, about, or underneath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or the unseen Genius of the wood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">But let my due feet never fail<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To walk the studious cloister's pale,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span><span class="i2">And love the high-embow&eacute;d roof,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With antique pillars massy proof,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And storied windows richly dight<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Casting a dim religious light.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There let the pealing organ blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To the full-voiced quire below<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In service high and anthems clear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As may with sweetness, through mine ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dissolve me into ecstasies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And may at last my weary age<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Find out the peaceful hermitage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The hairy gown and mossy cell<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where I may sit and rightly spell<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of every star that heaven doth shew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And every herb that sips the dew;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Till old experience do attain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To something like prophetic strain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">These pleasures, Melancholy, give,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I with thee will choose to live.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXLVI" id="CXLVI"></a>CXLVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where the remote Bermudas ride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the ocean's bosom unespied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From a small boat that row'd along<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The listening winds received this song.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'What should we do but sing His praise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That led us through the watery maze<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That lift the deep upon their backs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unto an isle so long unknown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet far kinder than our own?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He lands us on a grassy stage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gave us this eternal Spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which here enamels everything,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span><span class="i0">And sends the fowls to us in care<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On daily visits through the air.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He hangs in shades the orange bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like golden lamps in a green night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And does in the pomegranates close<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He makes the figs our mouths to meet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And throws the melons at our feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But apples plants of such a price,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No tree could ever bear them twice.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With cedars chosen by His hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Lebanon He stores the land;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And makes the hollow seas that roar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Proclaim the ambergris on shore.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He cast (of which we rather boast)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in these rocks for us did frame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A temple where to sound His name.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! let our voice His praise exalt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Echo beyond the Mexique bay!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Thus sung they in the English boat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A holy and a cheerful note:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the way, to guide their chime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With falling oars they kept the time.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Marvell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXLVII" id="CXLVII"></a>CXLVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>AT A SOLEMN MUSIC</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to our high-raised phantasy present<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That undisturb&eacute;d Song of pure concent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To Him that sits thereon,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the bright Seraphim in burning row<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Cherubic host in thousand quires<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Hymns devout and holy psalms<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Singing everlastingly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That we on Earth, with undiscording voice<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May rightly answer that melodious noise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As once we did, till disproportion'd sin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broke the fair music that all creatures made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In perfect diapason, whilst they stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In first obedience, and their state of good.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O may we soon again renew that Song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To His celestial consort us unite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Milton</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXLVIII" id="CXLVIII"></a>CXLVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM</i>.</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">When I survey the bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Celestial sphere:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So rich with jewels hung, that night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">My soul her wings doth spread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And heaven-ward flies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Almighty's mysteries to read<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the large volumes of the skies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">For the bright firmament<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Shoots forth no flame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So silent, but is eloquent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In speaking the Creator's name.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">No unregarded star<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Contracts its light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into so small a character,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Removed far from our human sight,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">But if we steadfast look,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">We shall discern<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In it as in some holy book,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How man may heavenly knowledge learn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">It tells the Conqueror,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That far-stretch'd power<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which his proud dangers traffic for,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is but the triumph of an hour.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">That from the farthest North<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Some nation may<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet undiscover'd issue forth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And o'er his new-got conquest sway.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Some nation yet shut in<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With hills of ice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May be let out to scourge his sin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till they shall equal him in vice.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">And then they likewise shall<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Their ruin have;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For as yourselves your Empires fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every Kingdom hath a grave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Thus those celestial fires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Though seeming mute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fallacy of our desires<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the pride of life, confute.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">For they have watch'd since first<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The World had birth:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And found sin in itself accursed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And nothing permanent on earth.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Habington</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXLIX" id="CXLIX"></a>CXLIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HYMN TO DARKNESS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">What Muse is worthy thee to sing?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thee, from whose pregnant universal womb<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">All things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Thou first and greatest mystery?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Before great Love this monument did raise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">This ample theatre of praise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Before the folding circles of the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Were tuned by Him, Who is all harmony;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Before the morning Stars their hymn began,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Before the council held for man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Before the birth of either time or place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">But still half of the globe is thine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Like the best emperors thou dost command.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To thee the stars above their brightness owe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And mortals their repose below:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To thy protection fear and sorrow flee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Norris of Bemerton</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CL" id="CL"></a>CL</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A VISION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw Eternity the other night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a great ring of pure and endless light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All calm, as it was bright:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Driven by the spheres,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a vast shadow moved; in which the World<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And all her train were hurl'd.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>H. Vaughan</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLI" id="CLI"></a>CLI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">By Philip's warlike son&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Aloft in awful state<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The godlike hero sate<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">On his imperial throne;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">His valiant peers were placed around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">(So should desert in arms be crown'd);<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The lovely Thais by his side<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Sate like a blooming Eastern bride<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In flower of youth and beauty's pride:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Happy, happy, happy pair!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">None but the brave<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">None but the brave<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">None but the brave deserves the fair!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Timotheus placed on high<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Amid the tuneful quire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The trembling notes ascend the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And heavenly joys inspire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The song began from Jove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who left his blissful seats above&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span><span class="i0">Such is the power of mighty love!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dragon's fiery form belied the god;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sublime on radiant spires he rode<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When he to fair Olympia prest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And while he sought her snowy breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then round her slender waist he curl'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A present deity! they shout around:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With ravish'd ears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The monarch hears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Assumes the god;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Affects to nod<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And seems to shake the spheres.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The jolly god in triumph comes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flush'd with a purple grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He shows his honest face:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bacchus, ever fair and young,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drinking joys did first ordain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rich the treasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet the pleasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet is pleasure after pain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fought all his battles o'er again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The master saw the madness rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And while he Heaven and Earth defied<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Changed his hand and check'd his pride.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He chose a mournful Muse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soft pity to infuse:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span><span class="i0">He sung Darius great and good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By too severe a fate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fallen from his high estate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And weltering in his blood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deserted at his utmost need<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By those his former bounty fed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the bare earth exposed he lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With not a friend to close his eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Revolving in his alter'd soul<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The various turns of Chance below;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now and then a sigh he stole,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tears began to flow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">The mighty master smiled to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That love was in the next degree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For pity melts the mind to love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Softly sweet, in Lydian measures<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">War, he sung, is toil and trouble,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Honour but an empty bubble;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never ending, still beginning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fighting still, and still destroying;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If the world be worth thy winning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Think, O think, it worth enjoying:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lovely Thais sits beside thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Take the good the gods provide thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;The many rend the skies with loud applause<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The prince, unable to conceal his pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gazed on the fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who caused his care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At length with love and wine at once opprest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Now strike the golden lyre again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Break his bands of sleep asunder<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span><span class="i0">Hark, hark! the horrid sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has raised up his head:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As awaked from the dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And amazed he stares around.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See the Furies arise!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See the snakes that they rear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How they hiss in their hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behold a ghastly band,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each a torch in his hand!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And unburied remain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Inglorious on the plain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give the vengeance due<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the valiant crew!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behold how they toss their torches on high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How they point to the Persian abodes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And glittering temples of their hostile gods.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;The princes applaud with a furious joy:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thais led the way<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To light him to his prey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And like another Helen, fired another Troy!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">&mdash;Thus, long ago,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While organs yet were mute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Timotheus, to his breathing flute<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sounding lyre<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At last divine Cecilia came,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Inventress of the vocal frame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enlarged the former narrow bounds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And added length to solemn sounds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Let old Timotheus yield the prize<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or both divide the crown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He raised a mortal to the skies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She drew an angel down!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Dryden</i></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p>
+<h2>The Golden Treasury</h2>
+
+<h2><a name="BOOK_III" id="BOOK_III"></a>Book Third</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CLII" id="CLII"></a>CLII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now the golden Morn aloft<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Waves her dew-bespangled wing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With vermeil cheek and whisper soft<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She woos the tardy Spring:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till April starts, and calls around<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sleeping fragrance from the ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lightly o'er the living scene<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">New-born flocks, in rustic dance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Frisking ply their feeble feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forgetful of their wintry trance<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The birds his presence greet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But chief, the sky-lark warbles high<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His trembling thrilling ecstasy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lessening from the dazzled sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Melts into air and liquid light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yesterday the sullen year<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mute was the music of the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The herd stood drooping by:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their raptures now that wildly flow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No yesterday nor morrow know;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis Man alone that joy descries<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With forward and reverted eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Smiles on past misfortune's brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Soft reflection's hand can trace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A melancholy grace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While hope prolongs our happier hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or deepest shades, that dimly lour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And blacken round our weary way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gilds with a gleam of distant day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still, where rosy pleasure leads,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">See a kindred grief pursue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behind the steps that misery treads<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Approaching comfort view:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hues of bliss more brightly glow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chastised by sabler tints of woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And blended form, with artful strife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The strength and harmony of life.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">See the wretch that long has tost<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On the thorny bed of pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At length repair his vigour lost<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And breathe and walk again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The meanest floweret of the vale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The simplest note that swells the gale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The common sun, the air, the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To him are opening Paradise.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Gray</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLIII" id="CLIII"></a>CLIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE TO SIMPLICITY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">O Thou, by Nature taught<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To breathe her genuine thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who first, on mountains wild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In Fancy, loveliest child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Thou, who with hermit heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Disdain'st the wealth of art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But com'st, a decent maid<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In Attic robe array'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">By all the honey'd store<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On Hybla's thymy shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By her whose love-lorn woe<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In evening musings slow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">By old Cephisus deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who spread his wavy sweep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On whose enamell'd side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When holy Freedom died,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No equal haunt allured thy future feet:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">O sister meek of Truth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To my admiring youth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The flowers that sweetest breathe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">While Rome could none esteem<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But Virtue's patriot theme,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You loved her hills, and led her laureat band;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But stay'd to sing alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To one distinguish'd throne;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">No more, in hall or bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Passions own thy power;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For thou hast left her shrine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor olive more, nor vine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Though taste, though genius, bless<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To some divine excess,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What each, what all supply<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">May court, may charm our eye;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Of these let others ask<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To aid some mighty task;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span><span class="i0">I only seek to find thy temperate vale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where oft my reed might sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To maids and shepherds round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Collins</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLIV" id="CLIV"></a>CLIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SOLITUDE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Happy the man, whose wish and care<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A few paternal acres bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Content to breathe his native air<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">In his own ground.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose flocks supply him with attire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose trees in summer yield him shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">In winter fire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Blest, who can unconcern'dly find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hours, days, and years, slide soft away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In health of body, peace of mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Quiet by day,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sound sleep by night; study and ease<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Together mixt, sweet recreation,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And innocence, which most does please<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">With meditation.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thus unlamented let me die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Steal from the world, and not a stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Tell where I lie.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Pope</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLV" id="CLV"></a>CLV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE BLIND BOY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O say what is that thing call'd Light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Which I must ne'er enjoy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What are the blessings of the sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O tell your poor blind boy!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You talk of wondrous things you see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You say the sun shines bright;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I feel him warm, but how can he<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or make it day or night?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My day or night myself I make<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whene'er I sleep or play;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And could I ever keep awake<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With me 'twere always day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With heavy sighs I often hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You mourn my hapless woe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But sure with patience I can bear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A loss I ne'er can know.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then let not what I cannot have<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My cheer of mind destroy:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Although a poor blind boy.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>C. Cibber</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLVI" id="CLVI"></a>CLVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Twas on a lofty vase's side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where China's gayest art had dyed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The azure flowers that blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Demurest of the tabby kind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pensive Selima, reclined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gazed on the lake below.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her conscious tail her joy declared:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fair round face, the snowy beard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The velvet of her paws,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her coat that with the tortoise vies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She saw, and purr'd applause.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two angel forms were seen to glide,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span><span class="i0">The Genii of the stream:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through richest purple, to the view<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Betray'd a golden gleam.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A whisker first, and then a claw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With many an ardent wish<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What female heart can gold despise?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What Cat's averse to fish?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Presumptuous maid! with looks intent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Again she stretch'd, again she bent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor knew the gulf between&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Malignant Fate sat by and smiled&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The slippery verge her feet beguiled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She tumbled headlong in!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Eight times emerging from the flood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She mew'd to every watery God<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some speedy aid to send:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A favourite has no friend!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And be with caution bold:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not all that tempts your wandering eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor all that glisters, gold!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Gray</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLVII" id="CLVII"></a>CLVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Timely blossom, Infant fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fondling of a happy pair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every morn and every night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their solicitous delight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleeping, waking, still at ease,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span><span class="i0">Pleasing, without skill to please;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little gossip, blithe and hale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tattling many a broken tale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Singing many a tuneless song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lavish of a heedless tongue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Simple maiden, void of art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Babbling out the very heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet abandon'd to thy will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet imagining no ill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet too innocent to blush;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the linnet in the bush<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the mother-linnet's note<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Moduling her slender throat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chirping forth thy petty joys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wanton in the change of toys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the linnet green, in May<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flitting to each bloomy spray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wearied then and glad of rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the linnet in the nest:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This thy present happy lot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This, in time will be forgot:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Other pleasures, other cares,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ever-busy Time prepares;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And thou shalt in thy daughter see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This picture, once, resembled thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Philips</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLVIII" id="CLVIII"></a>CLVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>RULE BRITANNIA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When Britain first at Heaven's command<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Arose from out the azure main,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This was the charter of her land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And guardian angels sung the strain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Britons never shall be slaves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The nations not so blest as thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Must in their turn to tyrants fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The dread and envy of them all.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still more majestic shalt thou rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">More dreadful from each foreign stroke;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the loud blast that tears the skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Serves but to root thy native oak.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All their attempts to bend thee down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will but arouse thy generous flame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And work their woe and thy renown.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To thee belongs the rural reign;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy cities shall with commerce shine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All thine shall be the subject main,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And every shore it circles thine!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Muses, still with Freedom found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall to thy happy coast repair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And manly hearts to guard the fair:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Britons never shall be slaves!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Thomson</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLIX" id="CLIX"></a>CLIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE BARD</i></h2>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Pindaric Ode</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Confusion on thy banners wait;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They mock the air with idle state.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He wound with toilsome march his long array:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span><span class="i2">'To arms!', cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">On a rock, whose haughty brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Robed in the sable garb of woe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With haggard eyes the Poet stood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Loose his beard and hoary hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with a master's hand and prophet's fire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That hush'd the stormy main:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Mountains, ye mourn in vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Modred, whose magic song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On dreary Arvon's shore they lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ye died amidst your dying country's cries&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more I weep; They do not sleep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I see them sit; They linger yet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Avengers of their native land:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With me in dreadful harmony they join,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Weave the warp and weave the woof</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>The winding sheet of Edward's race:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Give ample room and verge enough</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>The characters of hell to trace.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span><span class="i0"><i>Mark the year, and mark the night,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>When Severn shall re-echo with affright</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Shrieks of an agonizing king!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>The scourge of heaven! What terrors round him wait!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Amazement in his van, with flight combined,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>'Mighty victor, mighty lord,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Low on his funeral couch he lies!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>No pitying heart, no eye, afford</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>A tear to grace his obsequies.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Is the sable warrior fled?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>&mdash;Gone to salute the rising morn.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>While proudly riding o'er the azure realm</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2"><i>'Fill high the sparkling bowl,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>The rich repast prepare;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Close by the regal chair</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Fell Thirst and Famine scowl</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>A baleful smile upon their baffled guest,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Heard ye the din of battle bray,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Lance to lance, and horse to horse?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Long years of havock urge their destined course,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>With many afoul and midnight murder fed,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>And spare the meek usurpers holy head!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Above, below, the rose of snow,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span><span class="i2"><i>Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>The bristled boar in infant-gore</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Wallows beneath the thorny shade.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurs&eacute;d loom,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>'Edward, lo! to sudden fate</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>(Weave we the woof; The thread is spun;)</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Half of thy heart we consecrate.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>(The web is wove; The work is done.)</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In yon bright track that fires the western skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They melt, they vanish from my eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">'Girt with many a baron bold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sublime their starry fronts they rear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In bearded majesty, appear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the midst a form divine!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What strings symphonious tremble in the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What strains of vocal transport round her play?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The verse adorn again<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fierce war, and faithful love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In buskin'd measures move<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pale grief, and pleasing pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A voice as of the cherub-choir<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span><span class="i2">Gales from blooming Eden bear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And distant warblings lessen on my ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That lost in long futurity expire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To-morrow he repairs the golden flood<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And warms the nations with redoubled ray.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enough for me: with joy I see<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The different doom our fates assign:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be thine despair and sceptred care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To triumph and to die are mine,'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Gray</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLX" id="CLX"></a>CLX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE WRITTEN IN 1746</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How sleep the brave, who sink to rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By all their country's wishes blest!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She there shall dress a sweeter sod<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By fairy hands their knell is rung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By forms unseen their dirge is sung:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To bless the turf that wraps their clay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Freedom shall awhile repair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dwell a weeping hermit there!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Collins</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXI" id="CLXI"></a>CLXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LAMENT FOR CULLODEN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The lovely lass o' Inverness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And aye the saut tear blins her ee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drumossie moor&mdash;Drumossie day&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span><span class="i0">A waefu' day it was to me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For there I lost my father dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My father dear, and brethren three.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their graves are growing green to see:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And by them lies the dearest lad<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That ever blest a woman's ee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A bluidy man I trow thou be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For mony a heart thou hast made sair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXII" id="CLXII"></a>CLXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LAMENT FOR FLODDEN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Women and bairns are heartless and wae;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Elliott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXIII" id="CLXIII"></a>CLXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE BRAES OF YARROW</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When first on them I met my lover;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When now thy waves his body cover!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For ever now, O Yarrow stream!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For never on thy banks shall I<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He promised me a milk-white steed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To bear me to his father's bowers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He promised me a little page<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To squire me to his father's towers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He promised me a wedding-ring,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now he is wedded to his grave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sweet were his words when last we met;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My passion I as freely told him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I should never more behold him!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His mother from the window look'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With all the longing of a mother;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His little sister weeping walk'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The greenwood path to meet her brother;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They sought him east, they sought him west,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They sought him all the forest thorough;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They only saw the cloud of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They only heard the roar of Yarrow.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No longer from thy window look&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No longer walk, thou lovely maid;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alas, thou hast no more a brother!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No longer seek him east or west<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And search no more the forest thorough;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For, wandering in the night so dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The tear shall never leave my cheek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No other youth shall be my marrow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll seek thy body in the stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;The tear did never leave her cheek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No other youth became her marrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She found his body in the stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Logan</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXIV" id="CLXIV"></a>CLXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Down in yon garden sweet and gay<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where bonnie grows the lily,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I heard a fair maid sighing say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'My wish be wi' sweet Willie!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Willie's wondrous bonny;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Willie hecht to marry me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gin e'er he married ony.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From where my Love repaireth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And tell me how he fareth!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O tell sweet Willie to come doun<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And hear the mavis singing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And see the birds on ilka bush<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And leaves around them hinging.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And gentle throat sae narrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's sport eneuch for gentlemen<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On Leader haughs and Yarrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O Leader haughs are wide and braid<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Yarrow haughs are bonny;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There Willie hecht to marry me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If e'er he married ony.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And does not hear me weeping;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When other maids are sleeping.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The night I'll mak' it narrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a' the live-lang winter night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I lie twined o' my marrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O came ye by yon water-side?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Pou'd you the rose or lily?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or came you by yon meadow green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or saw you my sweet Willie?'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She sought him up, she sought him down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She sought him braid and narrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She found him drown'd in Yarrow!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXV" id="CLXV"></a>CLXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Toll for the Brave!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The brave that are no more!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All sunk beneath the wave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fast by their native shore!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Eight hundred of the brave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose courage well was tried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had made the vessel heel<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And laid her on her side.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A land-breeze shook the shrouds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she was overset;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down went the Royal George,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With all her crew complete.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Toll for the brave!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brave Kempenfelt is gone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His last sea-fight is fought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His work of glory done.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was not in the battle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No tempest gave the shock;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She sprang no fatal leak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She ran upon no rock.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His sword was in its sheath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His fingers held the pen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Kempenfelt went down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With twice four hundred men.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Weigh the vessel up<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Once dreaded by our foes!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mingle with our cup<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tears that England owes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her timbers yet are sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she may float again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full charged with England's thunder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And plough the distant main:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But Kempenfelt is gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His victories are o'er;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he and his eight hundred<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall plough the wave no more.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Cowper</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXVI" id="CLXVI"></a>CLXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>BLACK-EYED SUSAN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The streamers waving in the wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When black-eyed Susan came aboard;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'O! where shall I my true-love find?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If my sweet William sails among the crew.'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">William, who high upon the yard<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Rock'd with the billow to and fro,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soon as her well-known voice he heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So the sweet lark, high poised in air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shuts close his pinions to his breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And drops at once into her nest:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The noblest captain in the British fleet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My vows shall ever true remain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let me kiss off that falling tear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We only part to meet again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The faithful compass that still points to thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Believe not what the landmen say<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In every port a mistress find:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'If to fair India's coast we sail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy skin is ivory so white.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thus every beauteous object that I view<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Though battle call me from thy arms<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Let not my pretty Susan mourn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">William shall to his Dear return.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The boatswain gave the dreadful word,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sails their swelling bosom spread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No longer must she stay aboard;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span><span class="i2">They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Adieu!' she cries; and waved her lily hand.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Gay</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXVII" id="CLXVII"></a>CLXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SALLY IN OUR ALLEY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of all the girls that are so smart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There's none like pretty Sally;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is the darling of my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she lives in our alley.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is no lady in the land<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Is half so sweet as Sally;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is the darling of my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she lives in our alley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her father he makes cabbage-nets<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And through the streets does cry 'em;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her mother she sells laces long<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To such as please to buy 'em:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But sure such folks could ne'er beget<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So sweet a girl as Sally!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is the darling of my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she lives in our alley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When she is by, I leave my work,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I love her so sincerely;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My master comes like any Turk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And bangs me most severely&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But let him bang his bellyful,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'll bear it all for Sally;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is the darling of my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she lives in our alley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of all the days that's in the week<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I dearly love but one day&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that's the day that comes betwixt<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A Saturday and Monday;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For then I'm drest all in my best<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To walk abroad with Sally;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is the darling of my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she lives in our alley.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My master carries me to church,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And often am I blamed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Because I leave him in the lurch<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As soon as text is named;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I leave the church in sermon-time<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And slink away to Sally;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is the darling of my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she lives in our alley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When Christmas comes about again<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O then I shall have money;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll hoard it up, and box it all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'll give it to my honey:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I would it were ten thousand pound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'd give it all to Sally;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is the darling of my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she lives in our alley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My master and the neighbours all<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Make game of me and Sally,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, but for her, I'd better be<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A slave and row a galley;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when my seven long years are out<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O then I'll marry Sally,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed...<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But not in our alley!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>H. Carey</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXVIII" id="CLXVIII"></a>CLXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A FAREWELL</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">An' fill it in a silver tassie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I may drink before I go<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A service to my bonnie lassie:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ship rides by the Berwick-law,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The trumpets sound, the banners fly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The glittering spears are rank&eacute;d ready;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shouts o' war are heard afar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The battle closes thick and bloody;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But it's not the roar o' sea or shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wad make me langer wish to tarry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor shout o' war that's heard afar&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXIX" id="CLXIX"></a>CLXIX</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If doughty deeds my lady please<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Right soon I'll mount my steed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And strong his arm, and fast his seat<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That bears frae me the meed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll wear thy colours in my cap<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy picture at my heart;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he that bends not to thine eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall rue it to his smart!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">O tell me how to woo thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Tho' ne'er another trow me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If gay attire delight thine eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'll dight me in array;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll tend thy chamber door all night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And squire thee all the day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">These sounds I'll strive to catch;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That voice that nane can match.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But if fond love thy heart can gain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I never broke a vow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I never loved but you.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For you alone I ride the ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For you I wear the blue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For you alone I strive to sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O tell me how to woo!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O tell me how to woo thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Tho' ne'er another trow me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Graham of Gartmore</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXX" id="CLXX"></a>CLXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO A YOUNG LADY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Apt emblem of a virtuous maid&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Silent and chaste she steals along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Far from the world's gay busy throng:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With gentle yet prevailing force,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Intent upon her destined course;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Graceful and useful all she does,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blessing and blest where'er she goes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Heaven reflected in her face.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Cowper</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXI" id="CLXXI"></a>CLXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE SLEEPING BEAUTY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy rosy lips still wear a smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And move, and breathe delicious sighs!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mantle o'er her neck of snow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What most I wish&mdash;and fear to know!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her fair hands folded on her breast:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;And now, how like a saint she sleeps!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A seraph in the realms of rest!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sleep on secure! Above controul<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And may the secret of thy soul<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Remain within its sanctuary!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>S. Rogers</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXII" id="CLXXII"></a>CLXXII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An unrelenting foe to Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when we meet a mutual heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come in between, and bid us part?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bid us sigh on from day to day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wish and wish the soul away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till youth and genial years are flown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the life of life is gone?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But busy, busy, still art thou,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To bind the loveless joyless vow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The heart from pleasure to delude,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To join the gentle to the rude.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I absolve thy future care;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All other blessings I resign,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make but the dear Amanda mine.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Thomson</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXIII" id="CLXXIII"></a>CLXXIII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The merchant, to secure his treasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Conveys it in a borrow'd name:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Euphelia serves to grace my measure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Cloe is my real flame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My softest verse, my darling lyre<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon Euphelia's toilet lay&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Cloe noted her desire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I should sing, that I should play.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But with my numbers mix my sighs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Venus to the Loves around<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>M. Prior</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXIV" id="CLXXIV"></a>CLXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LOVE'S SECRET</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Never seek to tell thy love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Love that never told can be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the gentle wind doth move<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Silently, invisibly.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I told my love, I told my love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I told her all my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ah! she did depart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Soon after she was gone from me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A traveller came by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Silently, invisibly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He took her with a sigh.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Blake</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXV" id="CLXXV"></a>CLXXV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When lovely woman stoops to folly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And finds too late that men betray,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What charm can soothe her melancholy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What art can wash her guilt away?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The only art her guilt to cover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hide her shame from every eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To give repentance to her lover<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wring his bosom, is&mdash;to die.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>O. Goldsmith</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CLXXVI" id="CLXXVI"></a>CLXXVI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How can ye blume sae fair!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How can ye chant, ye little birds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I sae fu' o' care!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That sings upon the bough;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou minds me o' the happy days<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When my fause Luve was true.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That sings beside thy mate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For sae I sat, and sae I sang,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And wist na o' my fate.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To see the woodbine twine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And ilka bird sang o' its love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And sae did I o' mine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Frae aff its thorny tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my fause luver staw the rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But left the thorn wi' me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXVII" id="CLXXVII"></a>CLXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE PROGRESS OF POESY</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><b><i>A Pindaric Ode</i></b></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Helicon's harmonious springs<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">A thousand rills their mazy progress take;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The laughing flowers that round them blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drink life and fragrance as they flow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now the rich stream of music winds along<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span><span class="i0">Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now rolling down the steep amain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Thracia's hills the Lord of War<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has curb'd the fury of his car<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perching on the sceptred hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thee the voice, the dance, obey<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Temper'd to thy warbled lay.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er Idalia's velvet-green<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rosy-crown&eacute;d Loves are seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Cytherea's day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Frisking light in frolic measures;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now pursuing, now retreating,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Now in circling troops they meet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To brisk notes in cadence beating<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Glance their many-twinkling feet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With arms sublime that float upon the air<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In gliding state she wins her easy way:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Man's feeble race what ills await!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fond complaint, my song, disprove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And justify the laws of Jove.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span><span class="i0">Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Night, and all her sickly dews,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gives to range the dreary sky:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till down the eastern cliffs afar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">In climes beyond the solar road<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Muse has broke the twilight gloom<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And oft, beneath the odorous shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Chili's boundless forests laid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In loose numbers wildly sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her track, where'er the goddess roves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Glory pursue, and generous Shame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fields that cool Ilissus laves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or where Maeander's amber waves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In lingering labyrinths creep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How do your tuneful echoes languish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mute, but to the voice of anguish!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where each old poetic mountain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Inspiration breathed around;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every shade and hallow'd fountain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They sought, oh Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Far from the sun and summer-gale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To him the mighty Mother did unveil<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her awful face: the dauntless child<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span><span class="i0">'This pencil take' (she said), 'whose colours clear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Richly paint the vernal year:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This can unlock the gates of joy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of horror that, and thrilling fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Nor second He, that rode sublime<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The secrets of the abyss to spy:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where angels tremble while they gaze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He saw; but blasted with excess of light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Closed his eyes in endless night.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wide o'er the fields of glory bear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Two coursers of ethereal race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hark, his hands the lyre explore!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scatters from her pictured urn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But ah! 'tis heard no more&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That the Theban eagle bear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sailing with supreme dominion<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thro' the azure deep of air:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet oft before his infant eyes would run<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beneath the Good how far&mdash;but far above the Great.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Gray</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CLXXVIII" id="CLXXVIII"></a>CLXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE PASSIONS</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><b><i>An Ode for Music</i></b></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When Music, heavenly maid, was young,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While yet in early Greece she sung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Passions oft, to hear her shell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Throng'd around her magic cell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Possest beyond the Muse's painting;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By turns they felt the glowing mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the supporting myrtles round<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They snatch'd her instruments of sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, as they oft had heard apart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet lessons of her forceful art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each (for Madness ruled the hour)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would prove his own expressive power.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">First Fear his hand, its skill to try,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And back recoil'd, he knew not why,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">E'en at the sound himself had made.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In lightnings, own'd his secret stings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In one rude clash he struck the lyre<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And swept with hurried hand the strings.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With woeful measures wan Despair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Low sullen sounds, his grief beguiled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A solemn, strange, and mingled air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What was thy delighted measure?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still it whisper'd promised pleasure<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still would her touch the strain prolong;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And from the rocks, the woods, the vale<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span><span class="i0">She call'd on Echo still through all the song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And, where her sweetest theme she chose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And longer had she sung:&mdash;but with a frown<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Revenge impatient rose:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And with a withering look<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The war-denouncing trumpet took<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And blew a blast so loud and dread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And ever and anon he beat<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The doubling drum with furious heat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Dejected Pity at his side<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Her soul-subduing voice applied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sad proof of thy distressful state!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pale Melancholy sat retired;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from her wild sequester'd seat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In notes by distance made more sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And dashing soft from rocks around<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Round an holy calm diffusing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Love of peace, and lonely musing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In hollow murmurs died away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span><span class="i2">Her bow across her shoulder flung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Peeping from forth their alleys green:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He, with viny crown advancing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They would have thought who heard the strain<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Amidst the festal-sounding shades<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To some unwearied minstrel dancing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And he, amidst his frolic play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As if he would the charming air repay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Music! sphere-descended maid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, goddess! why, to us denied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As in that loved Athenian bower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You learn'd an all-commanding power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can well recall what then it heard.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where is thy native simple heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Arise, as in that elder time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy wonders, in that god-like age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fill thy recording Sister's page;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis said, and I believe the tale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy humblest reed could more prevail,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span><span class="i0">Had more of strength, diviner rage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than all which charms this laggard age:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">E'en all at once together found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cecilia's mingled world of sound:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O bid our vain endeavours cease:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Revive the just designs of Greece:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Return in all thy simple state!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Confirm the tales her sons relate!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Collins</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXIX" id="CLXXIX"></a>CLXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE SONG OF DAVID</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He sang of God, the mighty source<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all things, the stupendous force<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On which all strength depends:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All period, power, and enterprise<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Commences, reigns, and ends.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The world, the clustering spheres He made,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The glorious light, the soothing shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dale, champaign, grove and hill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The multitudinous abyss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where secrecy remains in bliss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And wisdom hides her skill.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Moses: while Earth heard in dread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And, smitten to the heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At once, above, beneath, around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All Nature, without voice or sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Replied, 'O Lord, THOU ART.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>C. Smart</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CLXXX" id="CLXXX"></a>CLXXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>INFANT JOY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I have no name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I am but two days old.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;What shall I call thee?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'I happy am;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joy is my name.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Sweet joy befall thee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Pretty joy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet joy, but two days old;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet joy I call thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou dost smile:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sing the while,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet joy befall thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Blake</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXXI" id="CLXXXI"></a>CLXXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A CRADLE SONG</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dreaming in the joys of night;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little sorrows sit and weep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sweet babe, in thy face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soft desires I can trace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Secret joys and secret smiles,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little pretty infant wiles.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As thy softest limbs I feel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smiles as of the morning steal<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where thy little heart doth rest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh the cunning wiles that creep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In thy little heart asleep!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When thy little heart doth wake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the dreadful light shall break.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Blake</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CLXXXII" id="CLXXXII"></a>CLXXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE ON THE SPRING</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fair Venus' train, appear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Disclose the long-expecting flowers<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And wake the purple year!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Attic warbler pours her throat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Responsive to the cuckoo's note,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The untaught harmony of Spring:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While, whispering pleasure as they fly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their gather'd fragrance fling.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A broader, browner shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O'er-canopies the glade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside some water's rushy brink<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With me the Muse shall sit, and think<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(At ease reclined in rustic state)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How vain the ardour of the crowd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How low, how little are the proud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How indigent the great!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still is the toiling hand of Care;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The panting herds repose:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The busy murmur glows!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The insect-youth are on the wing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Eager to taste the honied spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And float amid the liquid noon:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some lightly o'er the current skim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some show their gaily-gilded trim<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Quick-glancing to the sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To Contemplation's sober eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Such is the race of Man:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And they that creep, and they that<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall end where they began.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alike the Busy and the Gay<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span><span class="i0">But flutter thro' life's little day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In Fortune's varying colours drest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They leave, in dust to rest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Methinks I hear in accents low<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sportive kind reply:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor moralist! and what art thou?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A solitary fly!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy joys no glittering female meets,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No painted plumage to display:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On hasty wings thy youth is flown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We frolic while 'tis May.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Gray</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXXIII" id="CLXXXIII"></a>CLXXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE POPLAR FIELD</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now in the grass behold they are laid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The blackbird has fled to another retreat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the scene where his melody charm'd me before<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My fugitive years are all hasting away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The change both my heart and my fancy employs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Cowper</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXXIV" id="CLXXXIV"></a>CLXXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO A MOUSE</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>On turning her up in her nest, with the plough,<br />
+November, 1785</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O what a panic's in thy breastie!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou need na start awa sae hasty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wi' bickering brattle!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wi' murd'ring pattle!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'm truly sorry man's dominion<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has broken Nature's social union,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' justifies that ill opinion<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which makes thee startle<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At me, thy poor earth-born companion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' fellow-mortal!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A daimen-icker in a thrave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'S a sma' request:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never miss't!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its silly wa's the win's are strewin:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And naething, now, to big a new ane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O' foggage green!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' bleak December's winds ensuin'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Baith snell an' keen!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' weary winter comin' fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' cozie here, beneath the blast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou thought to dwell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till, crash! the cruel coulter past<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out thro' thy cell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But house or hald,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To thole the winter's sleety dribble<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' cranreuch cauld!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In proving foresight may be vain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The best laid schemes o mice an' men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gang aft a-gley,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For promised joy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The present only toucheth thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, Och! I backward cast my e'e<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On prospects drear!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An' forward, tho' I canna see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I guess an' fear!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXXV" id="CLXXXV"></a>CLXXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A WISH</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Mine be a cot beside the hill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A willowy brook that turns a mill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With many a fall shall linger near.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And share my meal, a welcome guest.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Around my ivied porch shall spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In russet-gown and apron blue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The village-church among the trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where first our marriage-vows were given,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With merry peals shall swell the breeze<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And point with taper spire to Heaven.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>S. Rogers</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXXVI" id="CLXXXVI"></a>CLXXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE TO EVENING</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Like thy own solemn springs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy springs, and dying gales;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Nymph reserved,&mdash;while now the bright-hair'd sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With brede ethereal wove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">O'erhang his wavy bed;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or where the beetle winds<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">His small but sullen horn,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As oft he rises midst the twilight path,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Now teach me, maid composed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To breathe some soften'd strain<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May not unseemly with its stillness suit;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As, musing slow, I hail<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy genial loved return.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For when thy folding-star arising shows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His paly circlet, at his warning lamp<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The fragrant Hours, and Elves<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who slept in buds the day,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The pensive Pleasures sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Prepare thy shadowy car.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Whose walls more awful nod<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">By thy religious gleams.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or, if chill blustering winds or driving rain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That, from the mountain's side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Views wilds, and swelling floods,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy dewy fingers draw<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The gradual dusky veil.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">While Summer loves to sport<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Beneath thy lingering light;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Affrights thy shrinking train<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And rudely rends thy robes;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy gentlest influence own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And love thy favourite name!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Collins</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CLXXXVII" id="CLXXXVII"></a>CLXXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And leaves the world to darkness and to me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the air a solemn stillness holds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The moping owl does to the moon complain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Molest her ancient solitary reign.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or busy housewife ply her evening care:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No children run to lisp their sire's return,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How jocund did they drive their team afield!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Let not ambition mock their useful toil,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The short and simple annals of the poor.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The paths of glory lead but to the grave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Can storied urn or animated bust<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or waked to extasy the living lyre:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But knowledge to their eyes her ample page<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And froze the genial current of the soul.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Full many a gem of purest ray serene<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And waste its sweetness on the desert air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The little tyrant of his fields withstood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Th' applause of listening senates to command,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The threats of pain and ruin to despise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And read their history in a nation's eyes<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along the cool sequester'd vale of life<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some frail memorial still erected nigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The place of fame and elegy supply:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many a holy text around she strews,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That teach the rustic moralist to die.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">On some fond breast the parting soul relies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some pious drops the closing eye requires;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If chance, by lonely contemplation led,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pore upon the brook that babbles by.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Another came; nor yet beside the rill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The next with dirges due in sad array<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">THE EPITAPH</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here rests his head upon the lap of earth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And melancholy mark'd him for her own.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heaven did a recompense as largely send:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No farther seek his merits to disclose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bosom of his Father and his God.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Gray</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXXVIII" id="CLXXXVIII"></a>CLXXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>MARY MORISON</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Mary, at thy window be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those smiles and glances let me see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That make the miser's treasure poor:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How blithely wad I bide the stoure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A weary slave frae sun to sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could I the rich reward secure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lovely Mary Morison.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yestreen when to the trembling string<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To thee my fancy took its wing,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sat, but neither heard nor saw:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yon the toast of a' the town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sigh'd, and said amang them a',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Ye are na Mary Morison.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or canst thou break that heart of his,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whase only faut is loving thee?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If love for love thou wilt na gie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At least be pity to me shown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A thought ungentle canna be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The thought o' Mary Morison.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CLXXXIX" id="CLXXXIX"></a>CLXXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>BONNIE LESLEY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O saw ye bonnie Lesley<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As she gaed o'er the border?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She's gane, like Alexander,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To spread her conquests farther.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To see her is to love her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And love but her for ever;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Nature made her what she is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And ne'er made sic anither!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy subjects we, before thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The hearts o' men adore thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Deil he could na scaith thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or aught that wad belang thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He'd look into thy bonnie face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And say 'I canna wrang thee!'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Powers aboon will tent thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Misfortune sha' na steer thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Return again, Fair Lesley,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Return to Caledonie!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That we may brag we hae a lass<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There's nane again sae bonnie.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXC" id="CXC"></a>CXC</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O my Luve's like a red, red rose<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's newly sprung in June:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O my Luve's like the melodie<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's sweetly play'd in tune.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So deep in luve am I:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I will luve thee still, my dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Till a' the seas gang dry:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the rocks melt wi' the sun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I will luve thee still, my dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While the sands o' life shall run.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And fare thee weel, my only Luve!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And fare thee weel awhile!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I will come again, my Luve,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Tho' it were ten thousand mile.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXCI" id="CXCI"></a>CXCI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HIGHLAND MARY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ye banks and braes and streams around<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The castle o' Montgomery,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Your waters never drumlie!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span><span class="i0">There simmer first unfauld her robes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And there the langest tarry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For there I took the last fareweel<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O' my sweet Highland Mary.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How rich the hawthorn's blossom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As underneath their fragrant shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I clasp'd her to my bosom!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The golden hours on angel wings<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Flew o'er me and my dearie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For dear to me as light and life<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was my sweet Highland Mary.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our parting was fu' tender;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pledging aft to meet again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We tore oursels asunder;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That nipt my flower sae early!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That wraps my Highland Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And closed for aye the sparkling glance<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That dwelt on me sae kindly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mouldering now in silent dust<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That heart that lo'ed me dearly!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But still within my bosom's core<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall live my Highland Mary.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXCII" id="CXCII"></a>CXCII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>AULD ROBIN GRAY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a hame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a' the warld to rest are gane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While my gudeman lies sound by me.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But saving a croun he had naething else beside:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the croun and the pund were baith for me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His ship it was a wrack&mdash;why didna Jamie dee?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I hadna been a wife a week but only four,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And why was I born to say, Wae's me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lady A. Lindsay.</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXCIII" id="CXCIII"></a>CXCIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>DUNCAN GRAY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Duncan Gray cam here to woo,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ha, ha, the wooing o't;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On blythe Yule night when we were fou,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ha, ha, the wooing o't:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Maggie coost her head fu' high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ha, ha, the wooing o't!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spak o' lowpin ower a linn!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Time and chance are but a tide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slighted love is sair to bide;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a haughty hizzie dee?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She may gae to&mdash;France for me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How it comes let doctors tell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Meg grew sick&mdash;as he grew well;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Something in her bosom wrings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For relief a sigh she brings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And O, her een, they spak sic things!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Duncan was a lad o' grace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Maggie's was a piteous case;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Duncan couldna be her death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now they're crouse and canty baith:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ha, ha, the wooing o't!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXCIV" id="CXCIV"></a>CXCIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE SAILOR'S WIFE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And are ye sure the news is true?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And are ye sure he's weel?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is this a time to think o' wark?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ye jades, lay by your wheel;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is this the time to spin a thread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When Colin's at the door?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And see him come ashore.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For there's nae luck about the house,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There's nae luck at a';<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's little pleasure in the house<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When our gudeman's awa'.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And gie to me my bigonet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My bishop's satin gown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I maun tell the baillie's wife<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That Colin's in the town.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My Turkey slippers maun gae on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My stockins pearly blue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For he's baith leal and true.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Put on the muckle pot;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gie little Kate her button gown<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Jock his Sunday coat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mak their shoon as black as slaes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their hose as white as snaw;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It's a' to please my ain gudeman,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For he's been long awa.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's twa fat hens upo' the coop<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Been fed this month and mair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mak haste and thraw their necks about,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That Colin weel may fare;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And spread the table neat and clean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gar ilka thing look braw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For wha can tell how Colin fared<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When he was far awa?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His breath like caller air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His very foot has music in't<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As he comes up the stair&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And will I see his face again?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And will I hear him speak?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In troth I'm like to greet!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If Colin's weel, and weel content,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I hae nae mair to crave:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gin I live to keep him sae,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I'm blest aboon the lave:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And will I see his face again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And will I hear him speak?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In troth I'm like to greet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For there's nae luck about the house,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There's nae luck at a';<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's little pleasure in the house<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When our gudeman's awa'.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. J. Mickle</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXCV" id="CXCV"></a>CXCV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ABSENCE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I think on the happy days<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I spent wi' you, my dearie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now what lands between us lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How can I be but eerie!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As ye were wae and weary!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was na sae ye glinted by<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When I was wi' my dearie.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Anon.</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXCVI" id="CXCVI"></a>CXCVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>JEAN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of a' the airts the wind can blaw<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I dearly like the West,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For there the bonnie lassie lives,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The lassie I lo'e best:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There wild woods grow, and rivers row,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And mony a hill between;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But day and night my fancy's flight<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Is ever wi' my Jean.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I see her in the dewy flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I see her sweet and fair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear her in the tunefu' birds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I hear her charm the air:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's not a bonnie flower that springs<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By fountain, shaw, or green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's not a bonnie bird that sings<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But minds me o' my Jean.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Amang the leafy trees;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Bring hame the laden bees;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bring the lassie back to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That's aye sae neat and clean;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ae smile o' her wad banish care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sae charming is my Jean.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What sighs and vows amang the knowes<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hae pass'd atween us twa!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How fond to meet, how wae to part<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That night she gaed awa!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Powers aboon can only ken<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To whom the heart is seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That nane can be sae dear to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As my sweet lovely Jean!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CXCVII" id="CXCVII"></a>CXCVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>JOHN ANDERSON</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">John Anderson my jo, John,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we were first acquent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your locks were like the raven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your bonnie brow was brent;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now your brow is bald, John,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your locks are like the snow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But blessings on your frosty pow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">John Anderson my jo.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">John Anderson my jo, John,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We clamb the hill thegither,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mony a canty day, John,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We've had wi' ane anither:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now we maun totter down, John,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But hand in hand we'll go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sleep thegither at the foot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">John Anderson my jo.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Burns</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXCVIII" id="CXCVIII"></a>CXCVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE LAND O' THE LEAL</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I'm wearing awa', Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'm wearing awa'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To the land o' the leal.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's nae sorrow there, Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The day is aye fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the land o' the leal.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your task's ended noo, Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I'll welcome you<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To the land o' the leal.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span><span class="i0">Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She was baith guid and fair, Jean;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O we grudged her right sair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To the land o' the leal!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My soul langs to be free, Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And angels wait on me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To the land o' the leal.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This warld's care is vain, Jean;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll meet and aye be fain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the land o' the leal.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lady Nairn</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CXCIX" id="CXCIX"></a>CXCIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ye distant spires, ye antique towers<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That crown the watery glade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where grateful Science still adores<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her Henry's holy shade;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And ye, that from the stately brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wanders the hoary Thames along<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His silver-winding way:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ah fields beloved in vain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where once my careless childhood stray'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A stranger yet to pain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I feel the gales that from ye blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A momentary bliss bestow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As waving fresh their gladsome wing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My weary soul they seem to soothe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, redolent of joy and youth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To breathe a second spring.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Full many a sprightly race<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Disporting on thy margent green<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The paths of pleasure trace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who foremost now delight to cleave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The captive linnet which enthral?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What idle progeny succeed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To chase the rolling circle's speed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or urge the flying ball?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">While some on earnest business bent<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their murmuring labours ply<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To sweeten liberty:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some bold adventurers disdain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The limits of their little reign<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And unknown regions dare descry:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still as they run they look behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They hear a voice in every wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And snatch a fearful joy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Less pleasing when possest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tear forgot as soon as shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sunshine of the breast:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wild wit, invention ever new,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And lively cheer, of vigour born;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The thoughtless day, the easy night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The spirits pure, the slumbers light<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That fly th' approach of morn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Alas! regardless of their doom<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The little victims play;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No sense have they of ills to come<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor care beyond to-day:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet see how all around 'em wait<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The ministers of human fate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And black Misfortune's baleful train!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ah show them where in ambush stand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To seize their prey, the murderous band!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ah, tell them they are men!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">These shall the fury Passions tear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The vultures of the mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Shame that sculks behind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or pining Love shall waste their youth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or Jealousy with rankling tooth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That inly gnaws the secret heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Envy wan, and faded Care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Sorrow's piercing dart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ambition this shall tempt to rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then whirl the wretch from high<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To bitter Scorn a sacrifice<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And grinning Infamy.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stings of Falsehood those shall try<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That mocks the tear it forced to flow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And keen Remorse with blood defiled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And moody Madness laughing wild<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Amid severest woe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lo, in the vale of years beneath<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A griesly troop are seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The painful family of Death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">More hideous than their queen:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This racks the joints, this fires the veins,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That every labouring sinew strains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those in the deeper vitals rage:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That numbs the soul with icy hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And slow-consuming Age.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To each his sufferings: all are men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Condemn'd alike to groan;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tender for another's pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Th' unfeeling for his own.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since sorrow never comes too late,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And happiness too swiftly flies?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thought would destroy their paradise.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more;&mdash;where ignorance is bliss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Tis folly to be wise.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Gray</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CC" id="CC"></a>CC</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE SHRUBBERY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O happy shades! to me unblest!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Friendly to peace, but not to me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How ill the scene that offers rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And heart that cannot rest, agree!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This glassy stream, that spreading pine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Those alders quivering to the breeze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And please, if anything could please.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But fix'd unalterable Care<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Foregoes not what she feels within,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shows the same sadness everywhere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And slights the season and the scene.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For all that pleased in wood or lawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While Peace possess'd these silent bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her animating smile withdrawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Has lost its beauties and its powers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The saint or moralist should tread<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">This moss-grown alley, musing, slow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They seek like me the secret shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But not, like me, to nourish woe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Alike admonish not to roam;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These tell me of enjoyments past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And those of sorrows yet to come.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Cowper</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCI" id="CCI"></a>CCI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HYMN TO ADVERSITY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Daughter of Jove, relentless power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thou tamer of the human breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose iron scourge and torturing hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The bad affright, afflict the best!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Bound in thy adamantine chain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The proud are taught to taste of pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And purple tyrants vainly groan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">When first thy Sire to send on earth<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Virtue, his darling child, design'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To thee he gave the heavenly birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And bade to form her infant mind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With patience many a year she bore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Scared at thy frown terrific, fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And leave us leisure to be good.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Light they disperse, and with them go<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The summer friend, the flattering foe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By vain Prosperity received,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Wisdom in sable garb array'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Immersed in rapturous thought profound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Melancholy, silent maid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With leaden eye, that loves the ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Still on thy solemn steps attend:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Warm Charity, the general friend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With Justice, to herself severe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Nor circled with the vengeful band<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">(As by the impious thou art seen)<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With thundering voice, and threatening mien,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With screaming Horror's funeral cry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy milder influence impart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy philosophic train be there<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To soften, not to wound my heart.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The generous spark extinct revive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Teach me to love and to forgive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Exact my own defects to scan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Gray</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCII" id="CCII"></a>CCII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE SOLITUDE OF<br />
+ALEXANDER SELKIRK</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I am monarch of all I survey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My right there is none to dispute;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the centre all round to the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I am lord of the fowl and the brute.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Solitude! where are the charms<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That sages have seen in thy face?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Better dwell in the midst of alarms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than reign in this horrible place.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I am out of humanity's reach,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I must finish my journey alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never hear the sweet music of speech;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I start at the sound of my own.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The beasts that roam over the plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My form with indifference see;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They are so unacquainted with man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their tameness is shocking to me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Society, Friendship, and Love<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Divinely bestow'd upon man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, had I the wings of a dove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How soon would I taste you again!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My sorrows I then might assuage<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the ways of religion and truth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Might learn from the wisdom of age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ye winds that have made me your sport,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Convey to this desolate shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some cordial endearing report<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a land I shall visit no more:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My friends, do they now and then send<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A wish or a thought after me?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O tell me I yet have a friend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though a friend I am never to see.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How fleet is a glance of the mind!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Compared with the speed of its flight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tempest itself lags behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the swift-wing&eacute;d arrows of light.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I think of my own native land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a moment I seem to be there;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But alas! recollection at hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soon hurries me back to despair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The beast is laid down in his lair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even here is a season of rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I to my cabin repair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's mercy in every place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mercy, encouraging thought!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gives even affliction a grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And reconciles man to his lot.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Cowper</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCIII" id="CCIII"></a>CCIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO MARY UNWIN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And undebased by praise of meaner things,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That ere through age or woe I shed my wings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I may record thy worth with honour due,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In verse as musical as thou art true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that immortalizes whom it sings:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But thou hast little need. There is a Book<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On which the eyes of God not rarely look,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A chronicle of actions just and bright&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Cowper</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCIV" id="CCIV"></a>CCIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE SAME</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The twentieth year is well-nigh past<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since first our sky was overcast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ah would that this might be the last!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy spirits have a fainter flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I see thee daily weaker grow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas my distress that brought thee low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy needles, once a shining store,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For my sake restless heretofore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now rust disused, and shine no more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The same kind office for me still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy sight now seconds not thy will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all thy threads with magic art<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have wound themselves about this heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy indistinct expressions seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like language utter'd in a dream;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are still more lovely in my sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than golden beams of orient light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For could I view nor them nor thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What sight worth seeing could I see?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun would rise in vain for me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Partakers of thy sad decline<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy hands their little force resign;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That now at every step thou mov'st<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And still to love, though prest with ill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In wintry age to feel no chill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With me is to be lovely still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But ah! by constant heed I know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How oft the sadness that I show<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And should my future lot be cast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With much resemblance of the past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy worn-out heart will break at last&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My Mary!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Cowper</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCV" id="CCV"></a>CCV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE CASTAWAY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Obscurest night involved the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Atlantic billows roar'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When such a destined wretch as I,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wash'd headlong from on board,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His floating home for ever left.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No braver chief could Albion boast<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than he with whom he went,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor ever ship left Albion's coast<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With warmer wishes sent.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He loved them both, but both in vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor him beheld, nor her again.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not long beneath the whelming brine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Expert to swim, he lay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor soon he felt his strength decline,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or courage die away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But waged with death a lasting strife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Supported by despair of life.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To check the vessel's course,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But so the furious blast prevail'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That, pitiless perforce,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They left their outcast mate behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And scudded still before the wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Some succour yet they could afford;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And such as storms allow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cask, the coop, the floated cord,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Delay'd not to bestow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whate'er they gave, should visit more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their haste himself condemn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Aware that flight, in such a sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Alone could rescue them;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet bitter felt it still to die<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deserted, and his friends so nigh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He long survives, who lives an hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In ocean, self-upheld;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And so long he, with unspent power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His destiny repell'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And ever, as the minutes flew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At length, his transient respite past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His comrades, who before<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had heard his voice in every blast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Could catch the sound no more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For then, by toil subdued, he drank<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stifling wave, and then he sank.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No poet wept him; but the page<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of narrative sincere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That tells his name, his worth, his age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Is wet with Anson's tear:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tears by bards or heroes shed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alike immortalize the dead.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I therefore purpose not, or dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Descanting on his fate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To give the melancholy theme<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A more enduring date:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But misery still delights to trace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its semblance in another's case.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No voice divine the storm allay'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No light propitious shone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We perish'd, each alone:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I beneath a rougher sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Cowper</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCVI" id="CCVI"></a>CCVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TOMORROW</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">May my fate no less fortunate be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While I carol away idle sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As the sunshine or rain may prevail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With a barn for the use of the flail:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Secured by a neighbouring hill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the sound of a murmuring rill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And while peace and plenty I find at my board,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With my friends may I share what Today may afford,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And let them spread the table Tomorrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">May become Everlasting Tomorrow.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Collins</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCVII" id="CCVII"></a>CCVII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Life! I know not what thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But know that thou and I must part;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when, or how, or where we met<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I own to me's a secret yet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Life! we've been long together<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis hard to part when friends are dear&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Then steal away, give little warning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Choose thine own time;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say not Good Night,&mdash;but in some brighter clime<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Bid me Good Morning.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. L. Barbauld</i></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="BOOK_IV" id="BOOK_IV"></a>The Golden Treasury</h2>
+
+<h2>Book Fourth</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="CCVIII" id="CCVIII"></a>CCVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE MUSES</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whether on Ida's shady brow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or in the chambers of the East,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The chambers of the sun, that now<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From ancient melody have ceased;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or the green corners of the earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or the blue regions of the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where the melodious winds have birth;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whether on crystal rocks ye rove<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Beneath the bosom of the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wandering in many a coral grove,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How have you left the ancient love<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That bards of old enjoy'd in you!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The languid strings do scarcely move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sound is forced, the notes are few.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Blake</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCIX" id="CCIX"></a>CCIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE ON THE POETS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bards of Passion and of Mirth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye have left your souls on earth!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have ye souls in heaven too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Double-lived in regions new?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Yes, and those of heaven commune<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the spheres of sun and moon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the noise of fountains wond'rous<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the parle of voices thund'rous;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the whisper of heaven's trees<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And one another, in soft ease<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seated on Elysian lawns<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Underneath large blue-bells tented,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the daisies are rose-scented,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the rose herself has got<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perfume which on earth is not;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the nightingale doth sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not a senseless, tranc&eacute;d thing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But divine melodious truth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Philosophic numbers smooth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tales and golden histories<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of heaven and its mysteries.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Thus ye live on high, and then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the earth ye live again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the souls ye left behind you<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Teach us, here, the way to find you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where your other souls are joying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never slumber'd, never cloying.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here, your earth-born souls still speak<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To mortals, of their little week;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of their sorrows and delights;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of their passions and their spites;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of their glory and their shame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What doth strengthen and what maim:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thus ye teach us, every day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wisdom, though fled far away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Bards of Passion and of Mirth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye have left your souls on earth!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye have souls in heaven too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Double-lived in regions new!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCX" id="CCX"></a>CCX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round many western islands have I been<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oft of one wide expanse had I been told<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet did I never breathe its pure serene<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Then felt I like some watcher of the skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When a new planet swims into his ken;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He stared at the Pacific&mdash;and all his men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Look'd at each other with a wild surmise&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Silent, upon a peak in Darien.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXI" id="CCXI"></a>CCXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All thoughts, all passions, all delights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whatever stirs this mortal frame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All are but ministers of Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And feed his sacred flame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oft in my waking dreams do I<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Live o'er again that happy hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When midway on the mount I lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Beside the ruin'd tower.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The moonshine stealing o'er the scene<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had blended with the lights of eve;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she was there, my hope, my joy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My own dear Genevieve!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She lean'd against the arm&eacute;d man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The statue of the arm&eacute;d knight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She stood and listen'd to my lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Amid the lingering light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Few sorrows hath she of her own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She loves me best, whene'er I sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The songs that make her grieve.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I play'd a soft and doleful air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sang an old and moving story&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An old rude song, that suited well<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That ruin wild and hoary.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She listen'd with a flitting blush,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With downcast eyes and modest grace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For well she knew, I could not choose<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But gaze upon her face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I told her of the Knight that wore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his shield a burning brand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that for ten long years he woo'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Lady of the Land.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I told her how he pined: and ah!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The deep, the low, the pleading tone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With which I sang another's love<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Interpreted my own.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She listen'd with a flitting blush,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With downcast eyes, and modest grace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she forgave me, that I gazed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Too fondly on her face!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But when I told the cruel scorn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor rested day nor night;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That sometimes from the savage den,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sometimes from the darksome shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sometimes starting up at once<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In green and sunny glade,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There came and look'd him in the face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An angel beautiful and bright;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that he knew it was a Fiend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">This miserable Knight!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And that unknowing what he did,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He leap'd amid a murderous band,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And saved from outrage worse than death<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Lady of the Land;&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And how she tended him in vain&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And ever strove to expiate<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The scorn that crazed his brain;&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And that she nursed him in a cave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And how his madness went away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When on the yellow forest-leaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A dying man he lay;&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His dying words&mdash;but when I reach'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That tenderest strain of all the ditty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My faltering voice and pausing harp<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Disturb'd her soul with pity!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All impulses of soul and sense<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The music and the doleful tale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The rich and balmy eve;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An undistinguishable throng,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gentle wishes long subdued,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Subdued and cherish'd long!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She wept with pity and delight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And like the murmur of a dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I heard her breathe my name.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her bosom heaved&mdash;she stepp'd aside,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As conscious of my look she stept&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then suddenly, with timorous eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She fled to me and wept.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She half inclosed me with her arms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She press'd me with a meek embrace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bending back her head, look'd up,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And gazed upon my face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Twas partly love, and partly fear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And partly 'twas a bashful art<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I might rather feel, than see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The swelling of her heart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And told her love with virgin pride;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And so I won my Genevieve,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My bright and beauteous Bride.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>S. T. Coleridge</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXII" id="CCXII"></a>CCXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ALL FOR LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O talk not to me of a name great in story;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The days of our youth are the days of our glory;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then away with all such from the head that is hoary&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh Fame!&mdash;if I e'er took delight in thy praises,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lord Byron</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXIII" id="CCXIII"></a>CCXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE OUTLAW</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Brignall banks are wild and fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Greta woods are green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you may gather garlands there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Would grace a summer-queen.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And as I rode by Dalton-Hall<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Beneath the turrets high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A Maiden on the castle-wall<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was singing merrily:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Greta woods are green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'd rather rove with Edmund there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than reign our English queen.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To leave both tower and town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou first must guess what life lead we<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That dwell by dale and down.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And if thou canst that riddle read,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As read full well you may,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As blithe as Queen of May.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Greta woods are green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'd rather rove with Edmund there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than reign our English queen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I read you, by your bugle-horn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And by your palfrey good,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I read you for a ranger sworn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To keep the king's greenwood.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And 'tis at peep of light;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His blast is heard at merry morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And mine at dead of night.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Greta woods are gay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I would I were with Edmund there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To reign his Queen of May!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'With burnish'd brand and musketoon<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So gallantly you come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I read you for a bold Dragoon<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That lists the tuck of drum.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'I list no more the tuck of drum,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No more the trumpet hear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when the beetle sounds his hum<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My comrades take the spear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And O! though Brignall banks be fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Greta woods be gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet mickle must the maiden dare<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Would reign my Queen of May!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A nameless death I'll die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fiend whose lantern lights the mead<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Were better mate than I!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when I'm with my comrades met<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Beneath the greenwood bough,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What once we were we all forget,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor think what we are now.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Chorus</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Greta woods are green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you may gather garlands there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Would grace a summer-queen.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXIV" id="CCXIV"></a>CCXIV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There be none of Beauty's daughters<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With a magic like Thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And like music on the waters<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Is thy sweet voice to me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When, as if its sound were causing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The charmed ocean's pausing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The waves lie still and gleaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And the midnight moon is weaving<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her bright chain o'er the deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose breast is gently heaving<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As an infant's asleep:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So the spirit bows before thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To listen and adore thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a full but soft emotion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the swell of Summer's ocean.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lord Byron</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXV" id="CCXV"></a>CCXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE INDIAN SERENADE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I arise from dreams of Thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the first sweet sleep of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the winds are breathing low<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the stars are shining bright:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I arise from dreams of thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a spirit in my feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath led me&mdash;who knows how?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To thy chamber-window, Sweet!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The wandering airs they faint<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the dark, the silent stream&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The champak odours fail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like sweet thoughts in a dream;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The nightingale's complaint<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It dies upon her heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As I must die on thine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O belov&eacute;d as thou art!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh lift me from the grass!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I die, I faint, I fail!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let thy love in kisses rain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On my lips and eyelids pale.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My cheek is cold and white, alas!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart beats loud and fast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! press it close to thine again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where it will break at last.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXVI" id="CCXVI"></a>CCXVI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She walks in beauty, like the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of cloudless climes and starry skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all that's best of dark and bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Meet in her aspect and her eyes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thus mellow'd to that tender light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which heaven to gaudy day denies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">One shade the more, one ray the less,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had half impair'd the nameless grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which waves in every raven tress<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or softly lightens o'er her face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where thoughts serenely sweet express<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And on that cheek and o'er that brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The smiles that win, the tints that glow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But tell of days in goodness spent,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A mind at peace with all below,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A heart whose love is innocent.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lord Byron</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXVII" id="CCXVII"></a>CCXVII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She was a Phantom of delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When first she gleam'd upon my sight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lovely Apparition, sent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To be a moment's ornament;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But all things else about her drawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From May-time and the cheerful dawn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dancing shape, an image gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To haunt, to startle, and waylay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw her upon nearer view,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A Spirit, yet a Woman too!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her household motions light and free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And steps of virgin-liberty;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span><span class="i0">A countenance in which did meet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet records, promises as sweet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A creature not too bright or good<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For human nature's daily food,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For transient sorrows, simple wiles,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And now I see with eye serene<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The very pulse of the machine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A being breathing thoughtful breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A traveller between life and death:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The reason firm, the temperate will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To warn, to comfort, and command;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet a Spirit still, and bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With something of an angel-light.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXVIII" id="CCXVIII"></a>CCXVIII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She is not fair to outward view<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As many maidens be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her loveliness I never knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Until she smiled on me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O then I saw her eye was bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A well of love, a spring of light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But now her looks are coy and cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To mine they ne'er reply,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet I cease not to behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The love-light in her eye:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her very frowns are fairer far<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than smiles of other maidens are.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>H. Coleridge</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXIX" id="CCXIX"></a>CCXIX</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou needest not fear mine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My spirit is too deeply laden<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ever to burthen thine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou needest not fear mine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Innocent is the heart's devotion<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With which I worship thine.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXX" id="CCXX"></a>CCXX</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She dwelt among the untrodden ways<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Beside the springs of Dove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A maid whom there were none to praise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And very few to love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A violet by a mossy stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Half-hidden from the eye!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Fair as a star, when only one<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Is shining in the sky.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She lived unknown, and few could know<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When Lucy ceased to be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But she is in her grave, and, oh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The difference to me!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXI" id="CCXXI"></a>CCXXI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I travell'd among unknown men<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In lands beyond the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor, England! did I know till then<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What love I bore to thee.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis past, that melancholy dream!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor will I quit thy shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A second time; for still I seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To love thee more and more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Among thy mountains did I feel<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The joy of my desire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Beside an English fire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The bowers where Lucy play'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thine too is the last green field<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That Lucy's eyes survey'd.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXII" id="CCXXII"></a>CCXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE EDUCATION OF NATURE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Three years she grew in sun and shower;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On earth was never sown:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This Child I to myself will take;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She shall be mine, and I will make<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lady of my own.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Myself will to my darling be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Both law and impulse: and with me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The girl, in rock and plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall feel an overseeing power<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To kindle or restrain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'She shall be sportive as the fawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That wild with glee across the lawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or up the mountain springs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her's shall be the breathing balm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her's the silence and the calm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of mute insensate things.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The floating clouds their state shall lend<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To her; for her the willow bend;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor shall she fail to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ev'n in the motions of the storm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grace that shall mould the maiden's form<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By silent sympathy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The stars of midnight shall be dear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To her; and she shall lean her ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In many a secret place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where rivulets dance their wayward round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And beauty born of murmuring sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall pass into her face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And vital feelings of delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall rear her form to stately height,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her virgin bosom swell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such thoughts to Lucy I will give<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While she and I together live<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here in this happy dell.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thus Nature spake&mdash;The work was done&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How soon my Lucy's race was run!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She died, and left to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This heath, this calm and quiet scene;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The memory of what has been,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never more will be.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXIII" id="CCXXIII"></a>CCXXIII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A slumber did my spirit seal;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I had no human fears:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She seem'd a thing that could not feel<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The touch of earthly years.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No motion has she now, no force;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She neither hears nor sees;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With rocks, and stones, and trees.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXXIV" id="CCXXIV"></a>CCXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A LOST LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy thrilling voice I hear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And former hours and scenes retrace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Too fleeting, and too dear!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though none is nigh to share;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And life has nought beside for me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So sweet as this despair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There are crush'd hearts that will not break;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And mine, methinks, is one;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or thus I should not weep and wake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And thou to slumber gone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I little thought it thus could be<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In days more sad and fair&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That earth could have a place for me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And thou no longer there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet death cannot our hearts divide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or make thee less my own:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than watching here alone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet never, never can we part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While Memory holds her reign:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Till we shall meet again.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>H. F. Lyte</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXV" id="CCXXV"></a>CCXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A Chieftain to the Highlands bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cries 'Boatman, do not tarry!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I'll give thee a silver pound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To row us o'er the ferry!'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This dark and stormy water?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And fast before her father's men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Three days we've fled together,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For should he find us in the glen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My blood would stain the heather.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'His horsemen hard behind us ride&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Should they our steps discover,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then who will cheer my bonny bride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When they have slain her lover?'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is not for your silver bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But for your winsome lady:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And by my word! the bonny bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In danger shall not tarry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So though the waves are raging white<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll row you o'er the ferry.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By this the storm grew loud apace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The water-wraith was shrieking;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in the scowl of Heaven each face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Grew dark as they were speaking.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But still as wilder blew the wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And as the night grew drearer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adown the glen rode arm&eacute;d men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their trampling sounded nearer.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Though tempests round us gather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll meet the raging of the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But not an angry father.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The boat has left a stormy land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stormy sea before her,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When, oh! too strong for human hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tempest gather'd o'er her.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And still they row'd amidst the roar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of waters fast prevailing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His wrath was changed to wailing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His child he did discover:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And one was round her lover.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Across this stormy water:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I'll forgive your Highland chief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My daughter!&mdash;Oh, my daughter!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Return or aid preventing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The waters wild went o'er his child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he was left lamenting.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXVI" id="CCXXVI"></a>CCXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LUCY GRAY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when I cross'd the wild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I chanced to see at break of day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The solitary child.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She dwelt on a wide moor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sweetest thing that ever grew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside a human door!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">You yet may spy the fawn at play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hare upon the green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the sweet face of Lucy Gray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will never more be seen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'To-night will be a stormy night&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You to the town must go;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And take a lantern, Child, to light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your mother through the snow.'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'That, Father! will I gladly do:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis scarcely afternoon&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The minster-clock has just struck two,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yonder is the moon!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At this the father raised his hook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And snapp'd a faggot-band;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He plied his work;&mdash;and Lucy took<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lantern in her hand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not blither is the mountain roe:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With many a wanton stroke<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her feet disperse the powdery snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That rises up like smoke.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The storm came on before its time:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She wander'd up and down;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many a hill did Lucy climb:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But never reach'd the town.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The wretched parents all that night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Went shouting far and wide;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But there was neither sound nor sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To serve them for a guide.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At day-break on a hill they stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That overlook'd the moor;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thence they saw the bridge of wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A furlong from their door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They wept&mdash;and, turning homeward, cried<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'In heaven we all shall meet!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;When in the snow the mother spied<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The print of Lucy's feet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then downwards from the steep hill's edge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They track'd the footmarks small;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And through the broken hawthorn hedge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And by the long stone-wall:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And then an open field they cross'd:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The marks were still the same;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They track'd them on, nor ever lost;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to the bridge they came:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They follow'd from the snowy bank<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those footmarks, one by one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into the middle of the plank;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And further there were none!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Yet some maintain that to this day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She is a living child;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That you may see sweet Lucy Gray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the lonesome wild.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O'er rough and smooth she trips along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never looks behind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sings a solitary song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That whistles in the wind.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXVII" id="CCXXVII"></a>CCXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>JOCK OF HAZELDEAN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Why weep ye by the tide?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll wed ye to my youngest son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And ye sall be his bride:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And ye sall be his bride, ladie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sae comely to be seen'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But aye she loot the tears down fa'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For Jock of Hazeldean.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And dry that cheek so pale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Young Frank is chief of Errington<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And lord of Langley-dale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His step is first in peaceful ha',<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His sword in battle keen'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But aye she loot the tears down fa'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For Jock of Hazeldean.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor braid to bind your hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor palfrey fresh and fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span><span class="i0">And you the foremost o' them a'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall ride our forest-queen'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But aye she loot the tears down fa'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For Jock of Hazeldean.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The tapers glimmer'd fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And dame and knight are there:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They sought her baith by bower and ha';<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The ladie was not seen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She's o'er the Border, and awa'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXVIII" id="CCXXVIII"></a>CCXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The fountains mingle with the river<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the rivers with the ocean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The winds of heaven mix for ever<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a sweet emotion;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nothing in the world is single,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All things by a law divine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In one another's being mingle&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why not I with thine?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">See the mountains kiss high heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the waves clasp one another;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No sister-flower would be forgiven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If it disdain'd its brother:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the sunlight clasps the earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the moonbeams kiss the sea&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What are all these kissings worth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If thou kiss not me?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXXIX" id="CCXXIX"></a>CCXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ECHOES</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How sweet the answer Echo makes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Music at night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And far away o'er lawns and lakes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Goes answering light!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet Love hath echoes truer far<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And far more sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of horn or lute or soft guitar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The songs repeat.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis when the sigh,&mdash;in youth sincere<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And only then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sigh that's breathed for one to hear&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is by that one, that only Dear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breathed back again.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Moore</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXX" id="CCXXX"></a>CCXXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A SERENADE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sun has left the lea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The orange-flower perfumes the bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The breeze is on the sea.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sits hush'd his partner nigh;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But where is County Guy?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The village maid steals through the shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her shepherd's suit to hear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To Beauty shy, by lattice high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sings high-born Cavalier.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span><span class="i0">The star of Love, all stars above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Now reigns o'er earth and sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And high and low the influence know&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But where is County Guy?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXXI" id="CCXXXI"></a>CCXXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE EVENING STAR</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Companion of retiring day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why at the closing gates of heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beloved Star, dost thou delay?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So fair thy pensile beauty burns<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When soft the tear of twilight flows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So due thy plighted love returns<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To chambers brighter than the rose;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So kind a star thou seem'st to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sure some enamour'd orb above<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Descends and burns to meet with thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thine is the breathing, blushing hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all unheavenly passions fly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chased by the soul-subduing power<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Love's delicious witchery.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O! sacred to the fall of day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Queen of propitious stars, appear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And early rise, and long delay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Caroline herself is here!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Shine on her chosen green resort<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose trees the sunward summit crown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wanton flowers, that well may court<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An angel's feet to tread them down:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Shine on her sweetly scented road<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou star of evening's purple dome,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That lead'st the nightingale abroad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Embalms the soft exhaling dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where dying winds a sigh bequeath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her silken tresses darkly flow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fall upon her brow so fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like shadows on the mountain snow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thus, ever thus, at day's decline<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In converse sweet to wander far&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O bring with thee my Caroline,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXXII" id="CCXXXII"></a>CCXXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE NIGHT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Swiftly walk over the western wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Spirit of Night!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the misty eastern cave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where, all the long and lone daylight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which make thee terrible and dear,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Swift be thy flight!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wrap thy form in a mantle gray<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Star-inwrought;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kiss her until she be wearied out:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then wander o'er city and sea and land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Touching all with thine opiate wand&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Come, long-sought!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I arose and saw the dawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">I sigh'd for thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When light rode high, and the dew was gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the weary Day turn'd to his rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lingering like an unloved guest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">I sigh'd for thee.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy brother Death came, and cried<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Wouldst thou me?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall I nestle near thy side?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wouldst thou me?&mdash;And I replied<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">No, not thee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Death will come when thou art dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Soon, too soon&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleep will come when thou art fled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of neither would I ask the boon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I ask of thee, belov&eacute;d Night&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swift be thine approaching flight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Come soon, soon!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXXIII" id="CCXXXIII"></a>CCXXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO A DISTANT FRIEND</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of absence withers what was once so fair?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bound to thy service with unceasing care&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mind's least generous wish a mendicant<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For nought but what thy happiness could spare.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Speak!&mdash;though this soft warm heart, once free to hold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be left more desolate, more dreary cold<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXXXIV" id="CCXXXIV"></a>CCXXXIV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When we two parted<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In silence and tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Half broken-hearted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To sever for years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pale grew thy cheek and cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Colder thy kiss;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Truly that hour foretold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sorrow to this!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The dew of the morning<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sunk chill on my brow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It felt like the warning<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of what I feel now.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy vows are all broken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And light is thy fame:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear thy name spoken<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And share in its shame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They name thee before me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A knell to mine ear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A shudder comes o'er me&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why wert thou so dear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They know not I knew thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who knew thee too well:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long, long shall I rue thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too deeply to tell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In secret we met:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In silence I grieve<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That thy heart could forget,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy spirit deceive.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If I should meet thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">After long years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How should I greet thee?&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With silence and tears.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lord Byron</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXXXV" id="CCXXXV"></a>CCXXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HAPPY INSENSIBILITY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In a drear-nighted December,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too happy, happy tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy branches ne'er remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their green felicity:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The north cannot undo them<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a sleety whistle through them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor frozen thawings glue them<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From budding at the prime.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In a drear-nighted December,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too happy, happy brook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy bubblings ne'er remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Apollo's summer look;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But with a sweet forgetting<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They stay their crystal fretting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never, never petting<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">About the frozen time.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah! would 'twere so with many<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A gentle girl and boy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But were there ever any<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Writhed not at pass&eacute;d joy?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To know the change and feel it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When there is none to heal it<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor numb&eacute;d sense to steal it&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was never said in rhyme.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXXVI" id="CCXXXVI"></a>CCXXXVI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where shall the lover rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whom the fates sever<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From his true maiden's breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Parted for ever?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span><span class="i0">Where, through groves deep and high<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sounds the far billow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where early violets die<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Under the willow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>Eleu loro</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Soft shall be his pillow.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There through the summer day<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Cool streams are laving:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There, while the tempests sway,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Scarce are boughs waving;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There thy rest shalt thou take,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Parted for ever,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never again to wake<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Never, O never!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>Eleu loro</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Never, O never!</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where shall the traitor rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He, the deceiver,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who could win maiden's breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ruin, and leave her?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the lost battle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Borne down by the flying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where mingles war's rattle<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With groans of the dying;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>Eleu loro</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>There shall he be lying.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her wing shall the eagle flap<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O'er the falsehearted;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His warm blood the wolf shall lap<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ere life be parted:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shame and dishonour sit<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By his grave ever;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blessing shall hallow it<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Never, O never!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4"><i>Eleu loro</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>Never, O never!</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXXXVII" id="CCXXXVII"></a>CCXXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Alone and palely loitering?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sedge has wither'd from the lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And no birds sing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So haggard and so woe-begone?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The squirrel's granary is full,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the harvest's done.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I see a lily on thy brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With anguish moist and fever-dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on thy cheeks a fading rose<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fast withereth too.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I met a lady in the meads,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Full beautiful&mdash;a faery's child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her hair was long, her foot was light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And her eyes were wild.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I made a garland for her head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She look'd at me as she did love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And made sweet moan.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I set her on my pacing steed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And nothing else saw all day long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For sidelong would she bend, and sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A faery's song.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'She found me roots of relish sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And honey wild and manna-dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sure in language strange she said<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">"I love thee true."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'She took me to her elfin grot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there I shut her wild wild eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With kisses four.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And there she lull&eacute;d me asleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And there I dream'd&mdash;Ah! woe betide!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The latest dream I ever dream'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On the cold hill's side.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I saw pale kings and princes too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They cried&mdash;"La belle Dame sans Merci<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hath thee in thrall!"<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I saw their starved lips in the gloam<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With horrid warning gap&eacute;d wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I awoke and found me here<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On the cold hill's side.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And this is why I sojourn here<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Alone and palely loitering,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And no birds sing.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXXVIII" id="CCXXXVIII"></a>CCXXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE ROVER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A weary lot is thine, fair maid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A weary lot is thine!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And press the rue for wine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A feather of the blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A doublet of the Lincoln green&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No more of me you knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">My Love!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more of me you knew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'This morn is merry June, I trow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The rose is budding fain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But she shall bloom in winter snow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ere we two meet again.'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span><span class="i0">He turn'd his charger as he spake<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Upon the river shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He gave the bridle-reins a shake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Said 'Adieu for evermore<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">My Love!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And adieu for evermore.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXXXIX" id="CCXXXIX"></a>CCXXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE FLIGHT OF LOVE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When the lamp is shatter'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The light in the dust lies dead&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the cloud is scatter'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rainbow's glory is shed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the lute is broken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet tones are remember'd not;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the lips have spoken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loved accents are soon forgot.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As music and splendour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Survive not the lamp and the lute,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The heart's echoes render<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No song when the spirit is mute&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No song but sad dirges,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or the mournful surges<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That ring the dead seaman's knell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When hearts have once mingled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love first leaves the well-built nest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The weak one is singled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To endure what it once possesst.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Love! who bewailest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The frailty of all things here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why choose you the frailest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For your cradle, your home, and your bier?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Its passions will rock thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the storms rock the ravens on high;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright reason will mock thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the sun from a wintry sky.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From thy nest every rafter<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will rot, and thine eagle home<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leave thee naked to laughter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When leaves fall and cold winds come.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXL" id="CCXL"></a>CCXL</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE MAID OF NEIDPATH</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And lovers' ears in hearing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And love, in life's extremity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Can lend an hour of cheering.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Disease had been in Mary's bower<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And slow decay from mourning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To watch her Love's returning.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her form decay'd by pining,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till through her wasted hand, at night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">You saw the taper shining.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By fits a sultry hectic hue<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Across her cheek was flying;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By fits so ashy pale she grew<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her maidens thought her dying.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet keenest powers to see and hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Seem'd in her frame residing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She heard her lover's riding;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She knew and waved to greet him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And o'er the battlement did bend<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As on the wing to meet him.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He came&mdash;he pass'd&mdash;an heedless gaze<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As o'er some stranger glancing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lost in his courser's prancing&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The castle-arch, whose hollow tone<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Returns each whisper spoken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could scarcely catch the feeble moan<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Which told her heart was broken.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXLI" id="CCXLI"></a>CCXLI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Earl March look'd on his dying child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And, smit with grief to view her&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The youth, he cried, whom I exiled<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall be restored to woo her.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She's at the window many an hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His coming to discover:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he look'd up to Ellen's bower<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And she look'd on her lover&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But ah! so pale, he knew her not,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though her smile on him was dwelling&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And am I then forgot&mdash;forgot?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">It broke the heart of Ellen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her cheek is cold as ashes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To lift their silken lashes.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXLII" id="CCXLII"></a>CCXLII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And watching, with eternal lids apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The moving waters at their priestlike task<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No&mdash;yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And so live ever,&mdash;or else swoon to death.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXLIII" id="CCXLIII"></a>CCXLIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE TERROR OF DEATH</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I have fears that I may cease to be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Before high-pil&eacute;d books, in charact'ry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And think that I may never live to trace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I shall never look upon thee more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never have relish in the faery power<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of unreflecting love&mdash;then on the shore<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of the wide world I stand alone, and think<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Keats</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXLIV" id="CCXLIV"></a>CCXLIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>DESIDERIA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Surprized by joy&mdash;impatient as the wind&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I turn'd to share the transport&mdash;Oh! with whom<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Thee&mdash;deep buried in the silent tomb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That spot which no vicissitude can find?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But how could I forget thee? Through what power<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even for the least division of an hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have I been so beguiled as to be blind<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To my most grievous loss!&mdash;That thought's return<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That neither present time, nor years unborn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXLV" id="CCXLV"></a>CCXLV</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span><span class="i0">I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Moore</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXLVI" id="CCXLVI"></a>CCXLVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ELEGY ON THYRZA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And thou art dead, as young and fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As aught of mortal birth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And forms so soft and charms so rare<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Too soon return'd to Earth!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though Earth received them in her bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And o'er the spot the crowd may tread<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In carelessness or mirth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There is an eye which could not brook<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A moment on that grave to look.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I will not ask where thou liest low<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor gaze upon the spot;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There flowers or weeds at will may grow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So I behold them not:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is enough for me to prove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That what I loved, and long must love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like common earth can rot;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To me there needs no stone to tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet did I love thee to the last,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As fervently as thou<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who didst not change through all the past<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And canst not alter now.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The love where Death has set his seal<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor falsehood disavow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, what were worse, thou canst not see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The better days of life were ours;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The worst can be but mine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall never more be thine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The silence of that dreamless sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I envy now too much to weep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor need I to repine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That all those charms have pass'd away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I might have watch'd through long decay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Must fall the earliest prey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The leaves must drop away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet it were a greater grief<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than see it pluck'd today;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since earthly eye but ill can bear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To trace the change to foul from fair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I know not if I could have borne<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To see thy beauties fade;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The night that follow'd such a morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Had worn a deeper shade:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy day without a cloud hath past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thou wert lovely to the last,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Extinguish'd, not decay'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As stars that shoot along the sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shine brightest as they fall from high.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As once I wept, if I could weep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My tears might well be shed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To think I was not near, to keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">One vigil o'er thy bed:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To fold thee in a faint embrace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Uphold thy drooping head;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And show that love, however vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor thou nor I can feel again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet how much less it were to gain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though thou hast left me free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The loveliest things that still remain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than thus remember thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span><span class="i0">The all of thine that cannot die<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through dark and dread Eternity<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Returns again to me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And more thy buried love endears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than aught except its living years.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lord Byron</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXLVII" id="CCXLVII"></a>CCXLVII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">One word is too often profaned<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For me to profane it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One feeling too falsely disdain'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For thee to disdain it.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One hope is too like despair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For prudence to smother,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pity from thee more dear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than that from another.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I can give not what men call love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But wilt thou accept not<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The worship the heart lifts above<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the Heavens reject not:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The desire of the moth for the star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of the night for the morrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The devotion to something afar<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From the sphere of our sorrow?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXLVIII" id="CCXLVIII"></a>CCXLVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Pibroch of Donuil Dhu<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Pibroch of Donuil<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wake thy wild voice anew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Summon Clan Conuil.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span><span class="i0">Come away, come away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hark to the summons!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come in your war-array,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gentles and commons.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come from deep glen, and<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From mountain so rocky;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The war-pipe and pennon<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Are at Inverlocky.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come every hill-plaid, and<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">True heart that wears one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come every steel blade, and<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Strong hand that bears one.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Leave untended the herd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The flock without shelter;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leave the corpse uninterr'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The bride at the altar;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leave the deer, leave the steer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Leave nets and barges:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come with your fighting gear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Broadswords and targes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come as the winds come, when<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Forests are rended,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come as the waves come, when<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Navies are stranded:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Faster come, faster come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Faster and faster,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chief, vassal, page and groom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Tenant and master.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fast they come, fast they come;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">See how they gather!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wide waves the eagle plume<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Blended with heather.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cast your plaids, draw your blades<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Forward each man set!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pibroch of Donuil Dhu<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Knell for the onset!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXLIX" id="CCXLIX"></a>CCXLIX</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A wet sheet and a flowing sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A wind that follows fast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fills the white and rustling sail<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And bends the gallant mast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bends the gallant mast, my boys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">While like the eagle free<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Away the good ship flies, and leaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Old England on the lee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O for a soft and gentle wind!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I heard a fair one cry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But give to me the snoring breeze<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And white waves heaving high;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And white waves heaving high, my lads,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The good ship tight and free&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world of waters is our home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And merry men are we.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's tempest in yon horn&eacute;d moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And lightning in yon cloud;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But hark the music, mariners!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The wind is piping loud;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wind is piping loud, my boys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The lightning flashes free&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the hollow oak our palace is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our heritage the sea.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>A. Cunningham</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCL" id="CCL"></a>CCL</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ye Mariners of England<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That guard our native seas!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The battle and the breeze!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your glorious standard launch again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To match another foe:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span><span class="i0">And sweep through the deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the stormy winds do blow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the battle rages loud and long<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the stormy winds do blow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The spirits of your fathers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall start from every wave&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the deck it was their field of fame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Ocean was their grave:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your manly hearts shall glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As ye sweep through the deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the stormy winds do blow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the battle rages loud and long<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the stormy winds do blow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Britannia needs no bulwarks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No towers along the steep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her home is on the deep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With thunders from her native oak<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She quells the floods below&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As they roar on the shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the stormy winds do blow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the battle rages loud and long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the stormy winds do blow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The meteor flag of England<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall yet terrific burn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till danger's troubled night depart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the star of peace return.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our song and feast shall flow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the fame of your name,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the storm has ceased to blow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the fiery fight is heard no more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the storm has ceased to blow.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCLI" id="CCLI"></a>CCLI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>BATTLE OF THE BALTIC</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Of Nelson and the North<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sing the glorious day's renown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When to battle fierce came forth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All the might of Denmark's crown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her arms along the deep proudly shone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By each gun the lighted brand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a bold determined hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Prince of all the land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Led them on.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Like leviathans afloat<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lay their bulwarks on the brine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the sign of battle flew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the lofty British line:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was ten of April morn by the chime:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As they drifted on their path<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There was silence deep as death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the boldest held his breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For a time.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But the might of England flush'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To anticipate the scene;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her van the fleeter rush'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er the deadly space between.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From its adamantine lips<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spread a death-shade round the ships,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the hurricane eclipse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Again! again! again!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the havoc did not slack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till a feeble cheer the Dane<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To our cheering sent us back;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their shots along the deep slowly boom:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then ceased&mdash;and all is wail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As they strike the shatter'd sail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or in conflagration pale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Light the gloom.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out spoke the victor then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he hail'd them o'er the wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Ye are brothers! ye are men!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we conquer but to save:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So peace instead of death let us bring:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But yield, proud foe, thy fleet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the crews, at England's feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And make submission meet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To our King.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then Denmark bless'd our chief<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That he gave her wounds repose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the sounds of joy and grief<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From her people wildly rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As death withdrew his shades from the day:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the sun look'd smiling bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er a wide and woeful sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the fires of funeral light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Died away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now joy, old England, raise!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the tidings of thy might,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the festal cities' blaze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet amidst that joy and uproar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let us think of them that sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full many a fathom deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By thy wild and stormy steep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Elsinore!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Brave hearts! to Britain's pride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Once so faithful and so true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the deck of fame that died,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the gallant good Riou:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the billow mournful rolls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the mermaid's song condoles<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Singing glory to the souls<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the brave!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCLII" id="CCLII"></a>CCLII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE TO DUTY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O Duty! if that name thou love<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who art a light to guide, a rod<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To check the erring, and reprove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou who art victory and law<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When empty terrors overawe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From vain temptations dost set free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">There are who ask not if thine eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Be on them; who, in love and truth<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where no misgiving is, rely<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Upon the genial sense of youth:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who do thy work, and know it not:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Oh! if through confidence misplaced<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Serene will be our days and bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And happy will our nature be<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When love is an unerring light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And joy its own security.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And they a blissful course may hold<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Live in the spirit of this creed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">I, loving freedom, and untried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No sport of every random gust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet being to myself a guide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Too blindly have reposed my trust:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And oft, when in my heart was heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The task, in smoother walks to stray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Through no disturbance of my soul<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or strong compunction in me wrought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I supplicate for thy controul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But in the quietness of thought:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I feel the weight of chance-desires:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My hopes no more must change their name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I long for a repose that ever is the same.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Godhead's most benignant grace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor know we anything so fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As is the smile upon thy face:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And fragrance in thy footing treads;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">To humbler functions, awful Power!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I call thee: I myself commend<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Unto thy guidance from this hour;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Oh let my weakness have an end!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Give unto me, made lowly wise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The spirit of self-sacrifice;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The confidence of reason give;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth.</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLIII" id="CCLIII"></a>CCLIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For there thy habitation is the heart&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their country conquers with their martyrdom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Chillon! thy prison is a holy place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until his very steps have left a trace<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For they appeal from tyranny to God.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lord Byron</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLIV" id="CCLIV"></a>CCLIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They were thy chosen music, Liberty!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There came a tyrant, and with holy glee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou fought'st against him,&mdash;but hast vainly striven:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That Mountain floods should thunder as before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLV" id="CCLV"></a>CCLV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And was the safeguard of the West; the worth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Venice did not fall below her birth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She was a maiden city, bright and free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No guile seduced, no force could violate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when she took unto herself a mate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She must espouse the everlasting Sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And what if she had seen those glories fade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When her long life hath reach'd its final day:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of that which once was great is pass'd away.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLVI" id="CCLVI"></a>CCLVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>LONDON, 1802</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Friend! I know not which way I must look<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For comfort, being, as I am, opprest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To think that now our life is only drest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or groom!&mdash;We must run glittering like a brook<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wealthiest man among us is the best:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No grandeur now in nature or in book<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This is idolatry; and these we adore:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Plain living and high thinking are no more:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The homely beauty of the good old cause<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pure religion breathing household laws.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLVII" id="CCLVII"></a>CCLVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE SAME</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">England hath need of thee: she is a fen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Have forfeited their ancient English dower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! raise us up, return to us again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So didst thou travel on life's common way<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lowliest duties on herself did lay.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLVIII" id="CCLVIII"></a>CCLVIII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I have borne in memory what has tamed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When men change swords for ledgers, and desert<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The student's bower for gold,&mdash;some fears unnamed<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I had, my Country!&mdash;am I to be blamed?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Verily, in the bottom of my heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For dearly must we prize thee; we who find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I by my affection was beguiled:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What wonder if a Poet now and then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the many movements of his mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Felt for thee as a lover or a child!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLIX" id="CCLIX"></a>CCLIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HOHENLINDEN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">On Linden, when the sun was low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dark as winter was the flow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of Iser, rolling rapidly.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But Linden saw another sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the drum beat at dead of night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Commanding fires of death to light<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The darkness of her scenery.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">By torch and trumpet fast array'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each horseman drew his battle-blade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And furious every charger neigh'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To join the dreadful revelry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then shook the hills with thunder riven;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And louder than the bolts of Heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Far flash'd the red artillery.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But redder yet that light shall glow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Linden's hills of stain&eacute;d snow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bloodier yet the torrent flow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of Iser, rolling rapidly.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where furious Frank and fiery Hun<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shout in their sulphurous canopy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The combat deepens. On, ye Brave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who rush to glory, or the grave!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And charge with all thy chivalry!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Few, few shall part, where many meet!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The snow shall be their winding-sheet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every turf beneath their feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLX" id="CCLX"></a>CCLX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>AFTER BLENHEIM</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It was a summer evening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Old Kaspar's work was done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And he before his cottage door<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was sitting in the sun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And by him sported on the green<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His little grandchild Wilhelmine.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She saw her brother Peterkin<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Roll something large and round<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which he beside the rivulet<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In playing there had found;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He came to ask what he had found<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That was so large and smooth and round.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Old Kaspar took it from the boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who stood expectant by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then the old man shook his head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And with a natural sigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Who fell in the great victory.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'I find them in the garden,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For there's many here about;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And often when I go to plough<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The ploughshare turns them out.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For many thousand men,' said he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Were slain in that great victory.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Young Peterkin he cries;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And little Wilhelmine looks up<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With wonder-waiting eyes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Now tell us all about the war,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And what they fought each other for.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Who put the French to rout;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But what they fought each other for<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I could not well make out.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But every body said,' quoth he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'That 'twas a famous victory.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'My father lived at Blenheim then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yon little stream hard by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They burnt his dwelling to the ground,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And he was forced to fly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So with his wife and child he fled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor had he where to rest his head.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'With fire and sword the country round<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was wasted far and wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span><span class="i0">And many a childing mother then<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And new-born baby died:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But things like that, you know, must be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At every famous victory.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'They say it was a shocking sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">After the field was won;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For many thousand bodies here<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lay rotting in the sun:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But things like that, you know, must be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">After a famous victory.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And our good Prince Eugene;'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Said little Wilhelmine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Nay ... nay ... my little girl,' quoth he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'It was a famous victory.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And every body praised the Duke<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who this great fight did win.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'But what good came of it at last?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Quoth little Peterkin:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'But 'twas a famous victory.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Southey</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXI" id="CCLXI"></a>CCLXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>PRO PATRIA MORI</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When he who adores thee has left out the name<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of his fault and his sorrows behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of a life that for thee was resign'd!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy tears shall efface their decree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I have been but too faithful to thee.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Every thought of my reason was thine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy name shall be mingled with mine!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The days of thy glory to see;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Is the pride of thus dying for thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Moore</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXII" id="CCLXII"></a>CCLXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O'er the grave where our hero we buried.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We buried him darkly at dead of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sods with our bayonets turning;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the struggling moonbeam's misty light<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the lantern dimly burning.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No useless coffin enclosed his breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With his martial cloak around him.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Few and short were the prayers we said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And we spoke not a word of sorrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And we bitterly thought of the morrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And smoothed down his lonely pillow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And we far away on the billow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In the grave where a Briton has laid him.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But half of our heavy task was done<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When the clock struck the hour for retiring:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we heard the distant and random gun<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That the foe was sullenly firing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Slowly and sadly we laid him down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From the field of his fame fresh and gory;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But we left him alone with his glory.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>C. Wolfe</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXIII" id="CCLXIII"></a>CCLXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In the sweet shire of Cardigan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An old man dwells, a little man,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis said he once was tall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full five-and-thirty years he lived<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A running huntsman merry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And still the centre of his cheek<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is red as a ripe cherry.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No man like him the horn could sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hill and valley rang with glee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Echo bandied, round and round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The halloo of Simon Lee.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In those proud days he little cared<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For husbandry or tillage;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To blither tasks did Simon rouse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sleepers of the village.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He all the country could outrun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could leave both man and horse behind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And often, ere the chase was done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He reel'd and was stone-blind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And still there's something in the world<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At which his heart rejoices;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For when the chiming hounds are out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He dearly loves their voices.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But oh the heavy change!&mdash;bereft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Old Simon to the world is left<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In liveried poverty:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His master's dead, and no one now<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He is the sole survivor.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And he is lean and he is sick,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His body, dwindled and awry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His legs are thin and dry.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One prop he has, and only one,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His wife, an aged woman,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lives with him, near the waterfall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the village common.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not twenty paces from the door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A scrap of land they have, but they<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are poorest of the poor.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This scrap of land he from the heath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enclosed when he was stronger;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But what to them avails the land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which he can till no longer?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oft, working by her husband's side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ruth does what Simon cannot do;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For she, with scanty cause for pride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is stouter of the two.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, though you with your utmost skill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From labour could not wean them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis little, very little, all<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That they can do between them.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Few months of life has he in store<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As he to you will tell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For still, the more he works, the more<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do his weak ankles swell.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My gentle Reader, I perceive<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How patiently you've waited,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now I fear that you expect<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some tale will be related.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Reader! had you in your mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such stores as silent thought can bring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O gentle Reader! you would find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A tale in every thing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What more I have to say is short,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And you must kindly take it:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is no tale; but, should you think,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perhaps a tale you'll make it.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">One summer-day I chanced to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This old Man doing all he could<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To unearth the root of an old tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stump of rotten wood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mattock totter'd in his hand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So vain was his endeavour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That at the root of the old tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He might have work'd for ever.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Give me your tool,' to him I said;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And at the word right gladly he<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Received my proffer'd aid.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I struck, and with a single blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tangled root I sever'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At which the poor old man so long<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And vainly had endeavour'd.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The tears into his eyes were brought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thanks and praises seem'd to run<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So fast out of his heart, I thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They never would have done.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With coldness still returning;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alas! the gratitude of men<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath oftener left me mourning.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXIV" id="CCLXIV"></a>CCLXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have had playmates, I have had companions,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have been laughing, I have been carousing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I loved a Love once, fairest among women:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seeking to find the old familiar faces.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So might we talk of the old familiar faces,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How some they have died, and some they have left me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some are taken from me; all are departed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>C. Lamb</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXV" id="CCLXV"></a>CCLXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE JOURNEY ONWARDS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As slow our ship her foamy track<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Against the wind was cleaving,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her trembling pennant still look'd back<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To that dear isle 'twas leaving.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So loth we part from all we love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From all the links that bind us;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So turn our hearts, as on we rove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To those we've left behind us!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We talk with joyous seeming&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With smiles that might as well be tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So faint, so sad their beaming;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span><span class="i0">While memory brings us back again<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Each early tie that twined us,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To those we've left behind us!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And when, in other climes, we meet<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Some isle or vale enchanting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And nought but love is wanting;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We think how great had been our bliss<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If Heaven had but assign'd us<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To live and die in scenes like this,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With some we've left behind us!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As travellers oft look back at eve<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When eastward darkly going,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To gaze upon that light they leave<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Still faint behind them glowing,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So, when the close of pleasure's day<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To gloom hath near consign'd us,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We turn to catch one fading ray<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of joy that's left behind us.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Moore</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXVI" id="CCLXVI"></a>CCLXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>YOUTH AND AGE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lord Byron</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXVII" id="CCLXVII"></a>CCLXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A LESSON</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the first moment that the sun may shine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And recognized it, though an alter'd form,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now standing forth an offering to the blast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And buffeted at will by rain and storm.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This neither is its courage nor its choice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But its necessity in being old.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It cannot help itself in its decay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To be a prodigal's favourite&mdash;then, worse truth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A miser's pensioner&mdash;behold our lot!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Age might but take the things Youth needed not!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXVIII" id="CCLXVIII"></a>CCLXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>PAST AND PRESENT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I remember, I remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The house where I was born,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The little window where the sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Came peeping in at morn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He never came a wink too soon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor brought too long a day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now, I often wish the night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had borne my breath away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I remember, I remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The roses, red and white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The violets, and the lily-cups&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those flowers made of light!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lilacs where the robin built,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And where my brother set<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The laburnum on his birth-day,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tree is living yet!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I remember, I remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where I was used to swing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thought the air must rush as fresh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To swallows on the wing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My spirit flew in feathers then<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That is so heavy now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And summer pools could hardly cool<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fever on my brow.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I remember, I remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fir trees dark and high;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I used to think their slender tops<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were close against the sky:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was a childish ignorance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But now 'tis little joy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To know I'm farther off from Heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than when I was a boy.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Hood</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXIX" id="CCLXIX"></a>CCLXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oft in the stilly night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ere slumber's chain has bound me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fond Memory brings the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of other days around me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The smiles, the tears<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of boyhood's years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The words of love then spoken;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The eyes that shone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Now dimm'd and gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The cheerful hearts now broken!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thus in the stilly night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ere slumber's chain has bound me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sad Memory brings the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of other days around me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I remember all<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The friends so link'd together<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've seen around me fall<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like leaves in wintry weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">I feel like one<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who treads alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Some banquet-hall deserted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Whose lights are fled<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Whose garlands dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And all but he departed!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thus in the stilly night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ere slumber's chain has bound me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sad Memory brings the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of other days around me.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Moore</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCLXX" id="CCLXX"></a>CCLXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION<br />
+NEAR NAPLES</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">The sun is warm, the sky is clear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The waves are dancing fast and bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Blue isles and snowy mountains wear<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The purple noon's transparent might:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The breath of the moist earth is light<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Around its unexpanded buds;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Like many a voice of one delight&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">I see the deep's untrampled floor<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With green and purple sea-weeds strown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">I see the waves upon the shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">I sit upon the sands alone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The lightning of the noon-tide ocean<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Is flashing round me, and a tone<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Arises from its measured motion&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Alas! I have nor hope nor health,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Nor peace within nor calm around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Nor that content, surpassing wealth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The sage in meditation found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And walk'd with inward glory crown'd&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Others I see whom these surround&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Yet now despair itself is mild<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Even as the winds and waters are;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">I could lie down like a tired child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And weep away the life of care<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Which I have borne, and yet must bear,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Till death like sleep might steal on me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And I might feel in the warm air<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCLXXI" id="CCLXXI"></a>CCLXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE SCHOLAR</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My days among the Dead are past;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Around me I behold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where'er these casual eyes are cast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mighty minds of old:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My never-failing friends are they,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With whom I converse day by day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With them I take delight in weal<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And seek relief in woe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And while I understand and feel<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How much to them I owe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My cheeks have often been bedew'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With tears of thoughtful gratitude.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My thoughts are with the Dead; with them<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I live in long-past years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their virtues love, their faults condemn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Partake their hopes and fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from their lessons seek and find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Instruction with an humble mind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My hopes are with the Dead; anon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My place with them will be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I with them shall travel on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through all Futurity;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet leaving here a name, I trust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That will not perish in the dust.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>R. Southey</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXII" id="CCLXXII"></a>CCLXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE MERMAID TAVERN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Souls of Poets dead and gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What Elysium have ye known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Happy field or mossy cavern,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have ye tippled drink more fine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than mine host's Canary wine?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Or are fruits of Paradise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweeter than those dainty pies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of venison? O generous food!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drest as though bold Robin Hood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would, with his Maid Marian,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sup and bowse from horn and can.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">I have heard that on a day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mine host's sign-board flew away<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nobody knew whither, till<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An astrologer's old quill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To a sheepskin gave the story,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said he saw you in your glory,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Underneath a new-old sign<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sipping beverage divine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pledging with contented smack<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Mermaid in the Zodiac.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Souls of Poets dead and gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What Elysium have ye known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Happy field or mossy cavern,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXIII" id="CCLXXIII"></a>CCLXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE PRIDE OF YOUTH</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Proud Maisie is in the wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Walking so early;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet Robin sits on the bush,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Singing so rarely.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tell me, thou bonny bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When shall I marry me?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;'When six braw gentlemen<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Kirkward shall carry ye.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Who makes the bridal bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Birdie, say truly?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;'The gray-headed sexton<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That delves the grave duly<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The glowworm o'er grave and stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall light thee steady;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The owl from the steeple sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Welcome, proud lady.'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXIV" id="CCLXXIV"></a>CCLXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">One more Unfortunate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weary of breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rashly importunate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gone to her death!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Take her up tenderly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lift her with care;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fashion'd so slenderly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Young, and so fair!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Look at her garments<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Clinging like cerements;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst the wave constantly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drips from her clothing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Take her up instantly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loving, not loathing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Touch her not scornfully;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Think of her mournfully,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gently and humanly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not of the stains of her&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All that remains of her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now is pure womanly.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Make no deep scrutiny<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into her mutiny<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rash and undutiful:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Past all dishonour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death has left on her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Only the beautiful.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Still, for all slips of hers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One of Eve's family&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wipe those poor lips of hers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oozing so clammily.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Loop up her tresses<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Escaped from the comb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her fair auburn tresses;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst wonderment guesses<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where was her home?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who was her father?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who was her mother?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had she a sister?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had she a brother?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or was there a dearer one<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still, and a nearer one<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet, than all other?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Alas! for the rarity<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Christian charity<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the sun!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! it was pitiful!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Near a whole city full,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Home she had none.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sisterly, brotherly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fatherly, motherly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Feelings had changed:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love, by harsh evidence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thrown from its eminence;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even God's providence<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seeming estranged.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where the lamps quiver<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So far in the river,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With many a light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From window and casement,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From garret to basement,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She stood, with amazement,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Houseless by night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The bleak wind of March<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made her tremble and shiver<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But not the dark arch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or the black flowing river:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mad from life's history,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span><span class="i0">Glad to death's mystery<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Swift to be hurl'd&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Any where, any where<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out of the world!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In she plunged boldly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No matter how coldly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rough river ran,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over the brink of it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Picture it&mdash;think of it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dissolute Man!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lave in it, drink of it,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, if you can!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Take her up tenderly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lift her with care;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fashion'd so slenderly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Young, and so fair!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ere her limbs frigidly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stiffen too rigidly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Decently, kindly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smooth and compose them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And her eyes, close them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Staring so blindly!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dreadfully staring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thro' muddy impurity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As when with the daring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Last look of despairing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fix'd on futurity.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Perishing gloomily,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spurr'd by contumely,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cold inhumanity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Burning insanity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into her rest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Cross her hands humbly<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if praying dumbly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Over her breast!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Owning her weakness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her evil behaviour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And leaving, with meekness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her sins to her Saviour!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Hood</i></p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCLXXV" id="CCLXXV"></a>CCLXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ELEGY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But on thy turf shall roses rear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Their leaves, the earliest of the year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">And oft by yon blue gushing stream<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And feed deep thought with many a dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And lingering pause and lightly tread;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Away! we know that tears are vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Will this unteach us to complain?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or make one mourner weep the less?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And thou, who tell'st me to forget,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Lord Byron</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXVI" id="CCLXXVI"></a>CCLXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HESTER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When maidens such as Hester die<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their place ye may not well supply,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though ye among a thousand try<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With vain endeavour.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A month or more hath she been dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet cannot I by force be led<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To think upon the wormy bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And her together.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A springy motion in her gait,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rising step, did indicate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of pride and joy no common rate<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That flush'd her spirit:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I know not by what name beside<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was a joy to that allied<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">She did inherit.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Her parents held the Quaker rule,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which doth the human feeling cool;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But she was train'd in Nature's school,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Nature had blest her.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A waking eye, a prying mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ye could not Hester.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My sprightly neighbour! gone before<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To that unknown and silent shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall we not meet, as heretofore<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Some summer morning&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When from thy cheerful eyes a ray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath struck a bliss upon the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A bliss that would not go away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">A sweet fore-warning?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>C. Lamb</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXVII" id="CCLXXVII"></a>CCLXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO MARY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If I had thought thou couldst have died,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I might not weep for thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I forgot, when by thy side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That thou couldst mortal be:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It never through my mind had past<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The time would e'er be o'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I on thee should look my last,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And thou shouldst smile no more!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And still upon that face I look,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And think 'twill smile again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And still the thought I will not brook<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That I must look in vain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But when I speak&mdash;thou dost not say<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now I feel, as well I may,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sweet Mary! thou art dead!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All cold and all serene&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I still might press thy silent heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And where thy smiles have been.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou seemest still mine own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But there I lay thee in thy grave&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And I am now alone!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I do not think, where'er thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou hast forgotten me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In thinking too of thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet there was round thee such a dawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of light ne'er seen before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As fancy never could have drawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And never can restore!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>C. Wolfe</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXVIII" id="CCLXXVIII"></a>CCLXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>CORONACH</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He is gone on the mountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He is lost to the forest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a summer-dried fountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When our need was the sorest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The font reappearing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From the raindrops shall borrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But to us comes no cheering,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To Duncan no morrow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The hand of the reaper<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Takes the ears that are hoary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the voice of the weeper<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wails manhood in glory.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The autumn winds rushing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Waft the leaves that are searest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But our flower was in flushing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When blighting was nearest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fleet foot on the correi,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sage counsel in cumber,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Red hand in the foray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">How sound is thy slumber!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span><span class="i0">Like the dew on the mountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like the foam on the river,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the bubble on the fountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou art gone; and for ever!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXIX" id="CCLXXIX"></a>CCLXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE DEATH BED</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her breathing soft and low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As in her breast the wave of life<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Kept heaving to and fro.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So silently we seem'd to speak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">So slowly moved about,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As we had lent her half our powers<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To eke her living out.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Our very hopes belied our fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our fears our hopes belied&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We thought her dying when she slept,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And sleeping when she died.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For when the morn came dim and sad<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And chill with early showers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her quiet eyelids closed&mdash;she had<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Another morn than ours.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Hood</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXX" id="CCLXXX"></a>CCLXXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>AGNES</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw her in childhood&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A bright, gentle thing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the dawn of the morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or the dews of the spring:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The daisies and hare-bells<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her playmates all day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Herself as light-hearted<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And artless as they.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw her again&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A fair girl of eighteen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fresh glittering with graces<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of mind and of mien.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her speech was all music;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like moonlight she shone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The envy of many,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The glory of one.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Years, years fleeted over&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I stood at her foot:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bud had grown blossom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The blossom was fruit.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A dignified mother,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her infant she bore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And look'd, I thought, fairer<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than ever before.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw her once more&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Twas the day that she died;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heaven's light was around her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And God at her side;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No wants to distress her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No fears to appal&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O then, I felt, then<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She was fairest of all!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>H. F. Lyte</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXI" id="CCLXXXI"></a>CCLXXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ROSABELLE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O listen, listen, ladies gay!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No haughty feat of arms I tell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soft is the note, and sad the lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The blackening wave is edged with white;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Last night the gifted Seer did view<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To-night at Roslin leads the ball,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But that my ladye-mother there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sits lonely in her castle-hall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis not because the ring they ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Lindesay at the ring rides well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But that my sire the wine will chide<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;O'er Roslin all that dreary night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And redder than the bright moonbeam.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It glared on Roslin's castled rock,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each Baron, for a sable shroud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sheathed in his iron panoply.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Seem'd all on fire within, around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Deep sacristy and altar's pale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shone every pillar foliage-bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Blazed battlement and pinnet high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So still they blaze, when fate is nigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The lordly line of high Saint Clair.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Lie buried within that proud chapelle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each one the holy vault doth hold&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And each Saint Clair was buried there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With candle, with book, and with knell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXII" id="CCLXXXII"></a>CCLXXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I saw where in the shroud did lurk<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A curious frame of Nature's work;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A flow'ret crush&eacute;d in the bud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A nameless piece of Babyhood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was in her cradle-coffin lying;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For darker closets of the tomb!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She did but ope an eye, and put<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A clear beam forth, then straight up shut<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the long dark: ne'er more to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through glasses of mortality.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Riddle of destiny, who can show<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What thy short visit meant, or know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What thy errand here below?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shall we say, that Nature blind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Check'd her hand, and changed her mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Just when she had exactly wrought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A finish'd pattern without fault?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could she flag, or could she tire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or lack'd she the Promethean fire<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Life of health, and days mature:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Woman's self in miniature!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span><span class="i0">Limbs so fair, they might supply<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Themselves now but cold imagery)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sculptor to make Beauty by.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That babe or mother, one must die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So in mercy left the stock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cut the branch; to save the shock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of young years widow'd, and the pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Single State comes back again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the lone man who, reft of wife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thenceforward drags a maim&eacute;d life?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The economy of Heaven is dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why human buds, like this, should fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More brief than fly ephemeral<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That has his day; while shrivell'd crones<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And crabb&eacute;d use the conscience sears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In sinners of an hundred years.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rites, which custom does impose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Silver bells, and baby clothes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Coral redder than those lips<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which pale death did late eclipse;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Music framed for infants' glee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whistle never tuned for thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loving hearts were they which gave them.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let not one be missing; nurse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See them laid upon the hearse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of infant slain by doom perverse.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why should kings and nobles have<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pictured trophies to their grave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And we, churls, to thee deny<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy pretty toys with thee to lie&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A more harmless vanity?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>C. Lamb</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXIII" id="CCLXXXIII"></a>CCLXXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>IN MEMORIAM</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A child's a plaything for an hour;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Its pretty tricks we try<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For that or for a longer space,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then tire, and lay it by.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But I knew one that to itself<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">All seasons could control;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That would have mock'd the sense of pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Out of a griev&eacute;d soul.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou straggler into loving arms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Young climber up of knees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I forget thy thousand ways<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Then life and all shall cease!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>M. Lamb</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXIV" id="CCLXXXIV"></a>CCLXXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where art thou, my beloved Son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where art thou, worse to me than dead?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh find me, prosperous or undone!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or if the grave be now thy bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why am I ignorant of the same<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I may rest; and neither blame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor sorrow may attend thy name?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Seven years, alas! to have received<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No tidings of an only child&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And been for evermore beguiled,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I catch at them, and then I miss;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was ever darkness like to this?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He was among the prime in worth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An object beauteous to behold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well born, well bred; I sent him forth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If things ensued that wanted grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As hath been said, they were not base;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And never blush was on my face.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah! little doth the young-one dream<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When full of play and childish cares,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What power is in his wildest scream<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heard by his mother unawares!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He knows it not, he cannot guess;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Years to a mother bring distress;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But do not make her love the less.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From that ill thought; and being blind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kind mother have I been, as kind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As ever breathed:' and that is true;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I've wet my path with tears like dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weeping for him when no one knew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hopeless of honour and of gain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Think not of me with grief and pain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I now can see with better eyes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And worldly grandeur I despise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fortune with her gifts and lies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They mount&mdash;how short a voyage brings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wanderers back to their delight!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Chains tie us down by land and sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wishes, vain as mine, may be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All that is left to comfort thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or thou upon a desert thrown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Inheritest the lion's den;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or hast been summon'd to the deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An incommunicable sleep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I look for ghosts: but none will force<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their way to me; 'tis falsely said<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That there was ever intercourse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Between the living and the dead;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span><span class="i0">For surely then I should have sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of him I wait for day and night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With love and longings infinite.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My apprehensions come in crowds;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I dread the rustling of the grass;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The very shadows of the clouds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have power to shake me as they pass:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I question things, and do not find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One that will answer to my mind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the world appears unkind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beyond participation lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My troubles, and beyond relief:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If any chance to heave a sigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They pity me, and not my grief.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then come to me, my Son, or send<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some tidings that my woes may end!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I have no other earthly friend.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXV" id="CCLXXXV"></a>CCLXXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>HUNTING SONG</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Waken, lords and ladies gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the mountain dawns the day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All the jolly chase is here<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hounds are in their couples yelling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Merrily merrily mingle they,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Waken, lords and ladies gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mist has left the mountain gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Springlets in the dawn are steaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And foresters have busy been<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To track the buck in thicket green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now we come to chant our lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Waken, lords and ladies gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the greenwood haste away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We can show you where he lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fleet of foot and tall of size;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We can show the marks he made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You shall see him brought to bay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Louder, louder chant the lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Waken, lords and ladies gay!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell them youth and mirth and glee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Run a course as well as we;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Think of this, and rise with day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gentle lords and ladies gay!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXVI" id="CCLXXXVI"></a>CCLXXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE SKYLARK</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those quivering wings composed, that music still!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To the last point of vision, and beyond<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mount, daring warbler!&mdash;that love-prompted strain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All independent of the leafy Spring.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A privacy of glorious light is thine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of harmony, with instinct more divine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXVII" id="CCLXXXVII"></a>CCLXXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO A SKYLARK</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Bird thou never wert,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That from heaven, or near it<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Pourest thy full heart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Higher still and higher<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From the earth thou springest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like a cloud of fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The blue deep thou wingest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">In the golden lightning<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of the sunken sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O'er which clouds are brightening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thou dost float and run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">The pale purple even<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Melts around thy flight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like a star of heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In the broad daylight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Keen as are the arrows<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of that silver sphere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose intense lamp narrows<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In the white dawn clear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">All the earth and air<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With thy voice is loud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As, when night is bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From one lonely cloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">What thou art we know not;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">What is most like thee?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From rainbow clouds there flow not<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Drops so bright to see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As from thy presence showers a rain of melody;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Like a poet hidden<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In the light of thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Singing hymns unbidden,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Till the world is wrought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Like a high-born maiden<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In a palace tower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Soothing her love-laden<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Soul in secret hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Like a glow-worm golden<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In a dell of dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Scattering unbeholden<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Its aerial hue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Like a rose embower'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In its own green leaves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By warm winds deflower'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Till the scent it gives<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wing&eacute;d thieves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Sound of vernal showers<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">On the twinkling grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Rain-awaken'd flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">All that ever was<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Teach us, sprite or bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">What sweet thoughts are thine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I have never heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Praise of love or wine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Chorus hymeneal<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or triumphal chaunt<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Match'd with thine, would be all<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">But an empty vaunt&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">What objects are the fountains<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of thy happy strain?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What fields, or waves, or mountains?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">What shapes of sky or plain?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">With thy clear keen joyance<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Languor cannot be:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Shadow of annoyance<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Never came near thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Waking or asleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thou of death must deem<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Things more true and deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Than we mortals dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">We look before and after,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And pine for what is not:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our sincerest laughter<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With some pain is fraught;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Yet if we could scorn<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Hate, and pride, and fear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">If we were things born<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Not to shed a tear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Better than all measures<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of delightful sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Better than all treasures<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That in books are found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Teach me half the gladness<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That thy brain must know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Such harmonious madness<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">From my lips would flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The world should listen then, as I am listening now!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXVIII" id="CCLXXXVIII"></a>CCLXXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE GREEN LINNET</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their snow-white blossoms on my head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With brightest sunshine round me spread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Spring's unclouded weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In this sequester'd nook how sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To sit upon my orchard-seat!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And flowers and birds once more to greet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My last year's friends together.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">One have I mark'd, the happiest guest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In all this covert of the blest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hail to Thee, far above the rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In joy of voice and pinion!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou, Linnet! in thy green array<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Presiding Spirit here to-day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dost lead the revels of the May;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And this is thy dominion.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make all one band of paramours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Art sole in thy employment;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A Life, a Presence like the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scattering thy gladness without care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too blest with any one to pair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thyself thy own enjoyment.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Amid yon tuft of hazel trees<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That twinkle to the gusty breeze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behold him perch'd in ecstasies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet seeming still to hover;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There! where the flutter of his wings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his back and body flings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shadows and sunny glimmerings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That cover him all over.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My dazzled sight he oft deceives&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A brother of the dancing leaves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pours forth his song in gushes;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span><span class="i0">As if by that exulting strain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He mock'd and treated with disdain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The voiceless Form he chose to feign,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While fluttering in the bushes.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCLXXXIX" id="CCLXXXIX"></a>CCLXXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE CUCKOO</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O blithe new-comer! I have heard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear thee and rejoice:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or but a wandering Voice?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">While I am lying on the grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy twofold shout I hear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From hill to hill it seems to pass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At once far off and near.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Though babbling only to the vale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of sunshine and of flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou bringest unto me a tale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of visionary hours.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even yet thou art to me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No bird, but an invisible thing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A voice, a mystery;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The same whom in my school-boy days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I listen'd to; that Cry<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which made me look a thousand ways<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In bush, and tree, and sky.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To seek thee did I often rove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through woods and on the green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thou wert still a hope, a love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still long'd for, never seen!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And I can listen to thee yet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can lie upon the plain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And listen, till I do beget<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That golden time again.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O bless&eacute;d Bird! the earth we pace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Again appears to be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An unsubstantial, faery place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That is fit home for Thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXC" id="CCXC"></a>CCXC</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But being too happy in thine happiness,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That thou, light-wing&eacute;d Dryad of the trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">In some melodious plot<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Singest of summer in full-throated ease.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Cool'd a long age in the deep-delv&eacute;d earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tasting of Flora and the country green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Dance, and Proven&ccedil;al song, and sunburnt mirth!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O for a beaker full of the warm South,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And purple-stain&eacute;d mouth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And with thee fade away into the forest dim:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What thou among the leaves hast never known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The weariness, the fever, and the fret<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Where but to think is to be full of sorrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And leaden-eyed despairs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Away! away! for I will fly to thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But on the viewless wings of Poesy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Already with thee! tender is the night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">But here there is no light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, in embalm&eacute;d darkness, guess each sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wherewith the seasonable month endows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And mid-May's eldest child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Darkling I listen; and for many a time<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I have been half in love with easeful Death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Call'd him soft names in many a mus&eacute;d rhyme,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To take into the air my quiet breath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now more than ever seems it rich to die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To cease upon the midnight with no pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">In such an ecstasy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">To thy high requiem become a sod.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No hungry generations tread thee down;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The voice I hear this passing night was heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In ancient days by emperor and clown:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perhaps the self-same song that found a path<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span><span class="i4">She stood in tears amid the alien corn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">The same that oft-times hath<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Forlorn! the very word is like a bell<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To toll me back from thee to my sole self!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Past the near meadows, over the still stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">In the next valley-glades:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was it a vision, or a waking dream?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Fled is that music:&mdash;Do I wake or sleep?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXCI" id="CCXCI"></a>CCXCI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Earth has not anything to show more fair:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dull would he be of soul who could pass by<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sight so touching in its majesty:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This City now doth like a garment wear<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Open unto the fields, and to the sky,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Never did sun more beautifully steep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The river glideth at his own sweet will:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all that mighty heart is lying still!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXCII" id="CCXCII"></a>CCXCII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To one who has been long in city pent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis very sweet to look into the fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And open face of heaven,&mdash;to breathe a prayer<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full in the smile of the blue firmament.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gentle tale of love and languishment?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Returning home at evening, with an ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Catching the notes of Philomel,&mdash;an eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He mourns that day so soon has glided by:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">E'en like the passage of an angel's tear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That falls through the clear ether silently.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXCIII" id="CCXCIII"></a>CCXCIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I met a traveller from an antique land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tell that its sculptor well those passions read<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on the pedestal these words appear:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nothing beside remains. Round the decay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lone and level sands stretch far away.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXCIV" id="CCXCIV"></a>CCXCIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE<br />
+PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY,<br />
+1803</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whom mere despite of heart could so far please<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And love of havoc, (for with such disease<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To level with the dust a noble horde,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A brotherhood of venerable trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beggar'd and outraged!&mdash;Many hearts deplored<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The traveller at this day will stop and gaze<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the green silent pastures, yet remain.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXCV" id="CCXCV"></a>CCXCV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O leave this barren spot to me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though bush or floweret never grow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My dark unwarming shade below;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor summer bud perfume the dew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My green and glossy leaves adorn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor murmuring tribes from me derive<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet leave this barren spot to me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Thrice twenty summers I have seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sky grow bright, the forest green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many a wintry wind have stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In bloomless, fruitless solitude,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since childhood in my pleasant bower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">First spent its sweet and sportive hour;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since youthful lovers in my shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their vows of truth and rapture made,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on my trunk's surviving frame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Carved many a long-forgotten name.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">First breathed upon this sacred ground;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By all that Love has whisper'd here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As Love's own altar honour me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXCVI" id="CCXCVI"></a>CCXCVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As many do, repining while they look;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Intruders&mdash;who would tear from Nature's book<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This precious leaf with harsh impiety.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Think what the home must be if it were thine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even thine, though few thy wants!&mdash;Roof, window, door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The roses to the porch which they entwine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On which it should be touch'd, would melt away!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCXCVII" id="CCXCVII"></a>CCXCVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of beauty is thy earthly dower!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Twice seven consenting years have shed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their utmost bounty on thy head:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And these gray rocks, that household lawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those trees&mdash;a veil just half withdrawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This fall of water that doth make<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A murmur near the silent lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This little bay, a quiet road<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That holds in shelter thy abode;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In truth together ye do seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like something fashion'd in a dream;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such forms as from their covert peep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When earthly cares are laid asleep!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But O fair Creature! in the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of common day, so heavenly bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I bless thee with a human heart:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">God shield thee to thy latest years!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thee neither know I nor thy peers:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With earnest feeling I shall pray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For thee when I am far away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For never saw I mien or face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In which more plainly I could trace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Benignity and home-bred sense<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ripening in perfect innocence.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Here scatter'd, like a random seed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Remote from men, Thou dost not need<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The embarrass'd look of shy distress,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And maidenly shamefac&eacute;dness:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The freedom of a Mountaineer:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A face with gladness overspread;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span><span class="i0">And seemliness complete, that sways<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy courtesies, about thee plays;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With no restraint, but such as springs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From quick and eager visitings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of thy few words of English speech:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That gives thy gestures grace and life!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So have I, not unmoved in mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Seen birds of tempest-loving kind&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thus beating up against the wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">What hand but would a garland cull<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For thee who art so beautiful?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O happy pleasure! here to dwell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside thee in some heathy dell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Adopt your homely ways, and dress,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I could frame a wish for thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More like a grave reality:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art to me but as a wave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the wild sea: and I would have<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some claim upon thee, if I could,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though but of common neighbourhood.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What joy to hear thee, and to see!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy elder brother I would be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy father&mdash;anything to thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hath led me to this lonely place:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Joy have I had; and going hence<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I bear away my recompence.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In spots like these it is we prize<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then why should I be loth to stir?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I feel this place was made for her;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To give new pleasure like the past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Continued long as life shall last.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For I, methinks, till I grow old<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span><span class="i0">As fair before me shall behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As I do now, the cabin small,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lake, the bay, the waterfall;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Thee, the Spirit of them all!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXCVIII" id="CCXCVIII"></a>CCXCVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE REAPER</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Behold her, single in the field,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yon solitary Highland Lass!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Reaping and singing by herself;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stop here, or gently pass!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alone she cuts and binds the grain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sings a melancholy strain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O listen! for the vale profound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is overflowing with the sound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">No nightingale did ever chaunt<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More welcome notes to weary bands<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of travellers in some shady haunt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among Arabian sands:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breaking the silence of the seas<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the farthest Hebrides.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Will no one tell me what she sings?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For old, unhappy, far-off things,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And battles long ago:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or is it some more humble lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Familiar matter of to-day?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That has been, and may be again!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if her song could have no ending;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw her singing at her work,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And o'er the sickle bending;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I listen'd, motionless and still;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span><span class="i0">And, as I mounted up the hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The music in my heart I bore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Long after it was heard no more.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCXCIX" id="CCXCIX"></a>CCXCIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the silence of morning the song of the bird.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCC" id="CCC"></a>CCC</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ariel to Miranda:&mdash;Take<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This slave of music, for the sake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of him, who is the slave of thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And teach it all the harmony<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In which thou canst, and only thou,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Make the delighted spirit glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till joy denies itself again<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, too intense, is turn'd to pain.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span><span class="i0">For by permission and command<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Poor Ariel sends this silent token<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of more than ever can be spoken;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From life to life must still pursue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your happiness, for thus alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can Ariel ever find his own.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From Prospero's enchanted cell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the mighty verses tell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the throne of Naples he<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lit you o'er the trackless sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flitting on, your prow before,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a living meteor.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you die, the silent Moon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In her interlunar swoon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is not sadder in her cell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than deserted Ariel:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When you live again on earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like an unseen Star of birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ariel guides you o'er the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of life from your nativity:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Many changes have been run<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Since Ferdinand and you begun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Your course of love, and Ariel still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Has track'd your steps and served your will.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now in humbler, happier lot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This is all remember'd not;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And now, alas! the poor Sprite is<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Imprison'd for some fault of his<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a body like a grave&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From you he only dares to crave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For his service and his sorrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The artist who this idol wrought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To echo all harmonious thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fell'd a tree, while on the steep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The woods were in their winter sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rock'd in that repose divine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the wind-swept Apennine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dreaming, some of Autumn past,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span><span class="i0">And some of Spring approaching fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some of April buds and showers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And some of songs in July bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all of love: And so this tree,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh that such our death may be!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Died in sleep, and felt no pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To live in happier form again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The artist wrought this loved Guitar;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And taught it justly to reply<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To all who question skilfully<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In language gentle as thine own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whispering in enamour'd tone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet oracles of woods and dells,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And summer winds in sylvan cells:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;For it had learnt all harmonies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the plains and of the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the forests and the mountains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the many-voic&eacute;d fountains;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clearest echoes of the hills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The softest notes of falling rills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The melodies of birds and bees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The murmuring of summer seas,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pattering rain, and breathing dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And airs of evening; and it knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That seldom-heard mysterious sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which, driven on its diurnal round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As it floats through boundless day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our world enkindles on its way:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;All this it knows, but will not tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To those who cannot question well<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Spirit that inhabits it;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It talks according to the wit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of its companions; and no more<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is heard than has been felt before<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By those who tempt it to betray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">These secrets of an elder day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, sweetly as its answers will<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flatter hands of perfect skill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It keeps its highest holiest tone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For our beloved Friend alone.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCI" id="CCCI"></a>CCCI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE DAFFODILS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I wander'd lonely as a cloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That floats on high o'er vales and hills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all at once I saw a crowd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A host of golden daffodils,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside the lake, beneath the trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Continuous as the stars that shine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And twinkle on the milky way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They stretch'd in never-ending line<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along the margin of a bay:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ten thousand saw I at a glance<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The waves beside them danced, but they<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A Poet could not but be gay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In such a jocund company!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I gazed&mdash;and gazed&mdash;but little thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What wealth the show to me had brought;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">For oft, when on my couch I lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In vacant or in pensive mood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They flash upon that inward eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which is the bliss of solitude;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then my heart with pleasure fills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And dances with the daffodils.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCII" id="CCCII"></a>CCCII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE DAISY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With little here to do or see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of things that in the great world be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">For thou art worthy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou unassuming Common-place<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Nature, with that homely face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet with something of a grace<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Which Love makes for thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oft on the dappled turf at ease<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I sit and play with similes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loose types of things through all degrees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thoughts of thy raising;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many a fond and idle name<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I give to thee, for praise or blame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As is the humour of the game,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">While I am gazing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A nun demure, of lowly port;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In thy simplicity the sport<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of all temptations;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A queen in crown of rubies drest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A starveling in a scanty vest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are all, as seems to suit thee best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy appellations.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A little Cyclops, with one eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Staring to threaten and defy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That thought comes next&mdash;and instantly<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The freak is over,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shape will vanish, and behold!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A silver shield with boss of gold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That spreads itself, some faery bold<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In fight to cover.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I see thee glittering from afar&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then thou art a pretty star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not quite so fair as many are<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In heaven above thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet like a star, with glittering crest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May peace come never to his nest<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Who shall reprove thee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sweet Flower! for by that name at last<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When all my reveries are past<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I call thee, and to that cleave fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Sweet silent Creature!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That breath'st with me in sun and air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do thou, as thou art wont, repair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart with gladness, and a share<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Of thy meek nature!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCIII" id="CCCIII"></a>CCCIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE TO AUTUMN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Conspiring with him how to load and bless<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And still more, later flowers for the bees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until they think warm days will never cease;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spares the next swath and all its twin&eacute;d flowers:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Steady thy laden head across a brook;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While barr&eacute;d clouds bloom the soft-dying day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the river-sallows, borne aloft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCIV" id="CCCIV"></a>CCCIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE TO WINTER</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Germany, December, 1800</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When first the fiery-mantled Sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His heavenly race began to run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round the earth and ocean blue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His children four the Seasons flew.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">First, in green apparel dancing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Rosy Summer next advancing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rush'd into her sire's embrace&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For ever nearest to his smiles,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Calpe's olive-shaded steep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or India's citron-cover'd isles:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More remote, and buxom-brown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A ripe sheaf bound her zone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But howling Winter fled afar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hills that prop the polar star;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And loves on deer-borne car to ride<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With barren darkness by his side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round the shore where loud Lofoden<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whirls to death the roaring whale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round the hall where Runic Odin<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Howls his war-song to the gale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save when adown the ravaged globe<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He travels on his native storm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deflowering Nature's grassy robe<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And trampling on her faded form:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till light's returning Lord assume<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The shaft that drives him to his polar field,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of power to pierce his raven plume<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And crystal-cover'd shield.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Lapland drum delights to hear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Implores thy dreadful deity&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span><span class="i0">Archangel! Power of desolation!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fast descending as thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Say, hath mortal invocation<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Spells to touch thy stony heart?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gently rule the ruin'd year;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To shuddering Want's unmantled bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gently on the orphan head<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of Innocence descend.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sailor on his airy shrouds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And spectres walk along the deep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Milder yet thy snowy breezes<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Pour on yonder tented shores,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or the dark-brown Danube roars.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To many a deep and dying groan?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">May spare the victim fallen low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Man will ask no truce to death,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No bounds to human woe.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCV" id="CCCV"></a>CCCV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>YARROW UNVISITED</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>1803</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From Stirling Castle we had seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The mazy Forth unravell'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with the Tweed had travell'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when we came to Clovenford,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And see the Braes of Yarrow.'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who have been buying, selling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each maiden to her dwelling!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But we will downward with the Tweed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor turn aside to Yarrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Both lying right before us;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lintwhites sing in chorus;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made blithe with plough and harrow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why throw away a needful day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To go in search of Yarrow?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'What's Yarrow but a river bare<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That glides the dark hills under?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There are a thousand such elsewhere<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As worthy of your wonder.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My True-love sigh'd for sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And look'd me in the face, to think<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I thus could speak of Yarrow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sweet is Yarrow flowing!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But we will leave it growing.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er hilly path and open strath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll wander Scotland thorough;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, though so near, we will not turn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into the dale of Yarrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Float double, swan and shadow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We will not see them; will not go<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To-day, nor yet to-morrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enough if in our hearts we know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There's such a place as Yarrow.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It must, or we shall rue it:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We have a vision of our own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ah! why should we undo it?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The treasured dreams of times long past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For when we're there, although 'tis fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twill be another Yarrow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'If Care with freezing years should come<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wandering seem but folly,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Should we be loth to stir from home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet be melancholy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Should life be dull, and spirits low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twill soothe us in our sorrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That earth has something yet to show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The bonny holms of Yarrow!'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCVI" id="CCCVI"></a>CCCVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>YARROW VISITED</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>September, 1814</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And is this&mdash;Yarrow?&mdash;This the stream<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of which my fancy cherish'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So faithfully, a waking dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An image that hath perish'd?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O that some minstrel's harp were near<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To utter notes of gladness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And chase this silence from the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That fills my heart with sadness!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet why?&mdash;a silvery current flows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With uncontroll'd meanderings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor have these eyes by greener hills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Been soothed, in all my wanderings.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is visibly delighted;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For not a feature of those hills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is in the mirror slighted.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save where that pearly whiteness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is round the rising sun diffused,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A tender hazy brightness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mild dawn of promise! that excludes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All profitless dejection;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though not unwilling here to admit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A pensive recollection.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Where was it that the famous Flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His bed perchance was yon smooth mound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On which the herd is feeding:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And haply from this crystal pool,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now peaceful as the morning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Water-wraith ascended thrice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gave his doleful warning.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Delicious is the lay that sings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The haunts of happy lovers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The path that leads them to the grove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The leafy grove that covers:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pity sanctifies the verse<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That paints, by strength of sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The unconquerable strength of love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But thou that didst appear so fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To fond imagination,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dost rival in the light of day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her delicate creation:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Meek loveliness is round thee spread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A softness still and holy:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The grace of forest charms decay'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And pastoral melancholy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That region left, the vale unfolds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rich groves of lofty stature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With Yarrow winding through the pomp<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of cultivated nature;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And rising from those lofty groves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Behold a ruin hoary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The shatter'd front of Newark's towers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Renown'd in Border story.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For sportive youth to stray in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For manhood to enjoy his strength,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And age to wear away in!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A covert for protection<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of tender thoughts that nestle there&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The brood of chaste affection.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How sweet on this autumnal day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wild-wood fruits to gather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on my True-love's forehead plant<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A crest of blooming heather!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And what if I enwreathed my own?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twere no offence to reason;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sober hills thus deck their brows<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To meet the wintry season.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I see&mdash;but not by sight alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A ray of Fancy still survives&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her sunshine plays upon thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy ever-youthful waters keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A course of lively pleasure;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gladsome notes my lips can breathe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Accordant to the measure.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The vapours linger round the heights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They melt, and soon must vanish;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One hour is theirs, nor more is mine&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sad thought! which I would banish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But that I know, where'er I go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy genuine image, Yarrow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cheer my mind in sorrow.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCVII" id="CCCVII"></a>CCCVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE INVITATION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Best and brightest, come away,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fairer far than this fair Day,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span><span class="i0">Which, like thee, to those in sorrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the rough year just awake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In its cradle on the brake.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The brightest hour of unborn Spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the winter wandering,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Found, it seems, the halcyon morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To hoar February born;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And smiled upon the silent sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bade the frozen streams be free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And waked to music all their fountains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And breathed upon the frozen mountains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And like a prophetess of May<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Making the wintry world appear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Away, away, from men and towns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the wild wood and the downs&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the silent wilderness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the soul need not repress<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its music, lest it should not find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An echo in another's mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the touch of Nature's art<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Harmonizes heart to heart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Radiant Sister of the Day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Awake! arise! and come away!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the wild woods and the plains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the pools where winter rains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Image all their roof of leaves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the pine its garland weaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of sapless green, and ivy dun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round stems that never kiss the sun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the lawns and pastures be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the sandhills of the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the melting hoar-frost wets<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The daisy-star that never sets,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wind-flowers and violets<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which yet join not scent to hue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Crown the pale year weak and new;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span><span class="i0">When the night is left behind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the deep east, dim and blind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the blue noon is over us,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the multitudinous<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Billows murmur at our feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the earth and ocean meet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all things seem only one<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the universal Sun.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCVIII" id="CCCVIII"></a>CCCVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE RECOLLECTION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now the last day of many days<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All beautiful and bright as thou,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The loveliest and the last, is dead:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rise, Memory, and write its praise!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Up&mdash;to thy wonted work! come, trace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The epitaph of glory fled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For now the earth has changed its face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A frown is on the heaven's brow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We wander'd to the Pine Forest<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That skirts the Ocean's foam;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lightest wind was in its nest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The tempest in its home.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The whispering waves were half asleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The clouds were gone to play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And on the bosom of the deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The smile of heaven lay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It seem'd as if the hour were one<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Sent from beyond the skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which scatter'd from above the sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A light of Paradise!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We paused amid the pines that stood<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The giants of the waste,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Tortured by storms to shapes as rude<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As serpents interlaced,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And soothed by every azure breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That under heaven is blown,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span><span class="i0">To harmonies and hues beneath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As tender as its own:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now all the tree-tops lay asleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like green waves on the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As still as in the silent deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The ocean-woods may be.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How calm it was!&mdash;The silence there<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By such a chain was bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That even the busy woodpecker<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Made stiller with her sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The inviolable quietness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The breath of peace we drew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With its soft motion made not less<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The calm that round us grew.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There seem'd, from the remotest seat<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of the white mountain waste<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the soft flower beneath our feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A magic circle traced,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A spirit interfused around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A thrilling silent life;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To momentary peace it bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our mortal nature's strife;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And still I felt the centre of<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The magic circle there<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was one fair form that fill'd with love<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The lifeless atmosphere.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We paused beside the pools that lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Under the forest bough;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Gulf'd in a world below;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A firmament of purple light<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Which in the dark earth lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More boundless than the depth of night<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And purer than the day&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In which the lovely forests grew<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As in the upper air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More perfect both in shape and hue<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than any spreading there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And through the dark-green wood<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span><span class="i0">The white sun twinkling like the dawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Out of a speckled cloud.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet views which in our world above<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Can never well be seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were imaged in the water's love<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of that fair forest green:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all was interfused beneath<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With an Elysian glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An atmosphere without a breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A softer day below.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like one beloved, the scene had lent<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To the dark water's breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its every leaf and lineament<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With more than truth exprest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Until an envious wind crept by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Like an unwelcome thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which from the mind's too faithful eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Blots one dear image out.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Though thou art ever fair and kind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The forests ever green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Than calm in waters seen!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCIX" id="CCCIX"></a>CCCIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>BY THE SEA</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The holy time is quiet as a Nun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Breathless with adoration; the broad sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is sinking down in its tranquillity;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Listen! the mighty Being is awake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And doth with his eternal motion make<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sound like thunder&mdash;everlastingly.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy nature is not therefore less divine:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">God being with thee when we know it not.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCX" id="CCCX"></a>CCCX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>SONG TO THE EVENING STAR</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Star that bringest home the bee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sett'st the weary labourer free!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That send'st it from above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Are sweet as hers we love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Come to the luxuriant skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst the landscape's odours rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And songs when toil is done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Curls yellow in the sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Star of love's soft interviews,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Parted lovers on thee muse;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their remembrancer in Heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of thrilling vows thou art,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too delicious to be riven<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By absence from the heart.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXI" id="CCCXI"></a>CCCXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>DATUR HORA QUIETI</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The sun upon the lake is low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The wild birds hush their song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The hills have evening's deepest glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Yet Leonard tarries long.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now all whom varied toil and care<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From home and love divide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the calm sunset may repair<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Each to the loved one's side.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The noble dame, on turret high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Who waits her gallant knight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Looks to the western beam to spy<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The flash of armour bright.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The village maid, with hand on brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The level ray to shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the footpath watches now<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For Colin's darkening plaid.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now to their mates the wild swans row,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By day they swam apart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to the thicket wanders slow<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The hind beside the hart.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The woodlark at his partner's side<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Twitters his closing song&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All meet whom day and care divide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But Leonard tarries long!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>Sir W. Scott</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXII" id="CCCXII"></a>CCCXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO THE MOON</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">Art thou pale for weariness<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Wandering companionless<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Among the stars that have a different birth,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And ever-changing, like a joyless eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That finds no object worth its constancy?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXIII" id="CCCXIII"></a>CCCXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>TO SLEEP</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One after one; the sound of rain, and bees<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So do not let me wear to-night away:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Come, bless&eacute;d barrier between day and day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXIV" id="CCCXIV"></a>CCCXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE SOLDIER'S DREAM</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When reposing that night on my pallet of straw<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas Autumn,&mdash;and sunshine arose on the way<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From my home and my weeping friends never to part;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Stay&mdash;stay with us!&mdash;rest!&mdash;thou art weary and worn!'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXV" id="CCCXV"></a>CCCXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gentle odours led my steps astray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The constellated flower that never sets;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And wild roses, and ivy serpentine<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And nearer to the river's trembling edge<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And starry river-buds among the sedge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">With moonlight beams of their own watery light;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Methought that of these visionary flowers<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I made a nosegay, bound in such a way<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span><span class="i0">That the same hues, which in their natural bowers<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Were mingled or opposed, the like array<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Within my hand,&mdash;and then, elate and gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I might there present it&mdash;O! to Whom?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXVI" id="CCCXVI"></a>CCCXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>KUBLA KHAN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In Xanadu did Kubla Khan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A stately pleasure-dome decree:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Alph, the sacred river, ran<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through caverns measureless to man<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Down to a sunless sea.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So twice five miles of fertile ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With walls and towers were girdled round:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And here were forests ancient as the hills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A savage place! as holy and enchanted<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By woman wailing for her demon-lover!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A mighty fountain momently was forced:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It flung up momently the sacred river.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Five miles meandering with a mazy motion<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ancestral voices prophesying war!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">The shadow of the dome of pleasure<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Floated midway on the waves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Where was heard the mingled measure<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From the fountain and the caves.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was a miracle of rare device,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A damsel with a dulcimer<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In a vision once I saw:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">It was an Abyssinian maid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And on her dulcimer she play'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Singing of Mount Abora.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Could I revive within me<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Her symphony and song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To such a deep delight 'twould win me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That with music loud and long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I would build that dome in air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That sunny dome! those caves of ice!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all who heard should see them there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all should cry, Beware! Beware!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His flashing eyes, his floating hair!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weave a circle round him thrice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And close your eyes with holy dread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For he on honey-dew hath fed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And drunk the milk of Paradise.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>S. T. Coleridge</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXVII" id="CCCXVII"></a>CCCXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE INNER VISION</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To pace the ground, if path be there or none,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While a fair region round the traveller lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which he forbears again to look upon;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The work of Fancy, or some happy tone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of meditation, slipping in between<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The beauty coming and the beauty gone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;If Thought and Love desert us, from that day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With Thought and Love companions of our way&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of inspiration on the humblest lay.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXVIII" id="CCCXVIII"></a>CCCXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE REALM OF FANCY</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ever let the Fancy roam;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pleasure never is at home:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then let wing&eacute;d Fancy wander<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the thought still spread beyond her:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Open wide the mind's cage-door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O sweet Fancy! let her loose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Summer's joys are spoilt by use,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the enjoying of the Spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fades as does its blossoming;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Blushing through the mist and dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cloys with tasting: What do then?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sit thee by the ingle, when<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sear faggot blazes bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spirit of a winter's night;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the soundless earth is muffled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the cak&eacute;d snow is shuffled<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the Night doth meet the Noon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a dark conspiracy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To banish Even from her sky.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sit thee there, and send abroad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a mind self-overaw'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fancy, high-commission'd:&mdash;send her!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She has vassals to attend her:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She will bring, in spite of frost,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beauties that the earth hath lost;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She will bring thee, all together,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All delights of summer weather;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All the buds and bells of May,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span><span class="i0">From dewy sward or thorny spray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All the heap&eacute;d Autumn's wealth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a still, mysterious stealth:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She will mix these pleasures up<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like three fit wines in a cup,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thou shalt quaff it:&mdash;thou shalt hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Distant harvest-carols clear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rustle of the reap&eacute;d corn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet birds antheming the morn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, in the same moment&mdash;hark!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis the early April lark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or the rooks, with busy caw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Foraging for sticks and straw.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou shalt, at one glance, behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The daisy and the marigold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">White-plumed lilies, and the first<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shaded hyacinth, alway<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sapphire queen of the mid-May;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And every leaf, and every flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pearl&eacute;d with the self-same shower.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Meagre from its cell&eacute;d sleep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the snake all winter-thin<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cast on sunny bank its skin;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the hen-bird's wing doth rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quiet on her mossy nest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then the hurry and alarm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the bee-hive casts its swarm;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Acorns ripe down-pattering,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While the autumn breezes sing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Everything is spoilt by use:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where's the cheek that doth not fade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Too much gazed at? Where's the maid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose lip mature is ever new?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where's the eye, however blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Doth not weary? Where's the face<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One would meet in every place?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where's the voice, however soft,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span><span class="i0">One would hear so very oft?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let then wing&eacute;d Fancy find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thee a mistress to thy mind:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere the God of Torment taught her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How to frown and how to chide;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With a waist and with a side<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">White as Hebe's, when her zone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Slipt its golden clasp, and down<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fell her kirtle to her feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While she held the goblet sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Jove grew languid.&mdash;Break the mesh<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the Fancy's silken leash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quickly break her prison-string,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And such joys as these she'll bring.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Let the wing&eacute;d Fancy roam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pleasure never is at home.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXIX" id="CCCXIX"></a>CCCXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I heard a thousand blended notes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While in a grove I sate reclined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bring sad thoughts to the mind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">To her fair works did Nature link<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The human soul that through me ran;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And much it grieved my heart to think<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What Man has made of Man.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And 'tis my faith that every flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Enjoys the air it breathes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their thoughts I cannot measure,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the least motion which they made<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The budding twigs spread out their fan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To catch the breezy air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I must think, do all I can,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That there was pleasure there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If this belief from heaven be sent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If such be Nature's holy plan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have I not reason to lament<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What Man has made of Man?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXX" id="CCCXX"></a>CCCXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When Ruth was left half desolate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her father took another mate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Ruth, not seven years old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A slighted child, at her own will<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Went wandering over dale and hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In thoughtless freedom, bold.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And she had made a pipe of straw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And music from that pipe could draw<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like sounds of winds and floods;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had built a bower upon the green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As if she from her birth had been<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">An infant of the woods.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Beneath her father's roof, alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Herself her own delight:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And passing thus the live-long day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She grew to woman's height.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There came a youth from Georgia's shore&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A military casque he wore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With splendid feathers drest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He brought them from the Cherokees;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The feathers nodded in the breeze<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And made a gallant crest.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From Indian blood you deem him sprung:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But no! he spake the English tongue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And bore a soldier's name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, when America was free<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From battle and from jeopardy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He 'cross the ocean came.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">With hues of genius on his cheek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In finest tones the youth could speak:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;While he was yet a boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The moon, the glory of the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And streams that murmur as they run<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had been his dearest joy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He was a lovely youth! I guess<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The panther in the wilderness<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was not so fair as he;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And when he chose to sport and play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No dolphin ever was so gay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the tropic sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Among the Indians he had fought;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with him many tales he brought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of pleasure and of fear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such tales as, told to any maid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By such a youth, in the green shade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were perilous to hear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He told of girls, a happy rout!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who quit their fold with dance and shout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their pleasant Indian town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To gather strawberries all day long;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Returning with a choral song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When daylight is gone down.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He spake of plants that hourly change<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their blossoms, through a boundless range<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of intermingling hues;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With budding, fading, faded flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They stand the wonder of the bowers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From morn to evening dews.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He told of the magnolia, spread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">High as a cloud, high over head!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cypress and her spire;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span><span class="i0">&mdash;Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cover a hundred leagues, and seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To set the hills on fire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The youth of green savannahs spake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many an endless, endless lake<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With all its fairy crowds<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of islands, that together lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As quietly as spots of sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Among the evening clouds.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'How pleasant,' then he said, 'it were<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A fisher or a hunter there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In sunshine or in shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To wander with an easy mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And build a household fire, and find<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A home in every glade!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'What days and what bright years! Ah me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our life were life indeed, with thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So pass'd in quiet bliss;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the while,' said he, 'to know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That we were in a world of woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On such an earth as this!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And then he sometimes interwove<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fond thoughts about a father's love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'For there,' said he, 'are spun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Around the heart such tender ties,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That our own children to our eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are dearer than the sun.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My helpmate in the woods to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our shed at night to rear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or run, my own adopted bride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A sylvan huntress at my side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And drive the flying deer!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Beloved Ruth!'&mdash;No more he said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A solitary tear:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She thought again&mdash;and did agree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With him to sail across the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And drive the flying deer.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And now, as fitting is and right,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We in the church our faith will plight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A husband and a wife.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even so they did; and I may say<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That to sweet Ruth that happy day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was more than human life.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Through dream and vision did she sink,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Delighted all the while to think<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That, on those lonesome floods<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And green savannahs, she should share<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His board with lawful joy, and bear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His name in the wild woods.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But, as you have before been told,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And with his dancing crest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So beautiful, through savage lands<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Indians in the West.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The wind, the tempest roaring high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tumult of a tropic sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Might well be dangerous food<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For him, a youth to whom was given<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So much of earth&mdash;so much of heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And such impetuous blood.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Whatever in those climes he found<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Irregular in sight or sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did to his mind impart<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A kindred impulse, seem'd allied<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To his own powers, and justified<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The workings of his heart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The breezes their own languor lent;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The stars had feelings, which they sent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Into those favour'd bowers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That sometimes there did intervene<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pure hopes of high intent:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span><span class="i0">For passions link'd to forms so fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And stately, needs must have their share<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of noble sentiment.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But ill he lived, much evil saw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With men to whom no better law<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor better life was known;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deliberately and undeceived<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Those wild men's vices he received,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gave them back his own.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His genius and his moral frame<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were thus impair'd, and he became<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The slave of low desires:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A man who without self-control<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would seek what the degraded soul<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Unworthily admires.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And yet he with no feign'd delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had woo'd the maiden, day and night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had loved her, night and morn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What could he less than love a maid<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose heart with so much nature play'd&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So kind and so forlorn?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Sometimes most earnestly he said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Encompass'd me on every side<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I, in confidence and pride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Had cross'd the Atlantic main.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Before me shone a glorious world<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To music suddenly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I look'd upon those hills and plains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And seem'd as if let loose from chains<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To live at liberty!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'No more of this&mdash;for now, by thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dear Ruth! more happily set free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With nobler zeal I burn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My soul from darkness is released<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the whole sky when to the east<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The morning doth return.'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Full soon that better mind was gone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They stirr'd him now no more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">New objects did new pleasure give,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And once again he wish'd to live<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As lawless as before.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They for the voyage were prepared,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And went to the sea-shore:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, when they thither came, the youth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could never find him more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">God help thee, Ruth!&mdash;Such pains she had<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That she in half a year was mad<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And in a prison housed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there, with many a doleful song<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Made of wild words, her cup of wrong<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She fearfully caroused.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor pastimes of the May,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;They all were with her in her cell;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And a clear brook with cheerful knell<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did o'er the pebbles play.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There came a respite to her pain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She from her prison fled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But of the Vagrant none took thought;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And where it liked her best she sought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her shelter and her bread.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Among the fields she breathed again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The master-current of her brain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ran permanent and free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, coming to the banks of Tone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There did she rest; and dwell alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under the greenwood tree.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The engines of her pain, the tools<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And airs that gently stir<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span><span class="i0">The vernal leaves&mdash;she loved them still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor ever tax'd them with the ill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which had been done to her.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A barn her Winter bed supplies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But, till the warmth of Summer skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Summer days is gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(And all do in this tale agree)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And other home hath none.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">An innocent life, yet far astray!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Ruth will, long before her day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be broken down and old.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sore aches she needs must have! but less<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of mind, than body's wretchedness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From damp, and rain, and cold.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">If she is prest by want of food<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She from her dwelling in the wood<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Repairs to a road-side;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And there she begs at one steep place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where up and down with easy pace<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The horsemen-travellers ride.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">That oaten pipe of hers is mute<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or thrown away: but with a flute<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her loneliness she cheers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At evening in his homeward walk<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Quantock woodman hears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I, too, have pass'd her on the hills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Setting her little water-mills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By spouts and fountains wild&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such small machinery as she turn'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A young and happy child!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Farewell! and when thy days are told,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy corpse shall buried be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For thee a funeral bell shall ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all the congregation sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A Christian psalm for thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXXI" id="CCCXXI"></a>CCCXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Many a green isle needs must be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the deep wide sea of Misery,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or the mariner, worn and wan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Never thus could voyage on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Day and night, and night and day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drifting on his dreary way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With the solid darkness black<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Closing round his vessel's track;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whilst above, the sunless sky<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Big with clouds, hangs heavily,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And behind the tempest fleet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hurries on with lightning feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Riving sail, and cord, and plank,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till the ship has almost drank<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Death from the o'er-brimming deep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And sinks down, down, like that sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When the dreamer seems to be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Weltering through eternity;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the dim low line before<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of a dark and distant shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Still recedes, as ever still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Longing with divided will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But no power to seek or shun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He is ever drifted on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er the unreposing wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the haven of the grave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Ah, many flowering islands lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the waters of wide Agony:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To such a one this morn was led<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My bark, by soft winds piloted.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;'Mid the mountains Euganean<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I stood listening to the paean<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With which the legion'd rooks did hail<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Sun's uprise majestical:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gathering round with wings all hoar,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span><span class="i0">Through the dewy mist they soar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bursts; and then,&mdash;as clouds of even<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the unfathomable sky,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So their plumes of purple grain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Starr'd with drops of golden rain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Gleam above the sunlight woods,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As in silent multitudes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the morning's fitful gale<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through the broken mist they sail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the vapours cloven and gleaming<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Follow down the dark steep streaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till all is bright, and clear, and still<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Round the solitary hill.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Beneath is spread like a green sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The waveless plain of Lombardy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bounded by the vaporous air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Islanded by cities fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Underneath Day's azure eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A peopled labyrinth of walls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Amphitrite's destined halls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which her hoary sire now paves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With his blue and beaming waves.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lo! the sun upsprings behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the level quivering line<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the waters crystalline;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And before that chasm of light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As within a furnace bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Column, tower, and dome, and spire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shine like obelisks of fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pointing with inconstant motion<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the altar of dark ocean<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the sapphire-tinted skies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the flames of sacrifice<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the marble shrines did rise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As to pierce the dome of gold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Apollo spoke of old.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Sun-girt City! thou hast been<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span><span class="i0">Ocean's child, and then his queen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Now is come a darker day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thou soon must be his prey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If the power that raised thee here<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Hallow so thy watery bier.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A less drear ruin then than now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With thy conquest-branded brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Stooping to the slave of slaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From thy throne among the waves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wilt thou be,&mdash;when the sea-mew<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Flies, as once before if flew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er thine isles depopulate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And all is in its ancient state,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Save where many a palace-gate<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With green sea-flowers overgrown<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a rock of ocean's own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Topples o'er the abandon'd sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As the tides change sullenly.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fisher on his watery way<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wandering at the close of day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will spread his sail and seize his oar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Till he pass the gloomy shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lest thy dead should, from their sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bursting o'er the starlight deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lead a rapid masque of death<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er the waters of his path.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Noon descends around me now:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When a soft and purple mist<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like a vaporous amethyst,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or an air-dissolv&eacute;d star<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mingling light and fragrance, far<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the curved horizon's bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To the point of heaven's profound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fills the overflowing sky;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the plains that silent lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Underneath; the leaves unsodden<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where the infant Frost has trodden<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With his morning-wing&eacute;d feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose bright print is gleaming yet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the red and golden vines<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span><span class="i0">Piercing with their trellised lines<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The dun and bladed grass no less,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pointing from this hoary tower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the windless air; the flower<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Glimmering at my feet; the line<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the south dimly islanded;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Alps, whose snows are spread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">High between the clouds and sun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And of living things each one;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And my spirit, which so long<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Darken'd this swift stream of song,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Interpenetrated lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the glory of the sky;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be it love, light, harmony,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Odour, or the soul of all<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which from heaven like dew doth fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or the mind which feeds this verse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Peopling the lone universe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Noon descends, and after noon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Autumn's evening meets me soon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Leading the infantine moon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that one star, which to her<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Almost seems to minister<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Half the crimson light she brings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">From the sunset's radiant springs:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the soft dreams of the morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Which like wing&eacute;d winds had borne<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To that silent isle, which lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Mid remember'd agonies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The frail bark of this lone being),<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And its ancient pilot, Pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sits beside the helm again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Other flowering isles must be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the sea of Life and Agony:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Other spirits float and flee<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On some rock the wild wave wraps,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span><span class="i0">With folded wings they waiting sit<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For my bark, to pilot it<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To some calm and blooming cove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where for me, and those I love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">May a windless bower be built,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Far from passion, pain, and guilt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In a dell 'mid lawny hills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which the wild sea-murmur fills,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And soft sunshine, and the sound<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of old forests echoing round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the light and smell divine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all flowers that breathe and shine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;We may live so happy there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That the Spirits of the Air<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Envying us, may ev'n entice<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To our healing paradise<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The polluting multitude:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But their rage would be subdued<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By that clime divine and calm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the winds whose wings rain balm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the uplifted soul, and leaves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Under which the bright sea heaves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">While each breathless interval<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In their whisperings musical<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The inspired soul supplies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With its own deep melodies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Love which heals all strife<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Circling, like the breath of life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All things in that sweet abode<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With its own mild brotherhood:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They, not it, would change; and soon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Every sprite beneath the moon<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would repent its envy vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the Earth grow young again.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXXII" id="CCCXXII"></a>CCCXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE TO THE WEST WIND</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The wing&eacute;d seeds, where they lie cold and low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Each like a corpse within its grave, until<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With living hues and odours plain and hill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the blue surface of thine airy surge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like the bright hair uplifted from the head<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the horizon to the zenith's height&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the dying year, to which this closing night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Vaulted with all thy congregated might<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And saw in sleep old palaces and towers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quivering within the wave's intenser day,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span><span class="i0">All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For whose path the Atlantic's level powers<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The sapless foliage of the ocean, know<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The impulse of thy strength, only less free<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I were as in my boyhood, and could be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scarce seem'd a vision,&mdash;I would ne'er have striven<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">One too like thee&mdash;tameless, and swift, and proud.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What if my leaves are falling like its own!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The tumult of thy mighty harmonies<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, by the incantation of this verse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXXIII" id="CCCXXIII"></a>CCCXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>NATURE AND THE POET</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm,<br />
+painted by Sir George Beaumont</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I saw thee every day; and all the while<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So like, so very like, was day to day!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It trembled, but it never pass'd away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No mood, which season takes away, or brings:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I could have fancied that the mighty Deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah! then&mdash;if mine had been the painter's hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The light that never was on sea or land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The consecration, and the Poet's dream,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Amid a world how different from this!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The very sweetest had to thee been given.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A picture had it been of lasting ease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such picture would I at that time have made;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And seen the soul of truth in every part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">So once it would have been,&mdash;'tis so no more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I have submitted to a new control:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A power is gone, which nothing can restore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A deep distress hath humanized my soul.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Not for a moment could I now behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A smiling sea, and be what I have been:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This work of thine I blame not, but commend;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O 'tis a passionate work!&mdash;yet wise and well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well chosen is the spirit that is here;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I love to see the look with which it braves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such happiness, wherever it be known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And frequent sights of what is to be borne!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXXIV" id="CCCXXIV"></a>CCCXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE POET'S DREAM</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">On a Poet's lips I slept<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Dreaming like a love-adept<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the sound his breathing kept;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But feeds on the a&euml;rial kisses<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He will watch from dawn to gloom<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lake-reflected sun illume<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nor heed nor see what things they be&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But from these create he can<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forms more real than living Man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nurslings of Immortality!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXV" id="CCCXXV"></a>CCCXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In this still place, remote from men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In this still place, where murmurs on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But one meek streamlet, only one:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sang of battles, and the breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of stormy war, and violent death;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And should, methinks, when all was past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have rightfully been laid at last<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As by a spirit turbulent;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And everything unreconciled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In some complaining, dim retreat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For fear and melancholy meet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But this is calm; there cannot be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A more entire tranquillity.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or is it but a groundless creed?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What matters it?&mdash;I blame them not<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whose fancy in this lonely spot<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Was moved; and in such way express'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Their notion of its perfect rest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A convent, even a hermit's cell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Would break the silence of this Dell:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is not quiet, is not ease;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But something deeper far than these;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The separation that is here<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is of the grave; and of austere<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet happy feelings of the dead:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, therefore, was it rightly said<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Ossian, last of all his race!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lies buried in this lonely place.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXVI" id="CCCXXVI"></a>CCCXXVI</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The World is too much with us; late and soon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Little we see in Nature that is ours;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The winds that will be howling at all hours<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It moves us not.&mdash;Great God! I'd rather be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or hear old Triton blow his wreath&eacute;d horn.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXXVII" id="CCCXXVII"></a>CCCXXVII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL,<br />
+CAMBRIDGE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(Albeit labouring for a scanty band<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And glorious work of fine intelligence!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of nicely-calculated less or more:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where light and shade repose, where music dwells<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Lingering&mdash;and wandering on as loth to die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That they were born for immortality.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXVIII" id="CCCXXVIII"></a>CCCXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE ON A GRECIAN URN</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sylvan historian, who canst thus express<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of deities or mortals, or of both,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In Temp&eacute; or the dales of Arcady?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span><span class="i0">Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Though winning near the goal&mdash;yet, do not grieve;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, happy melodist, unweari&eacute;d,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For ever piping songs for ever new;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">More happy love! more happy, happy love!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">For ever panting, and for ever young;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All breathing human passion far above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Who are these coming to the sacrifice?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To what green altar, O mysterious priest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What little town by river or sea shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, little town, thy streets for evermore<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Will silent be; and not a soul to tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of marble men and maidens overwrought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With forest branches and the trodden weed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">When old age shall this generation waste,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'&mdash;that is all<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXXIX" id="CCCXXIX"></a>CCCXXIX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>YOUTH AND AGE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Both were mine! Life went a-maying<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">When I was young!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When I was young?&mdash;Ah, woful when!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This breathing house not built with hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This body that does me grievous wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How lightly then it flash'd along:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On winding lakes and rivers wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That ask no aid of sail or oar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That fear no spite of wind or tide!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nought cared this body for wind or weather<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When Youth and I lived in't together.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Friendship is a sheltering tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O! the joys, that came down shower-like,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Ere I was old!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O Youth! for years so many and sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis known that Thou and I were one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll think it but a a fond conceit&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It cannot be, that Thou art gone!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thou wert aye a masker bold!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What strange disguise hast now put on<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To make believe that Thou art gone?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I see these locks in silvery slips,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This drooping gait, this alter'd size:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Life is but Thought: so think I will<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Youth and I are house-mates still.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i2">Dew-drops are the gems of morning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But the tears of mournful eve!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where no hope is, life's a warning<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That only serves to make us grieve<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">When we are old:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">&mdash;That only serves to make us grieve<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With oft and tedious taking-leave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Like some poor nigh-related guest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That may not rudely be dismist,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And tells the jest without the smile.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>S. T. Coleridge</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXX" id="CCCXXX"></a>CCCXXX</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We walked along, while bright and red<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Uprose the morning sun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'The will of God be done!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A village schoolmaster was he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With hair of glittering gray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As blithe a man as you could see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On a spring holiday.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And on that morning, through the grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And by the steaming rills<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We travell'd merrily, to pass<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A day among the hills.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Then, from thy breast what thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beneath so beautiful a sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So sad a sigh has brought?'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">A second time did Matthew stop;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fixing still his eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the eastern mountain-top,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To me he made reply:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Brings fresh into my mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A day like this, which I have left<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full thirty years behind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And just above yon slope of corn<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Such colours, and no other,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were in the sky that April morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of this the very brother.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'With rod and line I sued the sport<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which that sweet season gave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And to the church-yard come, stopp'd short<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside my daughter's grave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The pride of all the vale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And then she sang,&mdash;she would have been<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A very nightingale.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet I loved her more&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For so it seem'd,&mdash;than till that day<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I e'er had loved before.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And turning from her grave, I met,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside the churchyard yew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With points of morning dew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'A basket on her head she bare;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Her brow was smooth and white:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To see a child so very fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It was a pure delight!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'No fountain from its rocky cave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">E'er tripp'd with foot so free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">She seem'd as happy as a wave<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That dances on the sea.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'There came from me a sigh of pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which I could ill confine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I look'd at her, and look'd again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And did not wish her mine!'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;Matthew is in his grave, yet now<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Methinks I see him stand<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">As at that moment, with a bough<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of wilding in his hand.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXI" id="CCCXXXI"></a>CCCXXXI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE FOUNTAIN</i></h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>A Conversation</i></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We talk'd with open heart, and tongue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Affectionate and true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A pair of friends, though I was young,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And Matthew seventy-two.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">We lay beneath a spreading oak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside a mossy seat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And from the turf a fountain broke<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And gurgled at our feet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us match<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">This water's pleasant tune<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With some old border-song, or catch<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That suits a summer's noon;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Or of the church-clock and the chimes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sing here beneath the shade<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That half-mad thing of witty rhymes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which you last April made!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">In silence Matthew lay, and eyed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The spring beneath the tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And thus the dear old man replied,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The gray-hair'd man of glee:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How merrily it goes!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twill murmur on a thousand years<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And flow as now it flows.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And here, on this delightful day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I cannot choose but think<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How oft, a vigorous man, I lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Beside this fountain's brink.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'My eyes are dim with childish tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heart is idly stirr'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For the same sound is in my ears<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which in those days I heard.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Thus fares it still in our decay:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And yet the wiser mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Mourns less for what Age takes away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Than what it leaves behind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'The blackbird amid leafy trees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The lark above the hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Let loose their carols when they please,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are quiet when they will.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'With Nature never do they wage<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A foolish strife; they see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A happy youth, and their old age<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is beautiful and free:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'But we are press'd by heavy laws;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And often, glad no more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We wear a face of joy, because<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">We have been glad of yore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'If there be one who need bemoan<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">His kindred laid in earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The household hearts that were his own,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is the man of mirth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'My days, my friend, are almost gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My life has been approved,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And many love me; but by none<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Am I enough beloved.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Now both himself and me he wrongs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The man who thus complains!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I live and sing my idle songs<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Upon these happy plains:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'And Matthew, for thy children dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I'll be a son to thee!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At this he grasp'd my hand and said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Alas! that cannot be.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&mdash;We rose up from the fountain-side;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And down the smooth descent<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the green sheep-track did we glide;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And through the wood we went;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And ere we came to Leonard's rock<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He sang those witty rhymes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">About the crazy old church-clock,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the bewilder'd chimes.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXII" id="CCCXXXII"></a>CCCXXXII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE RIVER OF LIFE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The more we live, more brief appear<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our life's succeeding stages:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A day to childhood seems a year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And years like passing ages.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The gladsome current of our youth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ere passion yet disorders,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Steals lingering like a river smooth<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Along its grassy borders.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Ye Stars, that measure life to man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Why seem your courses quicker?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When joys have lost their bloom and breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And life itself is vapid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Feel we its tide more rapid?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">It may be strange&mdash;yet who would change<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Time's course to slower speeding,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When one by one our friends have gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And left our bosoms bleeding?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Heaven gives our years of fading strength<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Indemnifying fleetness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And those of youth, a seeming length,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Proportion'd to their sweetness.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>T. Campbell</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXIII" id="CCCXXXIII"></a>CCCXXXIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE HUMAN SEASONS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">There are four seasons in the mind of man:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Takes in all beauty with an easy span:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He has his Summer, when luxuriously<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To ruminate, and by such dreaming high<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">He furleth close; contented so to look<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On mists in idleness&mdash;to let fair things<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Or else he would forego his mortal nature.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>J. Keats</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXIV" id="CCCXXXIV"></a>CCCXXXIV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>A DIRGE</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Rough wind, that meanest loud<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Grief too sad for song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Wild wind, when sullen cloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Knells all the night long;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sad storm whose tears are vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bare woods whose branches stain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Deep caves and dreary main,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Wail for the world's wrong!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXV" id="CCCXXXV"></a>CCCXXXV</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THRENOS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O World! O Life! O Time!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On whose last steps I climb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Trembling at that where I had stood before;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When will return the glory of your prime?<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">No more&mdash;Oh, never more!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Out of the day and night<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A joy has taken flight:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">No more&mdash;Oh, never more!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXVI" id="CCCXXXVI"></a>CCCXXXVI</h2>
+
+<h2><i>THE TROSACHS</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But were an apt confessional for One<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That Life is but a tale of morning grass<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Untouch'd, unbreathed upon:&mdash;Thrice happy quest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">If from a golden perch of aspen spray<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">(October's workmanship to rival May),<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXVII" id="CCCXXXVII"></a>CCCXXXVII</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My heart leaps up when I behold<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">A rainbow in the sky:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So was it when my life began,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So is it now I am a man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So be it when I shall grow old<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Or let me die!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Child is father of the Man:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I could wish my days to be<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bound each to each by natural piety.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXVIII" id="CCCXXXVIII"></a>CCCXXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h2><i>ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY<br />
+FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY<br />
+CHILDHOOD</i></h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The earth, and every common sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">To me did seem<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Apparell'd in celestial light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The glory and the freshness of a dream.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It is not now as it hath been of yore;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Turn wheresoe'er I may,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">By night or day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The things which I have seen I now can see no more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">The rainbow comes and goes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And lovely is the rose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The moon doth with delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Look round her when the heavens are bare;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Waters on a starry night<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Are beautiful and fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The sunshine is a glorious birth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But yet I know, where'er I go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That there hath past away a glory from the earth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And while the young lambs bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As to the tabor's sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span><span class="i0">To me alone there came a thought of grief:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A timely utterance gave that thought relief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And I again am strong.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And all the earth is gay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Land and sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Give themselves up to jollity.<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And with the heart of May<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Doth every beast keep holiday;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Thou child of joy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Ye bless&eacute;d Creatures, I have heard the call<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Ye to each other make; I see<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My heart is at your festival,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">My head hath its coronal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The fulness of your bliss, I feel&mdash;I feel it all.<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Oh evil day! if I were sullen<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">While Earth herself is adorning<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">This sweet May-morning;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And the children are culling<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">On every side<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">In a thousand valleys far and wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">&mdash;But there's a tree, of many, one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A single field which I have look'd upon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Both of them speak of something that is gone:<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">The pansy at my feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Doth the same tale repeat:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Whither is fled the visionary gleam?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Where is it now, the glory and the dream?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Hath had elsewhere its setting<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And cometh from afar;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span><span class="i4">Not in entire forgetfulness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And not in utter nakedness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But trailing clouds of glory do we come<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">From God, who is our home:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heaven lies about us in our infancy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shades of the prison-house begin to close<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Upon the growing Boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">He sees it in his joy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The Youth, who daily farther from the east<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Must travel, still is Nature's priest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And by the vision splendid<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Is on his way attended;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">At length the Man perceives it die away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And fade into the light of common day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And, even with something of a mother's mind<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And no unworthy aim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The homely nurse doth all she can<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Forget the glories he hath known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that imperial palace whence he came.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A six years' darling of a pigmy size:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With light upon him from his father's eyes!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Some fragment from his dream of human life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shaped by himself with newly-learn&eacute;d art;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">A wedding or a festival,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">A mourning or a funeral;<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">And this hath now his heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And unto this he frames his song:<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Then will he fit his tongue<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To dialogues of business, love, or strife;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">But it will not be long<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ere this be thrown aside,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And with new joy and pride<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span><span class="i0">The little actor cons another part;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That life brings with her in her equipage;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As if his whole vocation<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Were endless imitation.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Thy soul's immensity;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">On whom those truths do rest<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which we are toiling all our lives to find,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou, over whom thy Immortality<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">A Presence which is not to be put by;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thou little child, yet glorious in the might<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The years to bring the inevitable yoke,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And custom lie upon thee with a weight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">O joy! that in our embers<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Is something that doth live,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">That Nature yet remembers<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">What was so fugitive!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The thought of our past years in me doth breed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Perpetual benediction: not indeed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">For that which is most worthy to be blest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Delight and liberty, the simple creed<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">&mdash;Not for these I raise<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">The song of thanks and praise;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But for those obstinate questionings<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span><span class="i2">Of sense and outward things,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fallings from us, vanishings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Blank misgivings of a creature<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Moving about in worlds not realized,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">High instincts, before which our mortal nature<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized:<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But for those first affections,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Those shadowy recollections,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Which, be they what they may,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our noisy years seem moments in the being<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">To perish never;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Nor man nor boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nor all that is at enmity with joy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Can utterly abolish or destroy!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Hence, in a season of calm weather<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Though inland far we be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our souls have sight of that immortal sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Which brought us hither;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Can in a moment travel thither&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And see the children sport upon the shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">And let the young lambs bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">As to the tabor's sound!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">We, in thought, will join your throng<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ye that pipe and ye that play,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Ye that through your hearts to-day<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Feel the gladness of the May!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">What though the radiance which was once so bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Be now for ever taken from my sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though nothing can bring back the hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">We will grieve not, rather find<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Strength in what remains behind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In the primal sympathy<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Which having been must ever be;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span><span class="i4">In the soothing thoughts that spring<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">Out of human suffering;<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">In the faith that looks through death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In years that bring the philosophic mind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Forbode not any severing of our loves!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I only have relinquish'd one delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To live beneath your more habitual sway:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I love the brooks which down their channels fret<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The innocent brightness of a new-born day<br /></span>
+<span class="i6">Is lovely yet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The clouds that gather round the setting sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Do take a sober colouring from an eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Another race hath been, and other palms are won.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thanks to the human heart by which we live,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">To me the meanest flower that blows can give<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>W. Wordsworth</i></p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h2><a name="CCCXXXIX" id="CCCXXXIX"></a>CCCXXXIX</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Music, when soft voices die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Vibrates in the memory&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Odours, when sweet violets sicken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Live within the sense they quicken.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Love itself shall slumber on.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="p1"><i>P. B. Shelley</i></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<h3>End of the Golden Treasury</h3>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="NOTES" id="NOTES"></a>NOTES</h2>
+
+<h2>INDEX OF WRITERS</h2>
+
+<h5>AND</h5>
+<h2>INDEX OF FIRST LINES</h2>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span></p>
+<h2>NOTES</h2>
+
+<h3>(1861&mdash;1891)</h3>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3><i>Summary of Book First</i></h3>
+<p>The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the
+substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry
+VIII to Shakespeare midway through the reign of James I, and Drummond
+who carried on the early manner to a still later period. There is here
+a wide range of style;&mdash;from simplicity expressed in a language hardly
+yet broken-in to verse,&mdash;through the pastoral fancies and Italian
+conceits of the strictly Elizabethan time,&mdash;to the passionate reality
+of Shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few readers
+can fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the
+single-hearted straightforwardness of the thoughts:&mdash;nor less, the
+limitation of subject to the many phases of one passion, which then
+characterized our lyrical poetry,&mdash;unless when, as in especial with
+Shakespeare, the 'purple light of Love' is tempered by a spirit of
+sterner reflection. For the didactic verse of the century, although
+lyrical in form, yet very rarely rises to the pervading emotion, the
+golden cadence, proper to the lyric.</p>
+
+<p>It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in
+the main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its
+restriction to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative or historical
+Anthology has not been aimed at. Great excellence, in human art as in
+human character, has from the beginning of things been even more
+uniform than mediocrity, by virtue of the closeness of its approach to
+Nature:&mdash;and so far as the standard of Excellence kept in view has
+been attained in this volume, a comparative absence of extreme or
+temporary phases in style, a similarity of tone and manner, will be
+found throughout:&mdash;something neither modern nor ancient, but true and
+speaking to the heart of man alike throughout all ages.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span></p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap f1">page no.</span></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_2">2</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;3 <i>whist</i>: hushed, quieted.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&nbsp;&nbsp;4 <i>Rouse Memnon's mother</i>: Awaken the Dawn from the dark Earth and
+the clouds where she is resting. This is one of that limited class of
+early mythes which may be reasonably interpreted as representations of
+natural phenomena. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of Memnon
+(the East), and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and Sky
+during the last hours of Night). She leaves him every morning in
+renewed youth, to prepare the way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst
+Tithonus remains in perpetual old age and grayness.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_3">3</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;&mdash; l. 23 <i>by Peneus' stream</i>: Phoebus loved the Nymph Daphne whom he
+met by the river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. L. 27 <i>Amphion's lyre</i>:
+He was said to have built the walls of Thebes to the sound of his
+music. L. 35 <i>Night like a drunkard reels</i>: Compare Romeo and Juliet,
+Act II, Scene 3: 'The grey-eyed morn smiles,' &amp;c.&mdash;It should be added
+that three lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been
+omitted in this Poem.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_4">4</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;6 <i>Time's chest</i>: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up
+past treasures. So in Troilus, Act III, Scene 3, 'Time hath a wallet
+at his back' &amp;c. In the <i>Arcadia</i>, <i>chest</i> is used to signify <i>tomb</i>.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_5">5</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;7 A fine example of the high wrought and conventional Elizabethan
+Pastoralism, which it would be unreasonable to criticize on the ground
+of the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested.
+Stanza 6 was perhaps inserted by Izaak Walton.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_6">6</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;8 This beautiful lyric is one of several recovered from the very
+rare Elizabethan Song-books, for the publication of which our thanks
+are due to Mr. A. H. Bullen (1887, 1888).</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_8">8</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;12 One stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with the
+principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in a few
+other poems. The more serious abbreviation by which it has been
+attempted to bring Crashaw's 'Wishes' and Shelley's 'Euganean Hills,'
+with one or two more, within the scheme of this selection, is
+commended with much diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted
+with the original pieces.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_9">9</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;13 Sidney's poetry is singularly unequal; his short life, his
+frequent absorption in public employment, hindered doubtless the
+development of his genius. His great contemporary fame, second only,
+it appears, to Spenser's, has been hence obscured. At times he is
+heavy and even prosaic; his simplicity is rude and bare; his verse
+unmelodious. These, however, are the 'defects of his merits.' In<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span> a
+certain depth and chivalry of feeling,&mdash;in the rare and noble quality
+of disinterestedness (to put it in one word),&mdash;he has no superior,
+hardly perhaps an equal, amongst our Poets; and after or beside
+Shakespeare's Sonnets, his <i>Astrophel and Stella</i>, in the Editor's
+judgment, offers the most intense and powerful picture of the passion
+of love in the whole range of our poetry.&mdash;<i>Hundreds of years</i>: 'The
+very rapture of love,' says Mr. Ruskin; 'A lover like this does not
+believe his mistress can grow old or die.'</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_12">12</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;19 Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more than one
+picture by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure in
+its Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to 'the
+Islands of Terceras and the Canaries;' and he seems to have caught, in
+those southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked
+the almost contemporary Art of Venice,&mdash;the glory and the glow of
+Veronese, Titian, or Tintoret.&mdash;From the same romance is No. 71: a
+charming picture in the purest style of the later Italian Renaissance.</p>
+
+<p><i>The clear</i> (l. 1) is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old
+cosmography. <i>For a fair there's fairer none</i>: If you desire a Beauty,
+there is none more beautiful than Rosaline.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_14">14</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 22 Another gracious lyric from an Elizabethan Song-book, first
+reprinted (it is believed) in Mr. W. J. Linton's 'Rare Poems,' in
+1883.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_15">15</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 23 <i>that fair thou owest</i>: that beauty thou ownest.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_16">16</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 25 From one of the three Song-books of T. Campion, who appears to
+have been author of the words which he set to music. His merit as a
+lyrical poet (recognized in his own time, but since then forgotten)
+has been again brought to light by Mr. Bullen's taste and
+research:&mdash;<i>swerving</i> (st. 2) is his conjecture for <i>changing</i> in the
+text of 1601.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_20">20</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 31 <i>the star Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken</i>:
+apparently, Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his
+angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon
+used by astrologers has been determined.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_20">20</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 32 This lovely song appears, as here given, in Puttenham's 'Arte of
+English Poesie,' 1589. A longer and inferior form was published in the
+'Arcadia' of 1590: but Puttenham's prefatory words clearly assign his
+version to Sidney's own authorship.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_23">23</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 37 <i>keel</i>: keep cooler by stirring round.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_24">24</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 39 <i>expense</i>: loss.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; 40 <i>prease</i>: press.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_25">25</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 41 <i>Nativity, once in the main of light</i>: when a star has risen and
+entered on the full stream of light;&mdash;another of the astrological
+phrases no longer familiar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span></p>
+
+<p><i>Crooked</i> eclipses: as coming athwart the Sun's apparent course.</p>
+
+<p>Wordsworth, thinking probably of the 'Venus' and the 'Lucrece,' said
+finely of Shakespeare: 'Shakespeare <i>could</i> not have written an Epic;
+he would have died of plethora of thought.' This prodigality of nature
+is exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The copious selection here
+given (which from the wealth of the material, required greater
+consideration than any other portion of the Editor's task),&mdash;contains
+many that will not be fully felt and understood without some
+earnestness of thought on the reader's part. But he is not likely to
+regret the labour.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_26">26</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 42 <i>upon misprision growing</i>: either, granted in error, or, on the
+growth of contempt.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; 43 With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's 'Give me that man
+That is not passion's slave' &amp;c. Shakespeare's writings show the
+deepest sensitiveness to passion:&mdash;hence the attraction he felt in the
+contrasting effects of apathy.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_26">26</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 44 <i>grame</i>: sorrow. Renaissance influences long impeded the return
+of English poets to the charming realism of this and a few other poems
+by Wyat.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_28">28</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 45 Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_29">29</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 47 In the old legend it is now Philomela, now Procne (the swallow)
+who suffers violence from Tereus. This song has a fascination in its
+calm intensity of passion; that 'sad earnestness and vivid exactness'
+which Cardinal Newman ascribes to the master-pieces of ancient poetry.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_31">31</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 50 <i>proved</i>: approved.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; 51 <i>censures</i>: judges.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; 52 Exquisite in its equably-balanced metrical flow.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_32">32</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 53 Judging by its style, this beautiful example of old simplicity
+and feeling may, perhaps, be referred to the earlier years of
+Elizabeth. <i>Late</i> forgot: lately.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_35">35</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 57 Printed in a little Anthology by Nicholas Breton, 1597. It is,
+however, a stronger and finer piece of work than any known to be
+his.&mdash;St. 1 <i>silly</i>: simple; <i>dole</i>: grief; <i>chief</i>: chiefly. St. 3
+<i>If there be</i> ...: obscure: Perhaps, if there be any who speak harshly
+of thee, thy pain may plead for pity from Fate.</p>
+
+<p>This poem, with 60 and 143, are each graceful variations of a long
+popular theme.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_36">36</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 58 <i>That busy archer:</i> Cupid. <i>Descries</i>: used actively; <i>points
+out</i>.&mdash;'The last line of this poem is a little obscured by
+transposition. He means, <i>Do they call ungratefulness there a
+virtue?</i>' (C. Lamb).</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_37">37</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 59 <i>White Iope</i>: suggested, Mr. Bullen notes, by a passage in
+Propertius (iii, 20) describing Spirits in the lower world:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Vobiscum est Iope, vobiscum candida Tyro.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span></div></div>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_38">38</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 62 <i>cypres</i> or cyprus,&mdash;used by the old writers for <i>crape</i>:
+whether from the French <i>crespe</i> or from the Island whence it was
+imported. Its accidental similarity in spelling to <i>cypress</i> has, here
+and in Milton's Penseroso, probably confused readers.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_39">39</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 63 <i>ramage</i>: confused noise.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_41">41</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 66 'I never saw anything like this funeral dirge,' says Charles
+Lamb, 'except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father
+in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the
+earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to
+resolve itself into the element which it contemplates.'</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_43">43</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 70 Paraphrased from an Italian madrigal</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">... Non so conoscer poi<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Se voi le rose, o sian le rose in voi.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_44">44</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 72 <i>crystal</i>: fairness.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_45">45</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 73 <i>stare</i>: starling.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; 74 This 'Spousal Verse' was written in honour of the Ladies
+Elizabeth and Katherine Somerset. Nowhere has Spenser more
+emphatically displayed himself as the very poet of Beauty: The
+Renaissance impulse in England is here seen at its highest and purest.</p>
+
+<p>The genius of Spenser, like Chaucer's, does itself justice only in
+poems of some length. Hence it is impossible to represent it in this
+volume by other pieces of equal merit, but of impracticable
+dimensions. And the same applies to such poems as the <i>Lover's Lament</i>
+or the <i>Ancient Mariner</i>.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_46">46</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>entrailed</i>: twisted. Feateously: elegantly.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_48">48</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>shend</i>: shame.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_49">49</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>a noble peer</i>: Robert Devereux, second Lord Essex, then at the
+height of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz: hence the allusion
+following to the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient
+legend.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; &mdash; <i>Elisa</i>: Elizabeth.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_50">50</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>twins of Jove</i>: the stars Castor and Pollux: <i>baldric</i>, belt;
+the zodiac.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_52">52</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 79 This lyric may with very high probability be assigned to
+Campion, in whose first Book of Airs it appeared (1601). The evidence
+sometimes quoted ascribing it to Lord Bacon appears to be valueless.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<h3><i>Summary of Book Second.</i></h3>
+
+<p>This division, embracing generally the latter eighty years of the
+Seventeenth century, contains the close of our Early poetical style
+and the commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master
+of the new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in
+the former book,&mdash;the crown and consummation of the early period.
+Their splendid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span> Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts,
+Spenser's excepted: they exhibit that wider and grander range which
+years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on
+Poetry. Our Muses now give expression to political feeling, to
+religious thought, to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such
+as Marvell, Herbert, and Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again,
+we find noble attempts, hitherto rare in our literature, at pure
+description of nature, destined in our own age to be continued and
+equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although before 1660
+often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought, and
+afterwards by levity and an artificial tone,&mdash;produced in Herrick and
+Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan:
+until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself,
+and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of
+Wither and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.&mdash;That the change
+from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of
+nature and simplicity is undeniable; yet the bolder and wider scope
+which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts
+then made to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results
+have been no slight compensation.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="smcap f1">page no.</span></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_58">58</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 85 l. 8 <i>whist</i>: hushed.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; &mdash; l. 32 <i>than</i>: obsolete for <i>then</i>: <i>Pan</i>: used here for the Lord
+of all.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_59">59</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 38 <i>consort</i>: Milton's spelling of this word, here and
+elsewhere, has been followed, as it is uncertain whether he used it in
+the sense of <i>accompanying</i>, or simply for <i>concert</i>.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_61">61</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 21 <i>Lars and Lemures</i>: household gods and spirits of
+relations dead. <i>Flamens</i> (l. 24) Roman priests. <i>That twice-batter'd
+god</i> (l. 29) Dagon.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_62">62</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 6 <i>Osiris</i>, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, perhaps by
+confusion with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by Typho and
+embalmed after death in a sacred chest. This mythe, reproduced in Syria
+and Greece in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, may
+have originally signified the annual death of the Sun or the Year under
+the influences of the winter darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the
+New Year, in his turn overcomes Typho. L. 8 <i>unshower'd</i> grass: as watered
+by the Nile only. L. 33 <i>youngest-teemed</i>: last-born. <i>Bright-harness'd</i>
+(l. 37) armoured.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_64">64</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 87 <i>The Late Massacre</i>: the Vaudois persecution, carried on in 1655
+by the Duke of Savoy. No more mighty Sonnet than this 'collect in
+verse,' as it has been justly named, probably can be found in any
+language. Readers should observe that it is constructed on the
+original Italian or Proven&ccedil;al model. This form, in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span> language such as
+ours, not affluent in rhyme, presents great difficulties; the rhymes
+are apt to be forced, or the substance commonplace. But, when
+successfully handled, it has a unity and a beauty of effect which
+place the strict Sonnet above the less compact and less lyrical
+systems adopted by Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and other Elizabethan
+poets.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_65">65</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 88 Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650, and Marvell probably
+wrote his lines soon after, whilst living at Nunappleton in the
+Fairfax household. It is hence not surprising that (st. 21-24) he
+should have been deceived by Cromwell's professed submissiveness to
+the Parliament which, when it declined to register his decrees, he
+expelled by armed violence:&mdash;one despotism, by natural law, replacing
+another. The poet's insight has, however, truly prophesied that result
+in his last two lines.</p>
+
+<p>This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in
+Milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is
+occasionally obscure from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The
+meaning of st. 5 is 'rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty
+spirit, and limitation more hateful than opposition.' The allusion in
+st. 11 is to the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a
+vacuum and the impenetrability of matter:&mdash;in st. 17 to the omen
+traditionally connected with the foundation of the Capitol at
+Rome:&mdash;<i>forced</i>, fated. The ancient belief that certain years in life
+complete natural periods and are hence peculiarly exposed to death, is
+introduced in st. 26 by the word <i>climacteric</i>.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_68">68</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 89 <i>Lycidas</i>: The person here lamented is Milton's college
+contemporary, Edward King, drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from
+Chester to Ireland.</p>
+
+<p>Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian
+Greeks settled in Sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited
+more magnificently in <i>Lycidas</i> than in any other pastoral, is
+apparently of Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom of a
+great artist, has here united ancient mythology, with what may be
+called the modern mythology of Camus and Saint Peter,&mdash;to direct
+Christian images. Yet the poem, if it gains in historical interest,
+suffers in poetry by the harsh intrusion of the writer's narrow and
+violent theological politics.&mdash;The metrical structure of this glorious
+elegy is partly derived from Italian models.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_69">69</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 11 <i>Sisters of the sacred well</i>: the Muses, said to frequent
+the Pierian Spring at the foot of Mount Olympus.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_70">70</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 10 <i>Mona</i>: Anglesea, called by the Welsh poets, the Dark
+Island, from its dense forests. <i>Deva</i> (l. 11) the Dee: a river which
+may have derived its magical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span> character from Celtic traditions: it was
+long the boundary of Briton and English.&mdash;These places are introduced,
+as being near the scene of the shipwreck. <i>Orpheus</i> (l. 14) was torn
+to pieces by Thracian women. <i>Amaryllis</i> and <i>Neaera</i> (l. 24, 25)
+names used here for the love-idols of poets: as <i>Damoetas</i> previously
+for a shepherd. L. 31 <i>the blind Fury</i>: Atropos, fabled to cut the
+thread of life.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_71">71</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 89 <i>Arethuse</i> (l. 1) and <i>Mincius</i>: Sicilian and Italian waters
+here alluded to as representing the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and
+Vergil. L. 4 <i>oat</i>: pipe, used here like Collins' <i>oaten stop</i> l. 1,
+No. 186, for <i>Song</i>. L. 12 <i>Hippotades</i>: Aeolus, god of the Winds.
+<i>Panope</i> (l. 15) a Nereid. Certain names of local deities in the
+Hellenic mythology render some feature in the natural landscape, which
+the Greeks studied and analysed with their usual unequalled insight
+and feeling. <i>Panope</i> seems to express the boundlessness of the
+ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared with the limited
+sky-line of the land in hilly countries such as Greece or Asia Minor.
+<i>Camus</i> (l. 19) the Cam: put for King's University. <i>The sanguine
+flower</i> (l. 22) the Hyacinth of the ancients: probably our Iris. <i>The
+Pilot</i> (l. 25) Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the
+Church on earth, to foretell 'the ruin of our corrupted clergy,' as
+Milton regarded them, 'then in their heighth' under Laud's primacy.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_72">72</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 1 <i>scrannel</i>: screeching; apparently Milton's coinage
+(Masson). L. 5 <i>the wolf</i>: the Puritans of the time were excited to
+alarm and persecution by a few conversions to Roman Catholicism which
+had recently occurred. <i>Alpheus</i> (l. 9) a stream in Southern Greece,
+supposed to flow underseas to join the Arethuse. <i>Swart star</i> (l. 15)
+the Dog-star, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in ancient
+times occurred soon after midsummer: l. 19 <i>rathe</i>: early. L. 36
+<i>moist vows</i>: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea.
+<i>Bellerus</i> (l. 37) a giant, apparently created here by Milton to
+personify Belerium, the ancient title of the Land's End. <i>The great
+Vision</i>:&mdash;the story was that the Archangel Michael had appeared on the
+rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name. Milton calls on
+him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to pity Lycidas, if
+his body has drifted into the troubled waters off the Land's End.
+Finisterre being the land due south of Marazion, two places in that
+district (then through our trade with Corunna probably less unfamiliar
+to English ears), are named,&mdash;<i>Namancos</i> now Mujio in Galicia,
+<i>Bayona</i> north of the Minho, or perhaps a fortified rock (one of the
+<i>Cies</i> Islands) not unlike Saint Michael's Mount, at the entrance of
+Vigo Bay.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_73">73</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 89 l. 6 <i>ore</i>: rays of golden light. <i>Doric</i> lay (l. 25) Sicilian,
+pastoral.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_75">75</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 93 <i>The assault</i> was an attack on London expected in 1642, when the
+troops of Charles I reached Brentford. 'Written on his door' was in
+the original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in
+Aldersgate Street.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Emathian Conqueror</i>: When Thebes was destroyed (<span class="smcap">B.C.</span> 335) and the
+citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar
+to be spared.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_76">76</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 2, <i>the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet</i>: Plutarch has a
+tale that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took Athens, a
+proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect produced on
+the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the <i>Electra</i> of
+Euripides sung at a feast. There is however no apparent congruity
+between the lines quoted (167, 168 Ed. Dindorf) and the result
+ascribed to them.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; 95 A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry;&mdash;that written by
+thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Jeremy Taylor,
+Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay, have left similar
+specimens.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_78">78</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 98 These beautiful verses should be compared with Wordsworth's
+great Ode on <i>Immortality</i>: and a copy of Vaughan's very rare little
+volume appears in the list of Wordsworth's library.&mdash;In imaginative
+intensity, Vaughan stands beside his contemporary Marvell.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_79">79</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 99 <i>Favonius</i>: the spring wind.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_80">80</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 100 <i>Themis</i>: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grandson by his
+mother to Sir E. Coke:&mdash;hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley,
+Milton's allusion to the <i>bench</i>. L. 8: Sweden was then at war with
+Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_82">82</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 103 l. 28 <i>Sidneian showers</i>: either in allusion to the
+conversations in the 'Arcadia,' or to Sidney himself as a model of
+'gentleness' in spirit and demeanour.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_85">85</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 105 Delicate humour, delightfully united to thought, at once simple
+and subtle. It is full of conceit and paradox, but these are
+imaginative, not as with most of our Seventeenth Century poets,
+intellectual only.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_88">88</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 110 <i>Elizabeth of Bohemia</i>: Daughter to James I, and ancestor of
+Sophia of Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant and
+courtly compliment.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_89">89</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 111 Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards Earl of
+Marlborough, who died March, 1629, coincidently with the dissolution
+of the third Parliament of Charles' reign. Hence Milton poetically
+compares his death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after
+Philip's victory in 328 B.C.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_93">93</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 118 A masterpiece of humour, grace, and gentle feeling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span> all, with
+Herrick's unfailing art, kept precisely within the peculiar key which
+he chose,&mdash;or Nature for him,&mdash;in his Pastorals. L. 2 <i>the god
+unshorn</i>: Imberbis Apollo. St. 2 <i>beads</i>: prayers.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_96">96</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 123 With better taste, and less diffuseness, Quarles might (one
+would think) have retained more of that high place which he held in
+popular estimate among his contemporaries.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_99">99</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 127 <i>From Prison</i>: to which his active support of Charles I twice
+brought the high-spirited writer. L. 7 <i>Gods</i>: thus in the original;
+Lovelace, in his fanciful way, making here a mythological allusion.
+<i>Birds</i>, commonly substituted, is without authority. St. 3, l. 1
+<i>committed</i>: to prison.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_100">100</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 128 St. 2 l. 4 <i>blue-god</i>: Neptune.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_104">104</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 133 <i>Waly waly</i>: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the
+pronunciation of which are preserved in the word <i>caterwaul</i>. <i>Brae</i>,
+hillside: <i>burn</i>, brook: <i>busk</i>, adorn. <i>Saint Anton's Well</i>: below
+Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh. <i>Cramasie</i>, crimson.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_105">105</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 134 This beautiful example of early simplicity is found in a
+Song-book of 1620.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_106">106</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 135 <i>burd</i>, maiden.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_107">107</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 136 <i>corbies</i>, crows: <i>fail</i>, turf: <i>hause</i>, neck: <i>theek</i>,
+thatch.&mdash;If not in their origin, in their present form this, with the
+preceding poem and 133, appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and
+have therefore been placed in Book II.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_108">108</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 137 The poetical and the prosaic, after Cowley's fashion, blend
+curiously in this deeply-felt elegy.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_112">112</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 141 Perhaps no poem in this collection is more delicately fancied,
+more exquisitely finished. By placing his description of the Fawn in a
+young girl's mouth, Marvell has, as it were, legitimated that
+abundance of 'imaginative hyperbole' to which he is always partial: he
+makes us feel it natural that a maiden's favourite should be whiter
+than milk, sweeter than sugar&mdash;'lilies without, roses within,' The
+poet's imagination is justified in its seeming extravagance by the
+intensity and unity with which it invests his picture.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_113">113</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 142 The remark quoted in the note to No. 65 applies equally to
+these truly wonderful verses. Marvell here throws himself into the
+very soul of the <i>Garden</i> with the imaginative intensity of Shelley in
+his <i>West Wind</i>.&mdash;This poem appears also as a translation in Marvell's
+works. The most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is
+rare, answer more or less to stanzas 2 and 6:&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Alma Quies, teneo te! et te, germana Quietis,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Simplicitas! vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Celarunt plantae virides, et concolor umbra.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span>
+</p>
+<p><a href="#Page_115">115</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 143 St. 3 <i>tutties</i>: nosegays. St. 4 <i>silly</i>: simple.</p>
+
+<p><i>L'All&eacute;gro</i> and <i>Il Penseroso</i>. It is a striking proof of Milton's
+astonishing power, that these, the earliest great Lyrics of the
+Landscape in our language, should still remain supreme in their style
+for range, variety, and melodious beauty. The Bright and the
+Thoughtful aspects of Nature and of Life are their subjects: but each
+is preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixed Classical and
+Italian manner.&mdash;With that of <i>L'All&eacute;gro</i> may be compared a similar
+mythe in the first Section of the first Book of S. Marmion's graceful
+<i>Cupid and Psyche</i>, 1637.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_116">116</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 144 <i>The mountain-nymph</i>; compare Wordsworth's Sonnet, No. 254. L.
+38 is in <i>apposition</i> to the preceding, by a syntactical license not
+uncommon with Milton.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_118">118</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 14 <i>Cynosure</i>; the Pole Star. <i>Corydon</i>, <i>Thyrsis</i>, &amp;c.:
+Shepherd names from the old Idylls. <i>Rebeck</i> (l. 28) an elementary
+form of violin.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_119">119</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 24 <i>Jonson's learned sock</i>: His comedies are deeply coloured
+by classical study. L. 28 <i>Lydian airs</i>: used here to express a light
+and festive style of ancient music. The 'Lydian Mode,' one of the
+seven original Greek Scales, is nearly identical with our 'Major.'</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_120">120</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 145 l. 3 <i>bestead</i>: avail. L. 10 <i>starr'd Ethiop queen</i>:
+Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and thence translated
+amongst the constellations.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_121">121</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>Cynthia</i>: the Moon: Milton seems here to have transferred to
+her chariot the dragons anciently assigned to Demeter and to Medea.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_122">122</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>Hermes</i>, called Trismegistus, a mystical writer of the
+Neo-Platonist school. L. 27 <i>Thebes</i>, &amp;c.: subjects of Athenian
+Tragedy. <i>Buskin'd</i> (l. 30) tragic, in opposition to sock above. L. 32
+<i>Musaeus</i>: a poet in Mythology. L. 37 <i>him that left half-told</i>:
+Chaucer in his incomplete 'Squire's Tale.'</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_123">123</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>great bards</i>: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are here presumably
+intended. L. 9 <i>frounced</i>: curled. <i>The Attic Boy</i> (l. 10) Cephalus.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_124">124</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 146 Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by the
+government of Charles I.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_125">125</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 9, 10. <i>But apples</i>, &amp;c. A fine example of Marvell's
+imaginative hyperbole.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; 147 l. 6 <i>concent</i>: harmony.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_128">128</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 149 A lyric of a strange, fanciful, yet solemn beauty:&mdash;Cowley's
+style intensified by the mysticism of Henry More.&mdash;St. 2 <i>monument</i>:
+the World.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_129">129</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 151 Entitled 'A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day: 1697.'</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3><i>Summary of Book Third</i></h3>
+
+<p>It is more difficult to characterize 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 absolute contrasts as distinguish 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:&mdash;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:&mdash;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 conventional and of common language, 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 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:&mdash;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 many
+complex causes which made the Eighteenth century the turning-time in
+modern European civilization are also more or less reflected 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.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap f1">page no.</span></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_134">134</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 153 We have no poet more marked by rapture, by the ecstasy which
+Plato held the note of genuine inspiration, than Collins. Yet but
+twice or thrice do his lyrics reach that simplicity, that <i>sinceram
+sermonis Attici gratiam</i> to which this ode testifies his enthusiastic
+devotion. His style, as his friend Dr. Johnson truly remarks, was
+obscure; his diction often harsh and unskilfully laboured; he
+struggles nobly against the narrow, artificial manner of his age, but
+his too scanty years did not allow him to reach perfect mastery.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span> St.
+3 <i>Hybla</i>: near Syracuse. <i>Her whose ... woe</i>: the nightingale, 'for
+which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness';
+Collins here refers to the famous chorus in the <i>Oedipus at Colonus</i>.
+St. 4 <i>Cephisus</i>: the stream encircling Athens on the north and west,
+passing Colonus. St. 6 <i>stay'd to sing</i>: stayed her song when Imperial
+tyranny was established at Rome. St. 7 refers to the Italian amourist
+poetry of the Renaissance: In Collins' day, Dante was almost unknown
+in England. St. 8 <i>meeting soul</i>: which moves sympathetically towards
+Simplicity as she comes to inspire the poet. St. 9 <i>Of these</i>: Taste
+and Genius.</p>
+
+<p><i>The Bard.</i> In 1757, when this splendid ode was completed, so very
+little had been printed, whether in Wales or in England, in regard to
+Welsh poetry, that it is hard to discover whence Gray drew his Cymric
+allusions. The fabled massacre of the Bards (shown to be wholly
+groundless in Stephens' <i>Literature of the Kymry</i>) appears first in
+the family history of Sir John Wynn of Gwydir (cir. 1600), not
+published till 1773; but the story seems to have passed in MS. to
+Carte's History, whence it may have been taken by Gray. The references
+to <i>high-born Hoel</i> and <i>soft Llewellyn</i>; to <i>Cadwallo</i> and <i>Urien</i>;
+may, similarly, have been derived from the 'Specimens' of early Welsh
+poetry, by the Rev. E. Evans:&mdash;as, although not published till 1764,
+the MS., we learn from a letter to Dr. Wharton, was in Gray's hands by
+July 1760, and may have reached him by 1757. It is, however, doubtful
+whether Gray (of whose acquaintance with Welsh we have no evidence)
+must not have been also aided by some Welsh scholar. He is one of the
+poets least likely to scatter epithets at random: 'soft' or gentle is
+the epithet emphatically and specially given to Llewelyn in
+contemporary Welsh poetry, and is hence here used with particular
+propriety. Yet, without such assistance as we have suggested, Gray
+could hardly have selected the epithet, although applied to the King
+(p. 141-3) among a crowd of others, in Llygad Gwr's Ode, printed by
+Evans.&mdash;After lamenting his comrades (st. 2, 3) the Bard prophesies
+the fate of Edward II, and the conquests of Edward III (4): his death
+and that of the Black Prince (5): of Richard II, with the wars of York
+and Lancaster, the murder of Henry VI (<i>the meek usurper</i>), and of
+Edward V and his brother (6). He turns to the glory and prosperity
+following the accession of the Tudors (7), through Elizabeth's reign
+(8): and concludes with a vision of the poetry of Shakespeare and
+Milton.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_140">140</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 159 l. 13 <i>Glo'ster</i>: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward.
+<i>Mortimer</i>, one of the Lords Marchers of Wales.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_141">141</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 159 <i>High-born Hoel, soft Llewellyn</i> (l. 15); the <i>Dissertatio de
+Bardis</i> of Evans names the first as son to the King Owain Gwynedd:
+Llewelyn, last King of North Wales, was murdered 1282. L. 16
+<i>Cadwallo</i>: Cadwallon (died 631) and Urien Rheged (early kings of
+Gwynedd and Cumbria respectively) are mentioned by Evans (p. 78) as
+bards none of whose poetry is extant. L. 20 <i>Modred</i>: Evans supplies
+no <i>data</i> for this name, which Gray (it has been supposed) uses for
+Merlin (Myrddin Wyllt), held prophet as well as poet.&mdash;The Italicized
+lines mark where the Bard's song is joined by that of his predecessors
+departed. L. 22 <i>Arvon</i>: the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite
+Anglesey. Whether intentionally or through ignorance of the real
+dates, Gray here seems to represent the <i>Bard</i> as speaking of these
+poets, all of earlier days, Llewelyn excepted, as his own
+contemporaries at the close of the thirteenth century.</p>
+
+<p>Gray, whose penetrating and powerful genius rendered him in many ways
+an initiator in advance of his age, is probably the first of our poets
+who made some acquaintance with the rich and admirable poetry in which
+Wales from the Sixth Century has been fertile,&mdash;before and since his
+time so barbarously neglected, not in England only. Hence it has been
+thought worth while here to enter into a little detail upon his Cymric
+allusions.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_142">142</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 5 <i>She-wolf</i>: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward
+II.&mdash;L. 35 <i>Towers of Julius</i>: the Tower of London, built in part,
+according to tradition, by Julius Caesar.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_143">143</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 2 <i>bristled boar</i>: the badge of Richard III. L. 7 <i>Half of
+thy heart</i>: Queen Eleanor died soon after the conquest of Wales. L. 18
+<i>Arthur</i>: Henry VII named his eldest son thus, in deference to native
+feeling and story.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_144">144</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 161 The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Drumossie.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_145">145</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 162 <i>lilting</i>, singing blithely: <i>loaning</i>, broad lane: <i>bughts</i>,
+pens: <i>scorning</i>, rallying: <i>dowie</i>, dreary: <i>daffin'</i> and <i>gabbin'</i>,
+joking and chatting: <i>leglin</i>, milkpail: <i>shearing</i>, reaping:
+<i>bandsters</i>, sheaf-binders: <i>lyart</i>, grizzled: <i>runkled</i>, wrinkled:
+<i>fleeching</i>, coaxing: <i>gloaming</i>, twilight: <i>bogle</i>, ghost: <i>dool</i>,
+sorrow.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_147">147</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 164 The Editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, to
+his mind superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. Part
+is probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a
+more modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan's poem
+(163) exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old
+verses,&mdash;<i>Hecht</i>, promised; the obsolete <i>hight</i>: <i>mavis</i>, thrush:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span>
+<i>ilka</i>, every: <i>lav'rock</i>, lark: <i>haughs</i>, valley-meadows: <i>twined</i>,
+parted from: <i>marrow</i>, mate: <i>syne</i>, then.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_148">148</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 165 The Royal George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial
+careening at Spithead, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The
+total loss was believed to be nearly 1000 souls.&mdash;This little poem
+might be called one of our trial-pieces, in regard to taste. The
+reader who feels the vigour of description and the force of pathos
+underlying Cowper's bare and truly Greek simplicity of phrase, may
+assure himself <i>se valde profecisse</i> in poetry.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_151">151</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 167 A little masterpiece in a very difficult style: Catullus
+himself could hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness,
+simplicity, and humour, it is worthy of the Ancients: and even more
+so, from the completeness and unity of the picture presented.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_155">155</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 172 Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the
+poetic nature has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet this
+song, with 'Rule Britannia' and a few others, must make us regret that
+he did not more seriously apply himself to lyrical writing.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_156">156</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 174 With what insight and tenderness, yet in how few words, has
+this painter-poet here himself told <i>Love's Secret!</i></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_157">157</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 177 l. 1 <i>Aeolian lyre</i>: the Greeks ascribed the origin of their
+Lyrical Poetry to the Colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_158">158</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>Thracia's hills</i> (l. 9) supposed a favourite resort of Mars.
+<i>Feather'd king</i> (l. 13) the Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by
+Pindar in a passage here imitated by Gray. <i>Idalia</i> (l. 19) in Cyprus,
+where <i>Cytherea</i> (Venus) was especially worshipped.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_159">159</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 6 <i>Hyperion</i>: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets of the
+Islands and Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_160">160</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 27 <i>Theban Eagle</i>: Pindar.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_163">163</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 178 l. 5 <i>chaste-eyed Queen</i>: Diana.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_164">164</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 179 From that wild rhapsody of mingled grandeur, tenderness, and
+obscurity, that 'medley between inspiration and possession,' which
+poor Smart is believed to have written whilst in confinement for
+madness.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_165">165</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 181 <i>the dreadful light</i>: of life and experience.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_166">166</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 182 <i>Attic warbler</i>: the nightingale.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_168">168</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 184 <i>sleekit</i>, sleek: <i>bickering brattle</i>, flittering flight: <i>laith</i>,
+loth: <i>pattle</i>, ploughstaff: <i>whyles</i>, at times: <i>a daimenicker</i>, a
+corn-ear now and then: <i>thrave</i>, shock: <i>lave</i>, rest: <i>foggage</i>,
+after-grass: <i>snell</i>, biting: <i>but hald</i>, without dwelling-place: <i>thole</i>,
+bear: <i>cranreuch</i>, hoar-frost: <i>thy lane</i>, alone: <i>a-gley</i>, off the right
+line, awry.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_175">175</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 188 <i>stoure</i>, dust-storm; <i>braw</i>, smart.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_176">176</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 189 <i>scaith</i>, hurt: <i>tent</i>, guard: <i>steer</i>, molest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_177">177</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 191 <i>drumlie</i>, muddy: <i>birk</i>, birch.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_178">178</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 192 <i>greet</i>, cry: <i>daurna</i>, dare not.&mdash;There can hardly exist a
+poem more truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, perhaps,
+Sappho excepted, has any Poetess equalled it.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_180">180</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 193 <i>fou</i>, merry with drink: <i>coost</i>, carried: <i>unco skeigh</i>, very
+proud: <i>gart</i>, forced: <i>abeigh</i>, aside: <i>Ailsa craig</i>, a rock in the Firth
+of Clyde: <i>grat his een bleert</i>, cried till his eyes were bleared:
+<i>lowpin</i>, leaping: <i>linn</i>, waterfall: <i>sair</i>, sore: <i>smoor'd</i>, smothered:
+<i>crouse</i> and <i>canty</i>, blithe and gay.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_181">181</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 194 Burns justly named this 'one of the most beautiful songs in
+the Scots or any other language.' One stanza, interpolated by Beattie,
+is here omitted:&mdash;it contains two good lines, but is out of harmony
+with the original poem. <i>Bigonet</i>, little cap: probably altered from
+<i>b&eacute;guinette</i>: <i>thraw</i>, twist: <i>caller</i>, fresh.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_182">182</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 195 Burns himself, despite two attempts, failed to improve this
+little absolute masterpiece of music, tenderness, and simplicity: this
+'Romance of a life' in eight lines.&mdash;<i>Eerie</i>: strictly, scared:
+uneasy.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_183">183</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 196 <i>airts</i>, quarters: <i>row</i>, roll: <i>shaw</i>, small wood in a
+hollow, spinney: <i>knowes</i>, knolls. The last two stanzas are not by
+Burns.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_184">184</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 197 <i>jo</i>, sweetheart: <i>brent</i>, smooth: <i>pow</i>, head.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash; 198 <i>leal</i>, faithful. St. 3 <i>fain</i>, happy.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_185">185</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 199 Henry VI founded Eton.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_188">188</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 200 Written in 1773, towards the beginning of Cowper's second
+attack of melancholy madness&mdash;a time when he altogether gave up
+prayer, saying, 'For him to implore mercy would only anger God the
+more.' Yet had he given it up when sane, it would have been 'maior
+insania.'</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_191">191</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 203 The Editor would venture to class in the very first rank this
+Sonnet, which, with 204, records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose
+affectionate care for many years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to
+a life radically wretched. Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal
+grace and a more perfect finish; Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's
+stand supreme in stateliness; Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But
+Cowper's unites with an exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the
+ancients would have called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness
+peculiar to his loving and ingenuous nature.&mdash;There is much mannerism,
+much that is unimportant or of now exhausted interest in his poems:
+but where he is great, it is with that elementary greatness which
+rests on the most universal human feelings. Cowper is our highest
+master in simple pathos.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_193">193</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 205 Cowper's last original poem, founded upon a story told in
+Anson's 'Voyages.' It was written March 1799; he died in next year's
+April.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_195">195</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 206 Very little except his name appears recoverable with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span> regard
+to the author of this truly noble poem, which appeared in the
+'Scripscrapologia, or Collins' Doggerel Dish of All Sorts,' with three
+or four other pieces of merit, Birmingham, 1804.&mdash;<i>Everlasting</i>; used
+with side-allusion to a cloth so named, at the time when Collins
+wrote.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<h3><i>Summary of Book Fourth</i></h3>
+
+<p>It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry,
+that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard
+of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few
+exceptions composed during the first thirty years of the Nineteenth
+century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely
+sudden appearance of individual genius: that, however, which assigns
+the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry to an impulse
+from the France of the first Republic and Empire is inadequate. The
+first French Revolution was rather one result,&mdash;the most conspicuous,
+indeed, yet itself in great measure essentially retrogressive,&mdash;of
+that wider and more potent spirit which through enquiry and attempt,
+through strength and weakness, sweeps mankind round the circles (not,
+as some too confidently argue, of Advance, but) of gradual
+Transformation: and it is to this that we must trace the literature of
+Modern Europe. But, without attempting discussion on the motive causes
+of Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley, and others, we may observe that these
+Poets carried to further perfection the later tendencies of the
+Century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human
+Passion and Character in every sphere, and love of Nature for
+herself:&mdash;that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art
+made since the Restoration, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and
+depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan writers:&mdash;that,
+lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in language
+and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a tenderness
+and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the Soul
+and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger sense of
+Humanity,&mdash;hitherto scarcely attained, and perhaps unattainable even
+by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the
+Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, may fairly claim that
+during six centuries it has proved itself the most richly gifted of
+all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
+and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to
+itself&mdash;hence the many phases of thought and style they present:&mdash;to
+sympathize with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and
+without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of
+the soul. For purity in taste is absolutely proportionate to
+strength&mdash;and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to
+delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most
+wisely.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>But the gallery which this Book offers to the reader will aid him more
+than any preface. It is a royal Palace of Poetry which he is invited
+to enter:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Adparet domus intus, et atria longa patescunt&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>though it is, indeed, to the sympathetic eye only that its treasures
+will be visible.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap f1">page no.</span></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_197">197</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 208 This beautiful lyric, printed in 1783, seems to anticipate in
+its imaginative music that return to our great early age of song,
+which in Blake's own lifetime was to prove,&mdash;how gloriously! that the
+English Muses had resumed their 'ancient melody':&mdash;Keats, Shelley,
+Byron,&mdash;he overlived them all.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_199">199</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 210 <i>stout Cortez</i>: History would here suggest <i>Balb&oacute;a</i>: (A.T.) It
+may be noticed, that to find in Chapman's Homer the 'pure serene' of
+the original, the reader must bring with him the imagination of the
+youthful poet;&mdash;he must be 'a Greek himself,' as Shelley finely said
+of Keats.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_202">202</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 212 The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_203">203</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 213 This poem exemplifies the peculiar skill with which Scott
+employs proper names:&mdash;a rarely misleading sign of true poetical
+genius.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_213">213</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 226 Simple as <i>Lucy Gray</i> seems, a mere narrative of what 'has
+been, and may be again,' yet every touch in the child's picture is
+marked by the deepest and purest ideal character. Hence, pathetic as
+the situation is, this is not strictly a pathetic poem, such as
+Wordsworth gives us in 221, Lamb in 264, and Scott in his <i>Maid of
+Neidpath</i>,&mdash;'almost more pathetic,' as Tennyson once remarked, 'than a
+man has the right to be.' And Lyte's lovely stanzas (224) suggest,
+perhaps, the same remark.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_222">222</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 235 In this and in other instances the addition (or the change) of
+a Title has been risked, in hope that the aim of the piece following
+may be grasped more clearly and immediately.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_228">228</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 242 This beautiful Sonnet was the last word of a youth, in whom,
+if the fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise,
+England lost one of the most rarely gifted in the long roll of her
+poets. Shakespeare and Milton, had their lives been closed at
+twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less
+excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the
+London surgery, passed at once to a place with them of 'high
+collateral glory.'</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_230">230</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 245 It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so
+little in this sweet and genuinely national style.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_231">231</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 246 A masterly example of Byron's command of strong<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span> thought and
+close reasoning in verse:&mdash;as the next is equally characteristic of
+Shelley's wayward intensity.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_240">240</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 253 Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in
+Chillon on the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of his
+country against the tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during
+the first half of the Seventeenth century.&mdash;This noble Sonnet is
+worthy to stand near Milton's on the Vaudois massacre.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_241">241</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 254 Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon in 1800:
+Venice in 1797 (255).</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_243">243</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 259 This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians
+under Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near
+Munich. <i>Hohen Linden</i> means <i>High Limetrees</i>.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_247">247</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 262 After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. Moore
+retreated before Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst
+covering the embarkation of his troops.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_257">257</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 272 The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and
+other choice spirits of that age.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_258">258</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 273 <i>Maisie</i>: Mary.&mdash;Scott has given us nothing more complete and
+lovely than this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic
+power to a wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn,
+far less any conscious analysis of feeling attempted:&mdash;the pathetic
+meaning is left to be suggested by the mere presentment of the
+situation. A narrow criticism has often named this, which maybe called
+the Homeric manner, superficial, from its apparent simple facility;
+but first-rate excellence in it is in truth one of the least common
+triumphs of Poetry.&mdash;This style should be compared with what is not
+less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner feeling, the
+expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart of Nature
+and of the Soul within the Soul,&mdash;the analytical method, in
+short,&mdash;most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shelley.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_263">263</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 277 Wolfe resembled Keats, not only in his early death by
+consumption and the fluent freshness of his poetical style, but in
+beauty of character:&mdash;brave, tender, energetic, unselfish, modest. Is
+it fanciful to find some reflex of these qualities in the <i>Burial</i> and
+<i>Mary</i>? Out of the abundance of the <i>heart</i> ...</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_264">264</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 278 <i>correi</i>: covert on a hillside. <i>Cumber</i>: trouble.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_265">265</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 250 This book has not a few poems of greater power and more
+perfect execution than <i>Agnes</i> and the extract which we have ventured
+to make from the deep-hearted author's <i>Sad Thoughts</i> (No. 224). But
+none are more emphatically marked by the note of exquisiteness.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_266">266</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 281 st. 3 <i>inch</i>: island.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_270">270</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 283 From <i>Poetry for Children</i> (1809), by Charles and
+Mary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span> Lamb. This tender and original little piece seems clearly to
+reveal the work of that noble-minded and afflicted sister, who was at
+once the happiness, the misery, and the life-long blessing of her
+equally noble-minded brother.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_278">278</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 289 This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an
+exquisiteness of expression, which place it in the highest rank among
+the many masterpieces of its illustrious Author.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_289">289</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 300 <i>interlunar swoon</i>: interval of the moon's invisibility.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_294">294</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 304 <i>Calpe</i>: Gibraltar. <i>Lofoden</i>: the Maelstrom whirlpool off the
+N.W. coast of Norway.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_295">295</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 305 This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by Hamilton
+on the subject better treated in 163 and 164.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_307">307</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 315 <i>Arcturi</i>: seemingly used for <i>northern stars</i>. <i>And wild
+roses, &amp;c.</i> Our language has perhaps no line modulated with more
+subtle sweetness.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_308">308</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 316 Coleridge describes this poem as the fragment of a
+dream-vision,&mdash;perhaps, an opium-dream?&mdash;which composed itself in his
+mind when fallen asleep after reading a few lines about 'the Khan
+Kubla' in Purchas' <i>Pilgrimage</i>.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_312">312</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 318 <i>Ceres' daughter</i>: Proserpine. <i>God of Torment</i>: Pluto.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_320">320</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 321 The leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's
+landscape in Italy appears to be&mdash;On the voyage of life are many
+moments of pleasure, given by the sight of Nature, who has power to
+heal even the worldliness and the uncharity of man.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_321">321</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 23 Amphitrite was daughter to Ocean.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_325">325</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 322 l. 21 <i>Maenad</i>: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on Dionysos in the
+Greek mythology. May we not call this the most vivid, sustained, and
+impassioned amongst all Shelley's magical personifications of Nature?</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_326">326</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; l. 5 Plants under water sympathize with the seasons of the
+land, and hence with the winds which affect them.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_327">327</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 323 Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's
+brother John. This poem may be profitably compared with Shelley's
+following it. Each is the most complete expression of the innermost
+spirit of his art given by these great Poets:&mdash;of that Idea which, as
+in the case of the true Painter, (to quote the words of Reynolds,)
+'subsists only in the mind: The sight never beheld it, nor has the
+hand expressed it: it is an idea residing in the breast of the artist,
+which he is always labouring to impart, and which he dies at last
+without imparting.'</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_328">328</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash; <i>the Kind</i>: the human race.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_331">331</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 327 <i>the Royal Saint</i>: Henry VI.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_331">331</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 328 st. 4 <i>this</i> folk: <i>its</i> has been here plausibly but, perhaps,
+unnecessarily, conjectured.&mdash;Every one knows the general story of the
+Italian Renaissance, of the Revival of Letters.&mdash;From Petrarch's day
+to our own, that ancient world has renewed its youth: Poets and
+artists, students and thinkers, have yielded themselves wholly to its
+fascination, and deeply penetrated its spirit. Yet perhaps no one more
+truly has vivified, whilst idealizing, the picture of Greek country
+life in the fancied Golden Age, than Keats in these lovely (if
+somewhat unequally executed) stanzas:&mdash;his quick imagination, by a
+kind of 'natural magic,' more than supplying the scholarship which his
+youth had no opportunity of gaining.</p>
+
+<p><a href="#Page_105">105</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; 134 These stanzas are by Richard Verstegan (&mdash;c. 1635), a poet and
+antiquarian, published in his rare Odes (1601), under the title <i>Our
+Blessed Ladies Lullaby</i>, and reprinted by Mr. Orby Shipley in his
+beautiful <i>Carmina Mariana</i> (1893). The four stanzas here given form
+the opening of a hymn of twenty-four.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="INDEX_OF_WRITERS" id="INDEX_OF_WRITERS"></a>INDEX OF WRITERS</h2>
+
+<p class="center">WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH</p>
+
+
+<p>
+<span class="smcap">Alexander</span>, William (1580-1640)       <a href="#XXIX">29</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Barbauld</span>, Anna Laetitia (1743-1825)       <a href="#CCVII">207</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Barnefield</span>, Richard (16th Century)      <a href="#XLV">45</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Beaumont</span>, Francis (1586-1616)       <a href="#XC">90</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Blake</span>, William (1757-1827)         <a href="#CLXXIV">174</a>, <a href="#CLXXX">180</a>, <a href="#CLXXXI">181</a>, <a href="#CCVIII">208</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Burns</span>, Robert (1759-1796)          <a href="#CLXI">161</a>, <a href="#CLXVIII">168</a>, <a href="#CLXXVI">176</a>, <a href="#CLXXXIV">184</a>, <a href="#CLXXXVIII">188</a>, <a href="#CLXXXIX">189</a>, <a href="#CXC">190</a>, <a href="#CXCI">191</a>, <a href="#CXCIII">193</a>, <a href="#CXCVI">196</a>, <a href="#CXCVII">197</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Byron</span>, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824)         <a href="#CCXII">212</a>, <a href="#CCXIV">214</a>, <a href="#CCXVI">216</a>, <a href="#CCXXXIV">234</a>, <a href="#CCXLVI">246</a>, <a href="#CCLIII">253</a>, <a href="#CCLXVI">266</a>, <a href="#CCLXXV">275</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Campbell</span>, Thomas (1777-1844)           <a href="#CCXXV">225</a>, <a href="#CCXXXI">231</a>, <a href="#CCXLI">241</a>, <a href="#CCL">250</a>, <a href="#CCLI">251</a>, <a href="#CCLIX">259</a>, <a href="#CCXCV">295</a>, <a href="#CCCIV">304</a>, <a href="#CCCX">310</a>, <a href="#CCCXIV">314</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXII">332</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Campion</span>, Thomas (c. 1567-1620)           <a href="#XXV">25</a>, <a href="#XXVI">26</a>, <a href="#L">50</a>, <a href="#LII">52</a>, <a href="#LV">55</a>, <a href="#LIX">59</a>, <a href="#LXXVI">76</a>, <a href="#LXXIX">79</a>, <a href="#CI">101</a>, <a href="#CXLIII">143</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Carew</span>, Thomas (1589-1639)               <a href="#CXII">112</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Carey</span>, Henry (&mdash;&mdash; -1743)                 <a href="#CLXVII">167</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Cibber</span>, Colley (1671-1757)               <a href="#CLV">155</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Coleridge</span>, Hartley (1796-1849)           <a href="#CCXVIII">218</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Coleridge</span>, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834)         <a href="#CCXI">211</a>, <a href="#CCCXVI">316</a>, <a href="#CCCXXIX">329</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Collins</span>, John (18th Century)           <a href="#CCVI">206</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Collins</span>, William (1720-1756)             <a href="#CLIII">153</a>, <a href="#CLX">160</a>, <a href="#CLXXVIII">178</a>, <a href="#CLXXXVI">186</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Cowley</span>, Abraham (1618-1667)               <a href="#CXXX">130</a>, <a href="#CXXXVII">137</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Cowper</span>, William (1731-1800)             <a href="#CLXV">165</a>, <a href="#CLXX">170</a>, <a href="#CLXXXIII">183</a>, <a href="#CC">200</a>, <a href="#CCII">202</a>, <a href="#CCIII">203</a>, <a href="#CCIV">204</a>, <a href="#CCV">205</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Crashaw</span>, Richard (1615?-1652)                 <a href="#CIII">103</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Cunningham</span>, Allan (1784-1842)            <a href="#CCXLIX">249</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Daniel</span>, Samuel (1562-1619)             <a href="#XLVI">46</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Dekker</span>, Thomas (&mdash;&mdash; -1638?)             <a href="#LXXV">75</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Devereux</span>, Robert (1567-1601)              <a href="#LXXXIII">83</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Donne</span>, John (1573-1631)                  <a href="#XII">12</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Drayton</span>, Michael (1563-1631)             <a href="#XLIX">49</a><br />
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[372]</a></span><span class="smcap">Drummond</span>, William (1585-1649)              <a href="#IV">4</a>, <a href="#LXI">61</a>, <a href="#LXIII">63</a>, <a href="#LXXVII">77</a>, <a href="#LXXX">80</a>, <a href="#LXXXI">81</a>, <a href="#LXXXIV">84</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Dryden</span>, John (1631-1700)              <a href="#LXXXVI">86</a>, <a href="#CLI">151</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Elliott</span>, Jane (18th Century)               <a href="#CLXII">162</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Fletcher</span>, John (1576-1625)               <a href="#CXXXII">132</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Gay</span>, John (1685-1732)                 <a href="#CLXVI">166</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Goldsmith</span>, Oliver (1728-1774)             <a href="#CLXXV">175</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Graham</span>, Robert (1735-1797)              <a href="#CLXIX">169</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Gray</span>, Thomas (1716-1771)                <a href="#CLII">152</a>, <a href="#CLVI">156</a>, <a href="#CLIX">159</a>, <a href="#CLXXVII">177</a>, <a href="#CLXXXII">182</a>, <a href="#CLXXXVII">187</a>, <a href="#CXCIX">199</a>, <a href="#CCI">201</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Greene</span>, Robert (1561?-1592)              <a href="#LX">60</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Habington</span>, William (1605-1645)          <a href="#CXLVIII">148</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Herbert</span>, George (1593-1632)              <a href="#XCVII">97</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Herrick</span>, Robert (1591-1674?)          <a href="#CVIII">108</a>, <a href="#CXIII">113</a>, <a href="#CXVIII">118</a>, <a href="#CXIX">119</a>, <a href="#CXX">120</a>, <a href="#CXXIV">124</a>, <a href="#CXXXIX">139</a>, <a href="#CXL">140</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Heywood</span>, Thomas (&mdash;&mdash; -1649?)            <a href="#LXXIII">73</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Hood</span>, Thomas (1798-1845)              <a href="#CCLXVIII">268</a>, <a href="#CCLXXIV">274</a>, <a href="#CCLXXIX">279</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Jonson</span>, Ben (1574-1637)              <a href="#XCVI">96</a>, <a href="#CII">102</a>, <a href="#CXVI">116</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Keats</span>, John (1795-1821)              <a href="#CCIX">209</a>, <a href="#CCX">210</a>, <a href="#CCXXXV">235</a>, <a href="#CCXXXVII">237</a>, <a href="#CCXLII">242</a>, <a href="#CCXLIII">243</a>, <a href="#CCLXXII">272</a>, <a href="#CCXC">290</a>, <a href="#CCXCII">292</a>, <a href="#CCCIII">303</a>, <a href="#CCCXVIII">318</a>, <a href="#CCCXXVIII">328</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXIII">333</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Lamb</span>, Charles (1775-1835)             <a href="#CCLXIV">264</a>, <a href="#CCLXXVI">276</a>, <a href="#CCLXXXII">282</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Lamb</span>, Mary (1764-1847)                 <a href="#CCLXXXIII">283</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Lindsay</span>, Anne (1750-1825)                 <a href="#CXCII">192</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Lodge</span>, Thomas (1556-1625)                     <a href="#XIX">19</a>, <a href="#LXXI">71</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Logan</span>, John (1748-1788)                    <a href="#CLXIII">163</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Lovelace</span>, Richard (1618-1658)            <a href="#CIX">109</a>, <a href="#CXXVII">127</a>, <a href="#CXXVIII">128</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Lylye</span>, John (1554-1600)                  <a href="#LXXII">72</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Lyte</span>, Henry Francis (1793-1847)            <a href="#CCXXIV">224</a>, <a href="#CCLXXX">280</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Marlowe</span>, Christopher (1562-1593)           <a href="#VII">7</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Marvell</span>, Andrew (1620-1678)              <a href="#LXXXVIII">88</a>, <a href="#CV">105</a>, <a href="#CXLI">141</a>, <a href="#CXLII">142</a>, <a href="#CXLVI">146</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Mickle</span>, William Julius (1734-1788)            <a href="#CXCIV">194</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Milton</span>, John (1608-1674)               <a href="#LXXXV">85</a>, <a href="#LXXXVII">87</a>, <a href="#LXXXIX">89</a>, <a href="#XCIII">93</a>, <a href="#XCIV">94</a>, <a href="#XCIX">99</a>, <a href="#C">100</a>, <a href="#CXI">111</a>, <a href="#CXLIV">144</a>, <a href="#CXLV">145</a>, <a href="#CXLVII">147</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Moore</span>, Thomas (1780-1852)             <a href="#CCXXIX">229</a>, <a href="#CCXLV">245</a>, <a href="#CCLXI">261</a>, <a href="#CCLXV">265</a>, <a href="#CCLXIX">269</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Nairn</span>, Carolina (1766-1845)           <a href="#CXCVIII">198</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Nash</span>, Thomas (1567-1601?)                 <a href="#I">1</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Norris</span>, John (1657-1711)              <a href="#CXLIX">149</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Philips</span>, Ambrose (1671-1749)             <a href="#CLVII">157</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Pope</span>, Alexander (1688-1744)              <a href="#CLIV">154</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Prior</span>, Matthew (1662-1721)               <a href="#CLXXIII">173</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Quarles</span>, Francis (1592-1644)             <a href="#CXXIII">123</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Rogers</span>, Samuel (1762-1855)              <a href="#CLXXI">171</a>, <a href="#CLXXXV">185</a><br />
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[373]</a></span>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Scott</span>, Walter (1771-1832)              <a href="#CCXIII">213</a>, <a href="#CCXXVII">227</a>, <a href="#CCXXX">230</a>, <a href="#CCXXXVI">236</a>, <a href="#CCXXXVIII">238</a>, <a href="#CCXL">240</a>, <a href="#CCXLVIII">248</a>, <a href="#CCLXXIII">273</a>, <a href="#CCLXXVIII">278</a>, <a href="#CCLXXXI">281</a>, <a href="#CCLXXXV">285</a>, <a href="#CCCXI">311</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Sedley</span>, Charles (1639-1701)             <a href="#CVI">106</a>, <a href="#CXXVI">126</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Shakespeare</span>, William (1564-1616)              <a href="#II">2</a>, <a href="#III">3</a>, <a href="#V">5</a>, <a href="#VI">6</a>, <a href="#IX">9</a>, <a href="#X">10</a>, <a href="#XI">11</a>, <a href="#XIV">14</a>, <a href="#XV">15</a>, <a href="#XVI">16</a>, <a href="#XVII">17</a>, <a href="#XVIII">18</a>, <a href="#XXIII">23</a>, <a href="#XXIV">24</a>, <a href="#XXVII">27</a>, <a href="#XXXI">31</a>, <a href="#XXXV">35</a>, <a href="#XXXVII">37</a>, <a href="#XXXVIII">38</a>, <a href="#XXXIX">39</a>, <a href="#XLI">41</a>, <a href="#XLII">42</a>, <a href="#XLIII">43</a>, <a href="#XLVIII">48</a>, <a href="#LI">51</a>, <a href="#LVI">56</a>, <a href="#LXII">62</a>, <a href="#LXIV">64</a>, <a href="#LXV">65</a>, <a href="#LXVII">67</a>, <a href="#LXVIII">68</a>, <a href="#LXIX">69</a>, <a href="#LXXVIII">78</a>, <a href="#LXXXII">82</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Shelley</span>, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)           <a href="#CCXV">215</a>, <a href="#CCXIX">219</a>, <a href="#CCXXVIII">228</a>, <a href="#CCXXXII">232</a>, <a href="#CCXXXIX">239</a>, <a href="#CCXLVII">247</a>, <a href="#CCLXX">270</a>, <a href="#CCLXXXVII">287</a>, <a href="#CCXCIII">293</a>, <a href="#CCC">300</a>, <a href="#CCCVII">307</a>, <a href="#CCCVIII">308</a>, <a href="#CCCXII">312</a>, <a href="#CCCXV">315</a>, <a href="#CCCXXI">321</a>, <a href="#CCCXXII">322</a>, <a href="#CCCXXIV">324</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXIV">334</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXV">335</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXIX">339</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Shirley</span>, James (1596-1666)                <a href="#XCI">91</a>, <a href="#XCII">92</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Sidney</span>, Philip (1554-1586)              <a href="#XIII">13</a>, <a href="#XXXII">32</a>, <a href="#XL">40</a>, <a href="#XLVII">47</a>, <a href="#LVIII">58</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Smart</span>, Christopher (1722-1770)              <a href="#CLXXIX">179</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Southey</span>, Robert (1774-1843)                <a href="#CCLX">260</a>, <a href="#CCLXXI">271</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Spenser</span>, Edmund (1553-1598-9)               <a href="#LXXIV">74</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Suckling</span>, John (1608-9-1641)               <a href="#CXXIX">129</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Sylvester</span>, Joshua (1563-1618)                <a href="#XXXIV">34</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Thomson</span>, James (1700-1748)             <a href="#CLVIII">158</a>, <a href="#CLXXII">172</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Vaughan</span>, Henry (1621-1695)             <a href="#XCVIII">98</a>, <a href="#CXXXVIII">138</a>, <a href="#CL">150</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Waller</span>, Edmund (1605-1687)              <a href="#CXV">115</a>, <a href="#CXXII">122</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Webster</span>, John (&mdash;&mdash; -1638?)               <a href="#LXVI">66</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Wilmot</span>, John (1647-1680)                    <a href="#CVII">107</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Wither</span>, George (1588-1667)                   <a href="#CXXXI">131</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Wolfe</span>, Charles (1791-1823)               <a href="#CCLXII">262</a>, <a href="#CCLXXVII">277</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Wordsworth</span>, William (1770-1850)            <a href="#CCXVII">217</a>, <a href="#CCXX">220</a>, <a href="#CCXXI">221</a>, <a href="#CCXXII">222</a>, <a href="#CCXXIII">223</a>, <a href="#CCXXVI">226</a>, <a href="#CCXXXIII">233</a>, <a href="#CCXLIV">244</a>, <a href="#CCLII">252</a>, <a href="#CCLIV">254</a>, <a href="#CCLV">255</a>, <a href="#CCLVI">256</a>, <a href="#CCLVII">257</a>, <a href="#CCLVIII">258</a>, <a href="#CCLXIII">263</a>, <a href="#CCLXVII">267</a>, <a href="#CCLXXXIV">284</a>, <a href="#CCLXXXVI">286</a>, <a href="#CCLXXXVIII">288</a>, <a href="#CCLXXXIX">289</a>, <a href="#CCXCI">291</a>, <a href="#CCXCIV">294</a>, <a href="#CCXCVI">296</a>, <a href="#CCXCVII">297</a>, <a href="#CCXCVIII">298</a>, <a href="#CCXCIX">299</a>, <a href="#CCCI">301</a>, <a href="#CCCII">302</a>, <a href="#CCCV">305</a>, <a href="#CCCVI">306</a>, <a href="#CCCIX">309</a>, <a href="#CCCXIII">313</a>, <a href="#CCCXVII">317</a>, <a href="#CCCXIX">319</a>, <a href="#CCCXX">320</a>, <a href="#CCCXXIII">323</a>, <a href="#CCCXXV">325</a>, <a href="#CCCXXVI">326</a>, <a href="#CCCXXVII">327</a>, <a href="#CCCXXX">330</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXI">331</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXVI">336</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXVII">337</a>, <a href="#CCCXXXVIII">338</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Wotton</span>, Henry (1568-1639)                 <a href="#XCV">95</a>, <a href="#CX">110</a><br />
+<span class="smcap">Wyat</span>, Thomas (1503-1542)                  <a href="#XXVIII">28</a>, <a href="#XLIV">44</a>
+</p><p>
+<span class="smcap">Anonymous</span>,                       <a href="#VIII">8</a>, <a href="#XX">20</a>, <a href="#XXI">21</a>, <a href="#XXII">22</a>, <a href="#XXX">30</a>, <a href="#XXXIII">33</a>, <a href="#XXXVI">36</a>, <a href="#LIII">53</a>, <a href="#LIV">54</a>, <a href="#LVII">57</a>, <a href="#LXX">70</a>, <a href="#CIV">104</a>, <a href="#CXIV">114</a>, <a href="#CXVII">117</a>, <a href="#CXXI">121</a>, <a href="#CXXV">125</a>, <a href="#CXXXIII">133</a>, <a href="#CXXXV">135</a>, <a href="#CXXXVI">136</a>, <a href="#CLXIV">164</a>, <a href="#CXCV">195</a>
+</p><p>
+<a href="#CXXXIV">134</a> is by Richard Verstegan (-c. 1635).
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[375]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="INDEX_OF_FIRST_LINES" id="INDEX_OF_FIRST_LINES"></a>INDEX OF FIRST LINES</h2>
+
+<table class="tab2" summary="Index of First Lines">
+<tr><td></td><td class="tocpg f1">PAGE</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>A Chieftain to the Highlands bound</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>A child's a plaything for an hour</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_305">305</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>A slumber did my spirit seal</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>A sweet disorder in the dress</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>A weary lot is thine, fair maid</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>A wet sheet and a flowing sea</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_235">235</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Absence, hear thou this protestation</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>All thoughts, all passions, all delights</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>And are ye sure the news is true</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_181">181</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>And is this&mdash;Yarrow?&mdash;This the Stream</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_297">297</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>And thou art dead, as young and fair</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>And wilt thou leave me thus</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ariel to Miranda:&mdash;Take</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_288">288</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Art thou pale for weariness</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_305">305</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>As it fell upon a day</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>As I was walking all alane</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>As slow our ship her foamy track</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_251">251</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_288">288</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_64">64</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Awake, awake, my Lyre</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Bards of Passion and of Mirth</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Beauty sat bathing by a spring</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Behold her, single in the field</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Being your slave, what should I do but tend</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_277">277</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Best and brightest, come away</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_299">299</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Bid me to live, and I will live</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Blow, blow, thou winter wind</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Calm was the day, and through the trembling air</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Care-charmer Sleep, son of the Sable Night</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Come away, come away, Death</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Come little babe, come silly soul</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Come live with me and be my Love</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Come unto these yellow sands</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Crabbed Age and Youth</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_6">6</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Cupid and my Campaspe play'd</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Daughter of Jove, relentless power</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Daughter to that good Earl, once President</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_283">283</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Down in yon garden sweet and gay</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Drink to me only with thine eyes</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Duncan Gray cam here to woo</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Earl March look'd on his dying child</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Earth has not anything to show more fair</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_281">281</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_273">273</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ever let the Fancy roam</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_310">310</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Fain would I change that note</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_6">6</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Fair Daffodils, we weep to see</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Fair pledges of a fruitful tree</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Fear no more the heat o' the sun</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Forget not yet the tried intent</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Four Seasons fill the measure of the year</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_339">339</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>From Stirling Castle we had seen</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_295">295</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Full fathom five thy father lies</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Gather ye rose-buds while ye may</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Go fetch to me a pint o' wine</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_152">152</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Go, lovely Rose</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Hail thou most sacred venerable thing</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Hail to thee, blithe Spirit</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_274">274</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Happy the man, whose wish and care</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_136">136</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Happy those early days, when I</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Happy were he could finish forth his fate</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>He that loves a rosy cheek</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>He is gone on the mountain</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_264">264</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Hence, all you vain delights</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Hence, loathéd Melancholy</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Hence, vain deluding Joys</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>He sang of God, the mighty source</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>How happy is he born and taught</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>How like a winter hath my absence been</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>How sleep the brave who sink to rest</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>How sweet the answer Echo makes</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>How vainly men themselves amaze</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>I am monarch of all I survey</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_190">190</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I arise from dreams of Thee</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I cannot change, as others do</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_307">307</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I have had playmates, I have had companions</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_250">250</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I have no name</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I heard a thousand blended notes</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_312">312</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I meet thy pensive, moonlight face</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I met a traveller from an antique land</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_282">282</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I remember, I remember</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_254">254</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I saw Eternity the other night</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I saw her in childhood</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I saw my lady weep</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I saw where in the shroud did lurk</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_268">268</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I travell'd among unknown men</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I wander'd lonely as a cloud</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_291">291</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_327">327</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I wish I were where Helen lies</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>If doughty deeds my lady please</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>If I had thought thou couldst have died</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_263">263</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>If Thou survive my well-contented day</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>If to be absent were to be</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I'm wearing awa', Jean</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>In a drear-nighted December</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>In the sweet shire of Cardigan</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_248">248</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>In this still place, remote from men</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_329">329</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>In Xanadu did Kubla Khan</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_308">308</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>It is a beauteous evening, calm and free</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_303">303</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>It is not growing like a tree</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>It was a dismal and a fearful night</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>It was a lover and his lass</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>It was a summer evening</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Jack and Joan, they think no ill</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>John Anderson my jo, John</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Let me not to the marriage of true minds</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Life! I know not what thou art</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_196">196</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Like to the clear in highest sphere</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Love in my bosom, like a bee</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Love not me for comely grace</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Many a green isle needs must be</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_320">320</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Mary! I want a lyre with other strings</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_242">242</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Mine be a cot beside the hill</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Mortality, behold and fear</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_309">309</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Music, when soft voices die</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_346">346</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>My days among the Dead are past</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_279">279</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>My heart leaps up when I behold</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_341">341</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>My Love in her attire doth shew her wit</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>My thoughts hold mortal strife</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>My true-love hath my heart, and I have his</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Never love unless you can</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Never seek to tell thy love</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>No longer mourn for me when I am dead</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_247">247</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Not, Celia, that I juster am</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Now the golden Morn aloft</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Now the last day of many days</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_301">301</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>O blithe new-comer! I have heard</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_278">278</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O Brignall banks are wild and fair</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O Friend! I know not which way I must look</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_242">242</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O happy shades! to me unblest</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O leave this barren spot to me</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_283">283</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O listen, listen, ladies gay</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_266">266</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O lovers' eyes are sharp to see</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O Mary, at thy window be</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O me! what eyes hath love put in my head</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O Mistress mine, where are you roaming</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O my Luve's like a red, red rose</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O never say that I was false of heart</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O saw ye bonnie Lesley</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O say what is that thing call'd Light</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_136">136</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O talk not to me of a name great in story</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_202">202</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O Thou, by Nature taught</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_134">134</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O waly waly up the bank</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_104">104</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_224">224</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O wild West Wind, thou breath Of Autumn's being</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_325">325</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>O World! O Life! O Time</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_340">340</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Obscurest night involved the sky</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Of all the girls that are so smart</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Of a' the airts the wind can blaw</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Of Nelson and the North</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Of Neptune's empire let us sing</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Of this fair volume which we World do name</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Oft in the stilly night</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_255">255</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>On a day, alack the day</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>On a Poet's lips I slept</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_329">329</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_241">241</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>One more Unfortunate</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>One word is too often profaned</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>On Linden, when the sun was low</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_306">306</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Over the mountains</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Phoebus, arise</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Pibroch of Donuil Dhu</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Proud Maisie is in the wood</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_258">258</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Rough Wind, that moanest loud</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_339">339</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ruin seize thee, ruthless King</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_140">140</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>See with what simplicity</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Shall I compare thee to a summer's day</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Shall I, wasting in despair</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>She dwelt among the untrodden ways</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>She is not fair to outward view</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>She walks in beauty, like the night</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>She was a Phantom of delight</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Sleep, sleep, beauty bright</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Souls of Poets dead and gone</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Star that bringest home the bee</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_304">304</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Stern Daughter of the Voice of God</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Surprized by joy&mdash;impatient as the wind</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Swiftly walk over the western wave</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Take, O take those lips away</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_331">331</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Tell me not, Sweet, I an unkind</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Tell me where is Fancy bred</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>That time of year thou may'st in me behold</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>That which her slender waist confined</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The curfew tolls the knell of parting day</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The forward youth that would appear</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The fountains mingle with the river</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_216">216</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The glories of our blood and state</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The lovely lass o' Inverness</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The man of life upright</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The merchant, to secure his treasure</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The more we live, more brief appear</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_338">338</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>There be none of Beauty's daughters</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>There is a flower, the lesser Celandine</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>There is a garden in her face</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_252">252</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>There's not a nook within this solemn Pass</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_340">340</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_341">341</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The sea hath many thousand sands</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The sun is warm, the sky is clear</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_256">256</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The sun upon the lake is low</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_304">304</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The twentieth year is well-nigh past</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>The world is too much with us; late and soon</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_330">330</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>They are all gone into the world of light</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>They that have power to hurt, and will do none</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>This is the month, and this the happy morn</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>This Life, which seems so fair</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Though others may her brow adore</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_331">331</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Three years she grew in sun and shower</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_209">209</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Timely blossom, Infant fair</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Tired with all these, for restful death I cry</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Toll for the Brave</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>To me, fair Friend, you never can be old</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>To one who has been long in city pent</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_282">282</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Turn back, you wanton flyer</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>'Twas on a lofty vase's side</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_241">241</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Under the greenwood tree</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Upon my lap my sovereign sits</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_333">333</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Victorious men of earth, no more</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Waken, lords and ladies gay</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_272">272</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_168">168</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Weep you no more, sad fountains</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Were I as base as is the lowly plain</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>We talk'd with open heart, and tongue</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_336">336</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>We walk'd along, while bright and red</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_334">334</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>We watch'd her breathing thro' the night</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Whenas in silks my Julia goes</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When Britain first at Heaven's command</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When first the fiery-mantled Sun</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_294">294</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When God at first made Man</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When he who adores thee has left but the name</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_246">246</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When icicles hang by the wall</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When I consider how my light is spent</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When I have borne in memory what has tamed</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When I have fears that I may cease to be</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When I survey the bright</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When I think on the happy days</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When in the chronicle of wasted time</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When lovely woman stoops to folly</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When Love with unconfinéd wings</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When maidens such as Hester die</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When Music, heavenly maid, was young</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When Ruth was left half desolate</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_313">313</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When the lamp is shatter'd</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_226">226</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_178">178</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When thou must home to shades of underground</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When to the sessions of sweet silent thought</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>When we two parted</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Where art thou, my beloved Son</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Where shall the lover rest</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Where the bee sucks, there suck I</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Where the remote Bermudas ride</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Whether on Ida's shady brow</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>While that the sun with his beams hot</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Whoe'er she be</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_220">220</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Why so pale and wan, fond lover</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Why weep ye by the tide, ladie</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>With little here to do or see</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_291">291</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>With sweetest milk and sugar first</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td></tr>
+<tr>
+  <td>&nbsp;</td>
+  <td class="tocpg">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr><td>Ye banks and braes and streams around</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ye distant spires, ye antique towers</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Ye Mariners of England</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_235">235</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_284">284</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td>You meaner beauties of the night</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td></tr>
+</table>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3><span class="smcap">Richard Clay and Sons, Limited,</span></h3>
+<h4>LONDON AND BUNGAY.</h4>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>THE GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.</h2>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>Uniformly printed, with Vignette Titles by Sir <span class="smcap">J. E.
+Millais</span>, Sir <span class="smcap">Noel Paton</span>, <span class="smcap">T. Woolner</span>, <span class="smcap">W. Holman Hunt</span>, <span class="smcap">Arthur
+Hughes</span>, &amp;c., engraved on Steel. In uniform binding. Pott
+8vo, 2s. 6d. net each.</p></div>
+
+<p><b>THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL</b></p>
+
+<p class="blockquot">Poems in the English Language. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by
+Prof. <span class="smcap">F. T. Palgrave</span>. The First and Second Series, separately, or 2
+Vols. in box, 5s. net.</p>
+
+
+<p><b>POET'S WALK.</b> An Introduction to English Poetry, chosen and arranged by
+<span class="smcap">Mowbray Morris</span>. New and Revised Edition.</p>
+
+<p><b>LYRIC LOVE:</b> An Anthology. Edited by <span class="smcap">William Watson</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE CHILDREN'S GARLAND FROM THE BEST POETS.</b> Selected by <span class="smcap">Coventry
+Patmore</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF LYRICAL POETRY.</b> Arranged by <span class="smcap">F. T. Palgrave</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE FAIRY BOOK.</b> The Best Popular Fairy Stories. Selected by Mrs.
+<span class="smcap">Craik</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE JEST BOOK.</b> The Choicest Anecdotes and Sayings. Arranged by <span class="smcap">Mark
+Lemon</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>A BOOK OF GOLDEN THOUGHTS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Henry Attwell</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY FOR THE YOUNG.</b> Selected by <span class="smcap">C. F. Alexander.</span></p>
+
+<p><b>GOLDEN TREASURY PSALTER.</b> The Student's Edition. Being an Edition with
+briefer Notes of "The Psalms Chronologically arranged by Four
+Friends."</p>
+
+<p><b>THE BOOK OF PRAISE.</b> From the best English Hymn Writers. Selected by
+<span class="smcap">Roundell, Earl of Selborne</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THEOLOGIA GERMANICA.</b> Translated by <span class="smcap">S. Winkworth</span>. Preface by <span class="smcap">C.
+Kingsley</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE BALLAD BOOK.</b> A Selection of the Choicest British Ballads. Edited
+by <span class="smcap">William Allingham</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE SONG BOOK.</b> Words and Tunes selected and arranged by <span class="smcap">John Hullah</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>LA LYRE FRAN&Ccedil;AISE.</b> Selected and arranged with Notes by <span class="smcap">G. Masson</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>BALLADEN UND ROMANZEN.</b> Being a Selection of the Best German Ballads
+and Romances. Edited with Introduction and Notes by Dr. <span class="smcap">Buchheim</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>DEUTSCHE LYRIK.</b> The Golden Treasury of the best German Lyrical Poems.
+Selected by Dr. <span class="smcap">Buchheim.</span></p>
+
+<p><b>HEINRICH HEINE'S LIEDER UND GEDICHTE.</b> Selected and arranged, with
+Notes and a Literary Introduction, by <span class="smcap">C. A. Buchheim</span>, Ph.D. With
+Portrait.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE ESSAYS OF JOSEPH ADDISON.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">J. R. Green</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>SELECTED POEMS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD.</b></p>
+
+<p><b>BACON'S ESSAYS, AND COLOURS OF GOOD AND EVIL.</b> With Notes and
+Glossarial Index by <span class="smcap">W. Aldis Wright</span>, M.A.</p>
+
+<p><b>SIR THOMAS BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI; Letter to A Friend, &amp;c., and
+Christian Morals.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">W. A. Greenhill</span>, M.D.</p>
+
+<p><b>HYDRIOTAPHIA, AND THE GARDEN OF CYRUS.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">W. A. Greenhill</span>, M.D.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT which is to come.</b> By
+<span class="smcap">John Bunyan</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>POETRY OF BYRON.</b> Chosen and arranged by <span class="smcap">Matthew Arnold</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>SELECTED POEMS OF A. H. CLOUGH.</b></p>
+
+<p><b>TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS.</b> By <span class="smcap">An Old Boy</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>LETTERS OF WILLIAM COWPER.</b> Edited, with Introduction, by Rev. <span class="smcap">W.
+Benham</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>SELECTIONS FROM COWPER'S POEMS.</b> With an Introduction by Mrs. <span class="smcap">Oliphant</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">J. W. Clark</span>, M.A.</p>
+
+<p><b>BALTHASAR GRACIAN.</b> Art of Worldly Wisdom. Translated by <span class="smcap">J. Jacobs</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>CHRYSOMELA.</b> A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick. By
+Prof. <span class="smcap">F. T. Palgrave</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS.</b> Edited by Prof. <span class="smcap">F. T. Palgrave</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>KEBLE.</b> The Christian Year. Edited by <span class="smcap">C. M. Yonge</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.</b> Edited by Rev. <span class="smcap">Alfred Ainger</span>, M.A.</p>
+
+<p><b>SELECTIONS FROM WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">Sidney Colvin</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE SPEECHES AND TABLE TALK OF THE PROPHET MOHAMMAD.</b> Translated by
+<span class="smcap">Stanley Lane-Poole</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE CAVALIER AND HIS LADY.</b> Selections from the Works of the first Duke
+and Duchess of Newcastle. With an Introductory Essay by <span class="smcap">Edward
+Jenkins</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM.</b> The Astronomer-Poet of Persia. Rendered into
+English Verse.</p>
+
+<p><b>MISCELLANIES (including Euphranor, Polonius, etc.).</b> By <span class="smcap">Edward
+FitzGerald</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>TWO ESSAYS ON OLD AGE AND FRIENDSHIP.</b> Translated from the Latin of
+Cicero, with Introduction, by <span class="smcap">E. S. Shuckburgh</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS TO HIMSELF.</b> An English Version of the Works
+of Marcus Aurelius. By Rev. Dr. <span class="smcap">G. H. Rendall</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE HOUSE OF ATREUS:</b> being the Agamemnon, Libation-Bearers, and Furies
+of &AElig;schylus. Translated into English verse by <span class="smcap">E. D. A. Morshead</span>, M.A.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.</b> Translated by <span class="smcap">J. Ll. Davies</span>, M.A., and <span class="smcap">D. J.
+Vaughan</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES.</b> Being the Euthyphron, Apology, Crito,
+and Phaedo of Plato. Translated by <span class="smcap">F. J. Church</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>PHAEDRUS, LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS OF PLATO.</b> A New Translation by <span class="smcap">J.
+Wright</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>SHAKESPEARE'S SONGS AND SONNETS.</b> Edited with Notes, by <span class="smcap">F. T. Palgrave</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>POEMS OF SHELLEY.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">S. A. Brooke</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>SOUTHEY. POEMS.</b> Chosen and arranged by <span class="smcap">E. Dowden</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>LYRICAL POEMS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Alfred, Lord Tennyson</span>. Selected and Annotated by <span class="smcap">F.
+T. Palgrave</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>IN MEMORIAM.</b> By <span class="smcap">Alfred, Lord Tennyson</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE PRINCESS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Alfred, Lord Tennyson</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THEOCRITUS, BION, AND MOSCHUS.</b> Rendered into English Prose by <span class="smcap">Andrew
+Lang</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>POEMS, RELIGIOUS AND DEVOTIONAL.</b> By <span class="smcap">J. G. Whittier</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>POEMS OF WORDSWORTH.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">Matthew Arnold</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS OF ALL TIMES AND ALL COUNTRIES.</b> By <span class="smcap">C. M. Yonge</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>A BOOK OF WORTHIES.</b> By <span class="smcap">C. M. Yonge</span>.</p>
+
+<p><b>THE STORY OF THE CHRISTIANS AND MOORS IN SPAIN.</b> By <span class="smcap">Charlotte M. Yonge</span>.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h3>MACMILLAN &amp; CO., <span class="smcap">Limited</span>, LONDON.</h3>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #32373 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32373)
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Golden Treasury
+       Selected from the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the
+       English Language and arranged with Notes
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Francis T. Palgrave
+
+Release Date: May 14, 2010 [EBook #32373]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Juliet Sutherland, and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                         Transcriber's Note:
+
+    The source of the Greek quote and its meaning are from the
+    1914 edition.
+
+
+                                 THE
+
+                           GOLDEN TREASURY
+
+               SELECTED FROM THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL
+                    POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
+                       AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES
+
+
+                                  BY
+
+                         FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE
+
+         LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
+
+
+
+
+                        _REVISED AND ENLARGED_
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                                London
+
+                      MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
+
+                   NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+
+                                 1902
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+ALFRED TENNYSON
+
+POET LAUREATE
+
+
+This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with
+whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English
+Literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts
+of Nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the
+rarest,--just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been
+hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have
+endeavoured to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to
+Henry Hallam. But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love
+and reverence; and I desire therefore to place before it a name united
+with his by associations which, while Poetry retains her hold on the
+minds of Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.
+
+Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn
+Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your
+advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second
+reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet,
+and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common
+value.
+
+Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be
+found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a
+source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten
+solitude itself with best society,--with the companionship of the wise
+and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music
+only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of
+delight to Labour and to Poverty,--if it teaches those indifferent to
+the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the
+aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully
+accomplished.
+
+F.T.P.
+
+MAY: 1861
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the
+attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and
+Songs in our language (save a very few regretfully omitted on account
+of length), by writers not living,--and none beside the best. Many
+familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be
+familiar:--the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who
+love Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known
+and valued.
+
+The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of
+Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision
+increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work,
+whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here
+held essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single
+thought, feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative,
+descriptive, and didactic poems,--unless accompanied by rapidity of
+movement, brevity, and the colouring of human passion,--have been
+excluded. Humourous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances
+where a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly
+personal, occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to
+the idea of the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with
+all pieces markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is
+commonly understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical
+conditions in treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it
+possible, that all readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some
+poems, as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and Penseroso, Wordsworth's Ruth
+or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice
+for a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference
+especially to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he
+has taken his utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.
+
+This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to
+question;--what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That
+a poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,--that it shall reach a
+perfection commensurate with its aim,--that we should require finish
+in proportion to brevity,--that passion, colour, and originality
+cannot atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity or
+truth,--that a few good lines do not make a good poem, that popular
+estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,--above
+all, that excellence should be looked for rather in the whole than in
+the parts,--such and other such canons have been always steadily
+regarded. He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger
+number rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and
+that he has been aided throughout by two friends of independent and
+exercised judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the
+Dedication. It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been
+freed from that one-sidedness which must beset individual
+decisions:--but for the final choice the Editor is alone responsible.
+
+Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible
+poets not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different
+periods, have been twice systematically read through: and it is hence
+improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are due to
+oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a very few
+instances where a stanza or passage has been omitted. These omissions
+have been risked only when the piece could be thus brought to a closer
+lyrical unity: and, as essentially opposed to this unity, extracts,
+obviously such, are excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of
+the book has appeared to justify the choice of the most poetical
+version, wherever more than one exists; and much labour has been given
+to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to
+the greatest advantage.
+
+In the arrangement, the most poetically-effective order has been
+attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and
+cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of
+Poetry, that a rapid passage between old and new, like rapid
+alteration of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always
+be wearisome and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been
+therefore distributed into Books corresponding, I to the ninety years
+closing about 1616, II thence to 1700, III to 1800, IV to the half
+century just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give
+each portion its distinctive character, they might be called the Books
+of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this
+respect, so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately
+reflects the natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly
+chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at
+instruction than at pleasure, and the wisdom which comes through
+pleasure:--within each book the pieces have therefore been arranged in
+gradations of feeling or subject. And it is hoped that the contents of
+this Anthology will thus be found to present a certain unity, 'as
+episodes,' in the noble language of Shelley, 'to that great Poem which
+all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have
+built up since the beginning of the world.'
+
+As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without
+egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame
+more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism,
+would confine judgments on Poetry to 'the selected few of many
+generations.' Not many appear to have gained reputation without some
+gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses
+by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more
+thought than mastery of expression, are printed in this volume, it
+should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much
+hesitation and regret,--far less that they have been slighted.
+Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few
+have been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill
+in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or
+seriousness in reflection, which render their works, although never
+perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence here
+required,--better worth reading than much of what fills the scanty
+hours that most men spare for self-improvement, or for pleasure in any
+of its more elevated and permanent forms.--And if this be true of even
+mediocre poetry, for how much more are we indebted to the best! Like
+the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a more various power, the
+magic of this Art can confer on each period of life its appropriate
+blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity Calm, on age,
+Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures 'more golden than gold,' leading
+us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world, and
+interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for
+herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success,
+may be heard throughout the following pages:--wherever the Poets of
+England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is
+spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.
+
+1861
+
+Some poems, especially in Book I, have been added:--either on better
+acquaintance;--in deference to critical suggestions;--or unknown to
+the Editor when first gathering his harvest. For aid in these
+after-gleanings he is specially indebted to the excellent reprints of
+rare early verse given us by Dr. Hannah, Dr. Grosart, Mr. Arber, Mr.
+Bullen, and others,--and (in regard to the additions of 1883) to the
+advice of that distinguished Friend, by whom the final choice has been
+so largely guided. The text has also been carefully revised from
+authoritative sources. It has still seemed best, for many reasons, to
+retain the original limit by which the selection was confined to those
+then no longer living. But the editor hopes that, so far as in him
+lies, a complete and definitive collection of our best Lyrics, to the
+central year of this fast-closing century, is now offered.
+
+1883-1890-1891
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+DEDICATION
+
+PREFACE                   PAGE
+
+BOOK I.                     1
+
+BOOK II.                   56
+
+BOOK III.                 133
+
+BOOK IV.                  197
+
+NOTES                     349
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS          371
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES      375
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+       [Greek: Eis ton leim�na kathisas,
+               edrepen heteron eph' heter�
+               airomenos agreum' anthe�n
+               hadomena psucha -- --]
+
+                            [Eurip. frag. 754.]
+
+         ['He sat in the meadow and plucked
+           with glad heart the spoil of the
+           flowers, gathering them one by one.']
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book First
+
+
+I
+
+_SPRING_
+
+
+    Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
+    Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
+    Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+    The palm and may make country houses gay,
+    Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
+    And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
+
+    The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
+    Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
+    In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+          Spring! the sweet Spring!
+
+_T. Nash._
+
+
+II
+
+_THE FAIRY LIFE_
+
+1
+
+    Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
+    In a cowslip's bell I lie;
+    There I couch, when owls do cry:
+    On the bat's back I do fly
+    After summer merrily.
+        Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
+        Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!
+
+
+III
+
+2
+
+    Come unto these yellow sands,
+        And then take hands:
+    Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd
+        The wild waves whist,
+    Foot it featly here and there;
+    And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.
+          Hark, hark!
+              Bow-bow.
+          The watch-dogs bark:
+              Bow-wow.
+          Hark, hark! I hear
+    The strain of strutting chanticleer
+          Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+IV
+
+_SUMMONS TO LOVE_
+
+    Phoebus, arise!
+    And paint the sable skies
+    With azure, white, and red:
+    Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
+    That she may thy career with roses spread:
+    The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
+    Make an eternal Spring!
+    Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
+    Spread forth thy golden hair
+    In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
+    And emperor-like decore
+    With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
+    Chase hence the ugly night
+    Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
+
+    --This is that happy morn,
+    That day, long-wish�d day
+    Of all my life so dark,
+    (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
+    And fates my hopes betray),
+    Which, purely white, deserves
+    An everlasting diamond should it mark.
+    This is the morn should bring unto this grove
+    My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
+    Fair King, who all preserves,
+    But show thy blushing beams,
+    And thou two sweeter eyes
+    Shalt see than those which by Pen�us' streams
+    Did once thy heart surprize.
+    Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
+    If that ye winds would hear
+    A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
+    Your furious chiding stay;
+    Let Zephyr only breathe,
+    And with her tresses play.
+    --The winds all silent are,
+    And Phoebus in his chair
+    Ensaffroning sea and air
+    Makes vanish every star:
+    Night like a drunkard reels
+    Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
+    The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
+    The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
+    Here is the pleasant place--
+    And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!
+
+_W. Drummond of Hawthornden_
+
+
+V
+
+_TIME AND LOVE_
+
+1
+
+    When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+    The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
+    When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
+    And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
+
+    When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
+    Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
+    And the firm soil win of the watery main,
+    Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
+
+    When I have seen such interchange of state,
+    Or state itself confounded to decay,
+    Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate--
+    That Time will come and take my Love away:
+
+    --This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
+    But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+VI
+
+2
+
+    Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
+    But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
+    How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
+    Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
+
+    O how shall summer's honey breath hold out
+    Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
+    When rocks impregnable are not so stout
+    Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
+
+    O fearful meditation! where, alack!
+    Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
+    Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
+    Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
+
+    O! none, unless this miracle have might,
+    That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
+
+_W. Shakespeare._
+
+
+VII
+
+_THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    Come live with me and be my Love,
+    And we will all the pleasures prove
+    That hills and valleys, dale and field,
+    And all the craggy mountains yield.
+
+    There will we sit upon the rocks
+    And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
+    By shallow rivers, to whose falls
+    Melodious birds sing madrigals.
+
+    There will I make thee beds of roses
+    And a thousand fragrant posies,
+    A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
+    Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
+
+    A gown made of the finest wool,
+    Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
+    Fair lin�d slippers for the cold,
+    With buckles of the purest gold.
+
+    A belt of straw and ivy buds
+    With coral clasps and amber studs:
+    And if these pleasures may thee move,
+    Come live with me and be my Love.
+
+    Thy silver dishes for thy meat
+    As precious as the gods do eat,
+    Shall on an ivory table be
+    Prepared each day for thee and me.
+
+    The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
+    For thy delight each May-morning:
+    If these delights thy mind may move,
+    Then live with me and be my Love.
+
+_C. Marlowe_
+
+
+VIII
+
+_OMNIA VINCIT_
+
+    Fain would I change that note
+    To which fond Love hath charm'd me
+    Long long to sing by rote,
+    Fancying that that harm'd me:
+    Yet when this thought doth come
+    'Love is the perfect sum
+        Of all delight,'
+    I have no other choice
+    Either for pen or voice
+        To sing or write.
+
+    O Love! they wrong thee much
+    That say thy sweet is bitter,
+    When thy rich fruit is such
+    As nothing can be sweeter.
+    Fair house of joy and bliss,
+    Where truest pleasure is,
+        I do adore thee:
+    I know thee what thou art,
+    I serve thee with my heart,
+        And fall before thee!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+IX
+
+_A MADRIGAL_
+
+    Crabbed Age and Youth
+    Cannot live together:
+    Youth is full of pleasance,
+    Age is full of care;
+    Youth like summer morn,
+    Age like winter weather,
+    Youth like summer brave,
+    Age like winter bare:
+    Youth is full of sport,
+    Age's breath is short,
+    Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
+    Youth is hot and bold,
+    Age is weak and cold,
+    Youth is wild, and Age is tame:--
+    Age, I do abhor thee,
+    Youth, I do adore thee;
+    O! my Love, my Love is young!
+    Age, I do defy thee--
+    O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
+    For methinks thou stay'st too long.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+X
+
+        Under the greenwood tree
+        Who loves to lie with me,
+        And turn his merry note
+        Unto the sweet bird's throat--
+    Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+            Here shall he see
+            No enemy
+    But winter and rough weather.
+
+        Who doth ambition shun
+        And loves to live i' the sun,
+        Seeking the food he eats
+        And pleased with what he gets--
+    Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+            Here shall he see
+            No enemy
+    But winter and rough weather.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XI
+
+    It was a lover and his lass
+      With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
+    That o'er the green corn-field did pass
+    In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+    When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+      Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+    Between the acres of the rye
+    These pretty country folks would lie:
+    This carol they began that hour,
+    How that life was but a flower:
+
+    And therefore take the present time
+      With a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!
+    For love is crowned with the prime
+    In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+    When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+      Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XII
+
+_PRESENT IN ABSENCE_
+
+    Absence, hear thou this protestation
+        Against thy strength,
+        Distance, and length;
+    Do what thou canst for alteration:
+      For hearts of truest mettle
+    Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.
+
+    Who loves a mistress of such quality,
+        His mind hath found
+        Affection's ground
+    Beyond time, place, and mortality.
+      To hearts that cannot vary
+    Absence is present, Time doth tarry.
+
+    By absence this good means I gain,
+        That I can catch her,
+        Where none can match her,
+    In some close corner of my brain:
+      There I embrace and kiss her;
+    And so I both enjoy and miss her.
+
+_J. Donne_
+
+
+XIII
+
+_VIA AMORIS_
+
+    High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,
+    And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
+    Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
+    More oft than to a chamber-melody,--
+
+    Now, bless�d you bear onward bless�d me
+    To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
+    My Muse and I must you of duty greet
+    With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;
+
+    Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;
+    By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;
+    Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
+    And that you know I envy you no lot
+
+    Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,--
+    Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XIV
+
+_ABSENCE_
+
+    Being your slave, what should I do but tend
+    Upon the hours and times of your desire?
+    I have no precious time at all to spend
+    Nor services to do, till you require:
+
+    Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour
+    Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
+    Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
+    When you have bid your servant once adieu:
+
+    Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
+    Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
+    But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
+    Save, where you are, how happy you make those;--
+
+    So true a fool is love, that in your will
+    Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XV
+
+    How like a winter hath my absence been
+    From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
+    What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
+    What old December's bareness every where!
+
+    And yet this time removed was summer's time:
+    The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
+    Bearing the wanton burden of the prime
+    Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
+
+    Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
+    But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
+    For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
+    And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
+
+    Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
+    That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVI
+
+_A CONSOLATION_
+
+    When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
+    I all alone beweep my outcast state,
+    And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
+    And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
+
+    Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+    Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
+    Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
+    With what I most enjoy contented least;
+
+    Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
+    Haply I think on Thee--and then my state,
+    Like to the lark at break of day arising
+    From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
+
+    For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings
+    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVII
+
+_THE UNCHANGEABLE_
+
+    O never say that I was false of heart,
+    Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
+    As easy might I from myself depart
+    As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;
+
+    That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
+    Like him that travels, I return again,
+    Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
+    So that myself bring water for my stain.
+
+    Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
+    All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
+    That it could so preposterously be stain'd
+    To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
+
+    For nothing this wide universe I call,
+    Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVIII
+
+    To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
+    For as you were when first your eye I eyed
+    Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
+    Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
+
+    Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
+    In process of the seasons have I seen,
+    Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
+    Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
+
+    Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
+    Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
+    So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
+    Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
+
+    For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,--
+    Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XIX
+
+_ROSALINE_
+
+    Like to the clear in highest sphere
+    Where all imperial glory shines,
+    Of selfsame colour is her hair
+    Whether unfolded, or in twines:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
+    Resembling heaven by every wink;
+    The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
+    And I do tremble when I think
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
+    That beautifies Aurora's face,
+    Or like the silver crimson shroud
+    That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Her lips are like two budded roses
+    Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
+    Within which bounds she balm encloses
+    Apt to entice a deity:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Her neck is like a stately tower
+    Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
+    To watch for glances every hour
+    From her divine and sacred eyes:
+      Heigh ho, for Rosaline!
+    Her paps are centres of delight,
+    Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
+    Where Nature moulds the dew of light
+    To feed perfection with the same:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    With orient pearl, with ruby red,
+    With marble white, with sapphire blue
+    Her body every way is fed,
+    Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Nature herself her shape admires;
+    The Gods are wounded in her sight;
+    And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
+    And at her eyes his brand doth light:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
+    The absence of fair Rosaline,
+    Since for a fair there's fairer none,
+    Nor for her virtues so divine:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;
+Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
+
+_T. Lodge_
+
+
+XX
+
+_COLIN_
+
+    Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+      Where fairest shades did hide her;
+    The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
+      The cool streams ran beside her.
+    My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
+      To see what was forbidden:
+    But better memory said, fie!
+      So vain desire was chidden:--
+                  Hey nonny nonny O!
+                  Hey nonny nonny!
+
+    Into a slumber then I fell,
+      When fond imagination
+    Seemed to see, but could not tell
+      Her feature or her fashion.
+    But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
+      And sometimes fall a-weeping,
+    So I awaked, as wise this while
+      As when I fell a-sleeping:---
+                  Hey nonny nonny O!
+                  Hey nonny nonny!
+
+_The Shepherd Tonie_
+
+
+XXI
+
+_A PICTURE_
+
+    Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,
+    Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:
+        Out of thy golden quiver
+        Take thou thy strongest arrow
+        That will through bone and marrow,
+    And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:--
+    But come behind, for if she look upon thee,
+    Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXII
+
+_A SONG FOR MUSIC_
+
+    Weep you no more, sad fountains:--
+        What need you flow so fast?
+    Look how the snowy mountains
+        Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
+          But my Sun's heavenly eyes
+              View not your weeping,
+              That now lies sleeping
+        Softly, now softly lies,
+                  Sleeping.
+
+    Sleep is a reconciling,
+        A rest that peace begets:--
+    Doth not the sun rise smiling,
+        When fair at even he sets?
+            --Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!
+              Melt not in weeping!
+              While She lies sleeping
+          Softly, now softly lies,
+                  Sleeping!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXIII
+
+_TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
+    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
+    And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
+
+    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
+    And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
+    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
+    By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
+
+    But thy eternal summer shall not fade
+    Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
+    Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
+    When in eternal lines to time thou growest:--
+
+    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
+    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXIV
+
+_TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    When in the chronicle of wasted time
+    I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
+    And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
+    In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
+
+    Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
+    Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
+    I see their antique pen would have exprest
+    Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
+
+    So all their praises are but prophecies
+    Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;
+    And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
+    They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
+
+    For we, which now behold these present days,
+    Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXV
+
+_BASIA_
+
+        Turn back, you wanton flyer,
+        And answer my desire
+            With mutual greeting.
+        Yet bend a little nearer,--
+        True beauty still shines clearer
+            In closer meeting!
+        Hearts with hearts delighted
+        Should strive to be united,
+    Each other's arms with arms enchaining,--
+            Hearts with a thought,
+    Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.
+
+        What harvest half so sweet is
+        As still to reap the kisses
+            Grown ripe in sowing?
+        And straight to be receiver
+        Of that which thou art giver,
+            Rich in bestowing?
+        There is no strict observing
+        Of times' or seasons' swerving,
+    There is ever one fresh spring abiding;--
+        Then what we sow with our lips
+        Let us reap, love's gains dividing.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+XXVI
+
+_ADVICE TO A GIRL_
+
+    Never love unless you can
+    Bear with all the faults of man!
+    Men sometimes will jealous be
+    Though but little cause they see,
+    And hang the head as discontent,
+    And speak what straight they will repent.
+
+    Men, that but one Saint adore,
+    Make a show of love to more;
+    Beauty must be scorn'd in none,
+    Though but truly served in one:
+    For what is courtship but disguise?
+    True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
+
+    Men, when their affairs require,
+    Must awhile themselves retire;
+    Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
+    And not ever sit and talk:--
+    If these and such-like you can bear,
+    Then like, and love, and never fear!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+XXVII
+
+_LOVE'S PERJURIES_
+
+    On a day, alack the day!
+    Love, whose month is ever May,
+    Spied a blossom passing fair
+    Playing in the wanton air:
+    Through the velvet leaves the wind,
+    All unseen, 'gan passage find;
+    That the lover, sick to death,
+    Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
+    Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
+    Air, would I might triumph so!
+    But, alack, my hand is sworn
+    Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
+    Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
+    Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
+    Do not call it sin in me
+    That I am forsworn for thee:
+    Thou for whom Jove would swear
+    Juno but an Ethiope were,
+    And deny himself for Jove,
+    Turning mortal for thy love.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXVIII
+
+_A SUPPLICATION_
+
+    Forget not yet the tried intent
+    Of such a truth as I have meant;
+    My great travail so gladly spent,
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not yet when first began
+    The weary life ye know, since whan
+    The suit, the service none tell can;
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not yet the great assays,
+    The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
+    The painful patience in delays,
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not! O, forget not this,
+    How long ago hath been, and is
+    The mind that never meant amiss--
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not then thine own approved
+    The which so long hath thee so loved,
+    Whose steadfast faith yet never moved--
+                      Forget not this!
+
+_Sir T. Wyat_
+
+
+XXIX
+
+_TO AURORA_
+
+    O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,
+    And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;
+    Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast
+    And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
+
+    O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
+    What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!
+    For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,
+    Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;
+
+    Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
+    And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan
+    Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;
+    No, I would have my share in what were thine:
+
+    And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
+    This happy harmony would make them none.
+
+_W. Alexander, Earl of Sterline_
+
+
+XXX
+
+_IN LACRIMAS_
+
+        I saw my Lady weep,
+    And Sorrow proud to be advanc�d so
+    In those fair eyes where all perfections keep,
+        Her face was full of woe,
+    But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
+    Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
+
+        Sorrow was there made fair,
+    And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;
+    Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:
+        She made her sighs to sing,
+    And all things with so sweet a sadness move
+    As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
+
+        O fairer than aught else
+    The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!
+    Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:
+        Tears kill the heart, believe.
+    O strive not to be excellent in woe,
+    Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXI
+
+_TRUE LOVE_
+
+    Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+    Admit impediments. Love is not love
+    Which alters when it alteration finds,
+    Or bends with the remover to remove:--
+
+    O no! it is an ever-fix�d mark
+    That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
+    It is the star to every wandering bark,
+    Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
+
+    Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
+    Within his bending sickle's compass come;
+    Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
+    But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--
+
+    If this be error, and upon me proved,
+    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXII
+
+_A DITTY_
+
+    My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
+    By just exchange one for another given:
+    I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
+    There never was a better bargain driven:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+    His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
+    My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
+    He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
+    I cherish his because in me it bides:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XXXIII
+
+_LOVE'S INSIGHT_
+
+    Though others may Her brow adore
+    Yet more must I, that therein see far more
+    Than any other's eyes have power to see:
+          She is to me
+    More than to any others she can be!
+    I can discern more secret notes
+    That in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes,
+    Than any else besides have art to read:
+          No looks proceed
+    From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXIV
+
+_LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE_
+
+    Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
+    And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
+    Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
+    Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
+
+    Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
+    And you, my Love, as humble and as low
+    As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
+    Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
+
+    Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
+    My love should shine on you like to the sun,
+    And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
+    Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
+
+    Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
+    Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
+
+_J. Sylvester_
+
+
+XXXV
+
+_CARPE DIEM_
+
+    O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+    O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
+        That can sing both high and low;
+    Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
+    Journeys end in lovers meeting--
+        Every wise man's son doth know.
+
+    What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
+    Present mirth hath present laughter;
+        What's to come is still unsure:
+    In delay there lies no plenty,--
+    Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
+        Youth's a stuff will not endure.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXVI
+
+_AN HONEST AUTOLYCUS_
+
+    Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,
+      Good penny-worths,--but money cannot move:
+    I keep a fair but for the Fair to view;
+      A beggar may be liberal of love.
+    Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true--
+                              The heart is true.
+
+    Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
+      My trifles come as treasures from my mind;
+    It is a precious jewel to be plain;
+      Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:--
+    Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
+                              Of me a grain!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXVII
+
+_WINTER_
+
+    When icicles hang by the wall
+      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
+    And Tom bears logs into the hall,
+      And milk comes frozen home in pail;
+    When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
+    Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                    Tu-whit!
+    Tu-who! A merry note!
+    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+    When all about the wind doth blow,
+      And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
+    And birds sit brooding in the snow,
+      And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
+    When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl--
+    Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                    Tu-whit!
+    Tu-who! A merry note!
+    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXVIII
+
+    That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+    When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
+    Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
+    Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:
+
+    In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
+    As after sunset fadeth in the west,
+    Which by and by black night doth take away,
+    Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:
+
+    In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
+    That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
+    As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
+    Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:
+
+    --This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
+    To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXIX
+
+_MEMORY_
+
+    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+    I summon up remembrance of things past,
+    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
+    And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste;
+
+    Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
+    For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
+    And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
+    And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
+
+    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
+    And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
+    The sad account of fore-bemoan�d moan,
+    Which I new pay as if not paid before:
+
+    --But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend,
+    All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XL
+
+_SLEEP_
+
+    Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
+    The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
+    The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
+    Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
+
+    With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
+    Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
+    O make in me those civil wars to cease;
+    I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
+
+    Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
+    A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
+    A rosy garland and a weary head:
+    And if these things, as being thine in right,
+
+    Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
+    Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XLI
+
+_REVOLUTIONS_
+
+    Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+    So do our minutes hasten to their end;
+    Each changing place with that which goes before,
+    In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
+
+    Nativity, once in the main of light,
+    Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
+    Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
+    And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
+
+    Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
+    And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
+    Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
+    And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:--
+
+    And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
+    Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLII
+
+    Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
+    And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
+    The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
+    My bonds in thee are all determinate.
+
+    For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
+    And for that riches where is my deserving?
+    The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
+    And so my patent back again is swerving.
+
+    Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
+    Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
+    So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
+    Comes home again, on better judgment making.
+
+    Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;
+    In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIII
+
+_THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION_
+
+    They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
+    That do not do the thing they most do show,
+    Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
+    Unmov�d, cold, and to temptation slow,--
+
+    They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
+    And husband nature's riches from expense;
+    They are the lords and owners of their faces,
+    Others, but stewards of their excellence.
+
+    The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
+    Though to itself it only live and die;
+    But if that flower with base infection meet,
+    The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
+
+    For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
+    Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIV
+
+_THE LOVER'S APPEAL_
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay! for shame,
+    To save thee from the blame
+    Of all my grief and grame.
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    That hath loved thee so long
+    In wealth and woe among:
+    And is thy heart so strong
+    As for to leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    That hath given thee my heart
+    Never for to depart
+    Neither for pain nor smart:
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    And have no more pity
+    Of him that loveth thee?
+    Alas! thy cruelty!
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+_Sir T. Wyat_
+
+
+XLV
+
+_THE NIGHTINGALE_
+
+    As it fell upon a day
+    In the merry month of May,
+    Sitting in a pleasant shade
+    Which a grove of myrtles made,
+    Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
+    Trees did grow and plants did spring;
+    Every thing did banish moan
+    Save the Nightingale alone.
+    She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
+    Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
+    And there sung the dolefull'st ditty
+    That to hear it was great pity.
+    Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
+    Teru, teru, by and by:
+    That to hear her so complain
+    Scarce I could from tears refrain;
+    For her griefs so lively shown
+    Made me think upon mine own.
+    --Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
+    None takes pity on thy pain:
+    Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
+    Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
+    King Pandion, he is dead,
+    All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
+    All thy fellow birds do sing
+    Careless of thy sorrowing:
+    Even so, poor bird, like thee
+    None alive will pity me.
+
+_R. Barnefield_
+
+
+XLVI
+
+    Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
+    Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
+    Relieve my languish, and restore the light;
+    With dark forgetting of my care return.
+
+    And let the day be time enough to mourn
+    The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:
+    Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
+    Without the torment of the night's untruth.
+
+    Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
+    To model forth the passions of the morrow;
+    Never let rising Sun approve you liars,
+    To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
+
+    Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
+    And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
+
+_S. Daniel_
+
+
+XLVII
+
+    The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
+      Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
+    While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
+      Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
+        And mournfully bewailing,
+        Her throat in tunes expresseth
+        What grief her breast oppresseth
+    For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
+
+    O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
+    That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
+          Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
+    Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
+
+    Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish
+      But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,
+    Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
+      Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
+        But I, who, daily craving,
+        Cannot have to content me,
+        Have more cause to lament me,
+    Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
+
+    O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
+    That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
+          Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
+    Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XLVIII
+
+_FRUSTRA_
+
+    Take, O take those lips away
+    That so sweetly were forsworn,
+    And those eyes, the break of day,
+    Lights that do mislead the morn:
+    But my kisses bring again,
+              Bring again--
+    Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
+              Seal'd in vain!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIX
+
+_LOVE'S FAREWELL_
+
+    Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,--
+    Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
+    And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
+    That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
+
+    Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
+    And when we meet at any time again,
+    Be it not seen in either of our brows
+    That we one jot of former love retain.
+
+    Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
+    When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
+    When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
+    And innocence is closing up his eyes,
+
+    --Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
+    From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
+
+_M. Drayton_
+
+
+L
+
+_IN IMAGINE PERTRANSIT HOMO_
+
+    Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
+      Though thou be black as night
+      And she made all of light,
+    Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
+
+    Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!
+      Though here thou liv'st disgraced,
+      And she in heaven is placed,
+    Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
+
+    Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,
+      That so have scorch�d thee
+      As thou still black must be
+    Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
+
+    Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!
+      There comes a luckless night
+      That will dim all her light;
+    --And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
+
+    Follow still, since so thy fates ordain�d!
+      The sun must have his shade,
+      Till both at once do fade,--
+    The sun still proved, the shadow still disdain�d.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LI
+
+_BLIND LOVE_
+
+    O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head
+    Which have no correspondence with true sight:
+    Or if they have, where is my judgment fled
+    That censures falsely what they see aright?
+
+    If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
+    What means the world to say it is not so?
+    If it be not, then love doth well denote
+    Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,
+
+    How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
+    That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
+    No marvel then though I mistake my view:
+    The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
+
+    O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
+    Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LII
+
+    Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!
+      For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?
+    It shall suffice me here to sit and see
+      Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke:
+    What sight can more content a lover's mind
+    Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?
+
+    My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps,
+      Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;
+    And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:
+      Dreams often more than waking passions move.
+    Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:
+    That she in peace may wake and pity me.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LIII
+
+_THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS_
+
+    While that the sun with his beams hot
+    Scorch�d the fruits in vale and mountain,
+    Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
+    Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
+      In shadow of a green oak tree
+      Upon his pipe this song play'd he:
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    So long as I was in your sight
+    I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
+    And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
+    Burning in flames beyond all measure:
+      --Three days endured your love to me,
+      And it was lost in other three!
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    Another Shepherd you did see
+    To whom your heart was soon enchain�d;
+    Full soon your love was leapt from me,
+    Full soon my place he had obtain�d.
+      Soon came a third, your love to win,
+      And we were out and he was in.
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    Sure you have made me passing glad
+    That you your mind so soon remov�d,
+    Before that I the leisure had
+    To choose you for my best belov�d:
+      For all your love was past and done
+      Two days before it was begun:--
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LIV
+
+_ADVICE TO A LOVER_
+
+    The sea hath many thousand sands,
+    The sun hath motes as many;
+    The sky is full of stars, and Love
+    As full of woes as any:
+    Believe me, that do know the elf,
+    And make no trial by thyself!
+
+    It is in truth a pretty toy
+    For babes to play withal:--
+    But O! the honeys of our youth
+    Are oft our age's gall!
+    Self-proof in time will make thee know
+    He was a prophet told thee so;
+
+    A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
+    Tells truth without belief;
+    For headstrong Youth will run his race,
+    Although his goal be grief:--
+    Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,
+    Proves Care's Confessor at the last.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LV
+
+_A RENUNCIATION_
+
+    Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,
+      For all those rosy ornaments in thee,--
+    Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,
+      Nor fair, nor sweet--unless thou pity me!
+    I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove
+    That beauty is no beauty without love.
+
+    --Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure
+      My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine:
+    Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,
+      I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine:
+    --Now show it, if thou be a woman right--
+    Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LVI
+
+            Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
+            Thou art not so unkind
+            As man's ingratitude;
+            Thy tooth is not so keen
+            Because thou art not seen,
+            Although thy breath be rude.
+    Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+            Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+            This life is most jolly.
+
+            Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
+            Thou dost not bite so nigh
+            As benefits forgot:
+            Though thou the waters warp,
+            Thy sting is not so sharp
+            As friend remember'd not.
+    Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+            Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+            This life is most jolly.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LVII
+
+_A SWEET LULLABY_
+
+    Come little babe, come silly soul,
+    Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
+    Born as I doubt to all our dole,
+    And to thy self unhappy chief:
+        Sing Lullaby and lap it warm,
+        Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
+
+    Thou little think'st and less dost know,
+    The cause of this thy mother's moan,
+    Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
+    And I myself am all alone:
+        Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
+        And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.
+
+    Come little wretch, ah silly heart,
+    Mine only joy, what can I more?
+    If there be any wrong thy smart
+    That may the destinies implore:
+        'Twas I, I say, against my will,
+        I wail the time, but be thou still.
+
+    And dost thou smile, oh thy sweet face!
+    Would God Himself He might thee see,
+    No doubt thou would'st soon purchase grace,
+    I know right well, for thee and me:
+        But come to mother, babe, and play,
+        For father false is fled away.
+
+    Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance,
+    Thy father home again to send,
+    If death do strike me with his lance,
+    Yet mayst thou me to him commend:
+        If any ask thy mother's name,
+        Tell how by love she purchased blame.
+
+    Then will his gentle heart soon yield,
+    I know him of a noble mind,
+    Although a Lion in the field,
+    A Lamb in town thou shalt him find:
+        Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,
+        His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
+
+    Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
+    Although in woe I seem to moan,
+    Thy father is no rascal lad,
+    A noble youth of blood and bone:
+        His glancing looks, if he once smile,
+        Right honest women may beguile.
+
+    Come, little boy, and rock asleep,
+    Sing lullaby and be thou still,
+    I that can do nought else but weep;
+    Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
+        God bless my babe, and lullaby
+        From this thy father's quality!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LVIII
+
+    With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
+    How silently, and with how wan a face!
+    What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place
+    That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
+
+    Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
+    Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
+    I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,
+    To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
+
+    Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
+    Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
+    Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
+    Do they above love to be loved, and yet
+
+    Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
+    Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+LIX
+
+_O CRUDELIS AMOR_
+
+    When thou must home to shades of underground,
+    And there arrived, a new admired guest,
+    The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
+    White Iop�, blithe Helen, and the rest,
+    To hear the stories of thy finish'd love
+    From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
+
+    Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
+    Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
+    Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights,
+    And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
+    When thou hast told' these honours done to thee,
+    Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LX
+
+_SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD_
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
+        Mother's wag, pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy;
+        When thy father first did see
+        Such a boy by him and me,
+        He was glad, I was woe,
+        Fortune changed made him so,
+        When he left his pretty boy
+        Last his sorrow, first his joy.
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
+        Streaming tears that never stint,
+        Like pearl drops from a flint,
+        Fell by course from his eyes,
+        That one another's place supplies;
+        Thus he grieved in every part,
+        Tears of blood fell from his heart,
+        When he left his pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy.
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
+        The wanton smiled, father wept,
+        Mother cried, baby leapt;
+        More he crow'd, more we cried,
+        Nature could not sorrow hide:
+        He must go, he must kiss
+        Child and mother, baby bless,
+        For he left his pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy.
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
+
+_R. Greene_
+
+
+LXI
+
+_A LAMENT_
+
+    My thoughts hold mortal strife;
+    I do detest my life,
+    And with lamenting cries
+    Peace to my soul to bring
+    Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:
+    --But he, grim grinning King,
+    Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,
+    Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
+    Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXII
+
+_DIRGE OF LOVE_
+
+      Come away, come away, Death,
+    And in sad cypres let me be laid;
+      Fly away, fly away, breath;
+    I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
+    My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
+          O prepare it!
+    My part of death, no one so true
+          Did share it.
+
+      Not a flower, not a flower sweet
+    On my black coffin let there be strown;
+      Not a friend, not a friend greet
+    My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
+    A thousand thousand sighs to save,
+          Lay me, O where
+    Sad true lover never find my grave,
+          To weep there.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXIII
+
+_TO HIS LUTE_
+
+    My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
+    With thy green mother in some shady grove,
+    When immelodious winds but made thee move,
+    And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
+
+    Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
+    Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
+    Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
+    What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
+
+    Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
+    But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
+    Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
+    For which be silent as in woods before:
+
+    Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
+    Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXIV
+
+_FIDELE_
+
+    Fear no more the heat o' the sun
+        Nor the furious winter's rages;
+    Thou thy worldly task hast done,
+        Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;
+    Golden lads and girls all must,
+    As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
+
+    Fear no more the frown o' the great,
+        Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
+    Care no more to clothe and eat;
+        To thee the reed is as the oak:
+    The sceptre, learning, physic, must
+    All follow this, and come to dust.
+
+    Fear no more the lightning-flash
+        Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
+    Fear not slander, censure rash;
+        Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
+    All lovers young, all lovers must
+    Consign to thee, and come to dust.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXV
+
+_A SEA DIRGE_
+
+    Full fathom five thy father lies:
+        Of his bones are coral made;
+    Those are pearls that were his eyes:
+        Nothing of him that doth fade,
+    But doth suffer a sea-change
+    Into something rich and strange.
+    Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
+      Hark! now I hear them,--
+          Ding, dong, bell.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXVI
+
+_A LAND DIRGE_
+
+    Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
+    Since o'er shady groves they hover
+    And with leaves and flowers do cover
+    The friendless bodies of unburied men.
+    Call unto his funeral dole
+    The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
+    To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
+    And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
+    But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
+    For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
+
+_J. Webster_
+
+
+LXVII
+
+_POST MORTEM_
+
+    If Thou survive my well-contented day
+    When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
+    And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
+    These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;
+
+    Compare them with the bettering of the time,
+    And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
+    Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
+    Exceeded by the height of happier men.
+
+    O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought--
+    'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
+    A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
+    To march in ranks of better equipage:
+
+    But since he died, and poets better prove,
+    Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXVIII
+
+_THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH_
+
+    No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+    Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
+    Give warning to the world, that I am fled
+    From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
+
+    Nay, if you read this line, remember not
+    The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
+    That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
+    If thinking on me then should make you woe.
+
+    O if, I say, you look upon this verse
+    When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
+    Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
+    But let your love even with my life decay;
+
+    Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
+    And mock you with me after I am gone.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXIX
+
+_YOUNG LOVE_
+
+    Tell me where is Fancy bred,
+    Or in the heart, or in the head?
+    How begot, how nourish�d?
+          Reply, reply.
+
+    It is engender'd in the eyes;
+    With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
+    In the cradle where it lies:
+    Let us all ring Fancy's knell;
+    I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
+          --Ding, dong, bell.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXX
+
+_A DILEMMA_
+
+      Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting
+        Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
+        And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,
+      My eyes present me with a double doubting:
+    For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes
+    Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LXXI
+
+_ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL_
+
+    Love in my bosom, like a bee,
+                Doth suck his sweet;
+    Now with his wings he plays with me,
+                Now with his feet.
+        Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
+        His bed amidst my tender breast;
+        My kisses are his daily feast,
+        And yet he robs me of my rest:
+                Ah! wanton, will ye?
+
+    And if I sleep, then percheth he
+                With pretty flight,
+    And makes his pillow of my knee
+                The livelong night.
+        Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
+        He music plays if so I sing;
+        He lends me every lovely thing,
+        Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
+                Whist, wanton, will ye?
+
+    Else I with roses every day
+                Will whip you hence,
+    And bind you, when you long to play,
+                For your offence;
+        I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;
+        I'll make you fast it for your sin;
+        I'll count your power not worth a pin;
+        --Alas! what hereby shall I win,
+                If he gainsay me?
+
+    What if I beat the wanton boy
+                With many a rod?
+    He will repay me with annoy,
+                Because a god.
+        Then sit thou safely on my knee,
+        And let thy bower my bosom be;
+        Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
+        O Cupid! so thou pity me,
+                Spare not, but play thee!
+
+_T. Lodge_
+
+
+LXXII
+
+_CUPID AND CAMPASPE_
+
+    Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+    At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
+    He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
+    His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
+    Loses them too; then down he throws
+    The coral of his lip, the rose
+    Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
+    With these, the crystal of his brow,
+    And then the dimple on his chin;
+    All these did my Campaspe win:
+    And last he set her both his eyes--
+    She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
+        O Love! has she done this to thee?
+        What shall, alas! become of me?
+
+_J. Lylye_
+
+
+LXXIII
+
+    Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
+      With night we banish sorrow;
+    Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
+      To give my Love good-morrow!
+    Wings from the wind to please her mind
+      Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
+    Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
+      To give my Love good-morrow;
+          To give my Love good-morrow
+          Notes from them both I'll borrow.
+
+    Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,
+      Sing, birds, in every furrow;
+    And from each hill, let music shrill
+      Give my fair Love good-morrow!
+    Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
+      Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
+    You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
+      Sing my fair Love good-morrow;
+          To give my Love good-morrow
+          Sing, birds, in every furrow!
+
+_T. Heywood_
+
+
+LXXIV
+
+_PROTHALAMION_
+
+    Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+    Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play--
+    A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
+    Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
+    When I, (whom sullen care,
+    Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
+    In princes' court, and expectation vain
+    Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
+    Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
+    Walk'd forth to ease my pain
+    Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
+    Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
+    Was painted all with variable flowers,
+    And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
+    Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
+    And crown their paramours
+    Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    There in a meadow by the river's side
+    A flock of nymphs I chanc�d to espy,
+    All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
+    With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
+    As each had been a bride;
+    And each one had a little wicker basket
+    Made of fine twigs, entrail�d curiously.
+    In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
+    And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
+    The tender stalks on high.
+    Of every sort which in that meadow grew
+    They gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,
+    The little daisy that at evening closes,
+    The virgin lily and the primrose true,
+    With store of vermeil roses,
+    To deck their bridegrooms' posies
+    Against the bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    With that I saw two Swans of goodly hue
+    Come softly swimming down along the Lee;
+    Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
+    The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow
+    Did never whiter show,
+    Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
+    For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
+    Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
+    Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
+    So purely white they were
+    That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
+    Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare
+    To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
+    Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
+    And mar their beauties bright
+    That shone as Heaven's light
+    Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
+    Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
+    As they came floating on the crystal flood;
+    Whom when they saw, they stood amaz�d still
+    Their wondering eyes to fill;
+    Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair
+    Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem
+    Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
+    Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;
+    For sure they did not seem
+    To be begot of any earthly seed,
+    But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed;
+    Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,
+    In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
+    The earth did fresh array;
+    So fresh they seem'd as day,
+    Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
+    Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
+    That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
+    All which upon those goodly birds they threw
+    And all the waves did strew,
+    That like old Peneus' waters they did seem
+    When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore
+    Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
+    That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,
+    Like a bride's chamber-floor.
+    Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound
+    Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
+    The which presenting all in trim array,
+    Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd;
+    Whilst one did sing this lay
+    Prepared against that day,
+    Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.
+
+    'Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
+    And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
+    Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
+    Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content
+    Of your love's couplement;
+    And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
+    With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
+    Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
+    All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
+    For ever to assoil.
+    Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
+    And bless�d plenty wait upon your board;
+    And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
+    That fruitful issue may to you afford
+    Which may your foes confound,
+    And make your joys redound
+    Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.'
+
+    So ended she; and all the rest around
+    To her redoubled that her undersong,
+    Which said their bridal day should not be long:
+    And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
+    Their accents did resound.
+    So forth those joyous birds did pass along
+    Adown the Lee that to them murmur'd low,
+    As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue;
+    Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
+    Making his stream run slow.
+    And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
+    'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
+    The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
+    The lesser stars. So they, enrang�d well,
+    Did on those two attend,
+    And their best service lend
+    Against their wedding day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    At length they all to merry London came,
+    To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
+    That to me gave this life's first native source,
+    Though from another place I take my name,
+    An house of ancient fame:
+    There when they came whereas those bricky towers
+    The which on Thames' broad ag�d back do ride,
+    Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
+    There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
+    Till they decay'd through pride;
+    Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
+    Where oft I gain�d gifts and goodly grace
+    Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
+    Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;
+    But ah! here fits not well
+    Old woes, but joys to tell
+    Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
+    Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,
+    Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,
+    And Hercules' two pillars standing near
+    Did make to quake and fear:
+    Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!
+    That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame
+    Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
+    And endless happiness of thine own name
+    That promiseth the same;
+    That through thy prowess and victorious arms
+    Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
+    And great Elisa's glorious name may ring
+    Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,
+    Which some brave Muse may sing
+    To ages following:
+    Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    From those high towers this noble lord iss�ing
+    Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
+    In th' ocean billows he hath bath�d fair,
+    Descended to the river's open viewing
+    With a great train ensuing.
+    Above the rest were goodly to be seen
+    Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
+    Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
+    With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
+    Fit for so goodly stature,
+    That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight
+    Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
+    They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
+    Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
+    Which, at th' appointed tide,
+    Each one did make his bride
+    Against their bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+_E. Spenser_
+
+
+LXXV
+
+_THE HAPPY HEART_
+
+    Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+              O sweet content!
+    Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
+              O punishment!
+    Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd
+    To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
+    O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+      Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+      Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+    Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+    Canst drink the waters of the crisp�d spring?
+              O sweet content!
+    Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
+              O punishment!
+    Then he that patiently want's burden bears
+    No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
+    O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+      Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+      Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+    Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+_T. Dekker_
+
+
+LXXVI
+
+_SIC TRANSIT_
+
+    Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
+      For while thou view'st me with thy fading light
+    Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
+      And I still onward haste to my last night:
+    Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly--
+    So every day we live a day we die.
+
+    But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest,
+      How are my days deprived of life in you
+    When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,
+      By feign�d death life sweetly to renew!
+    Part of my life, in that, you life deny:
+    So every day we live, a day we die.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LXXVII
+
+    This Life, which seems so fair,
+    Is like a bubble blown up in the air
+    By sporting children's breath,
+    Who chase it everywhere
+    And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
+    And though it sometimes seem of its own might
+    Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
+    And firm to hover in that empty height,
+    That only is because it is so light.
+    --But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
+    For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
+    Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXVIII
+
+_SOUL AND BODY_
+
+    Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
+    [Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,
+    Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
+    Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
+
+    Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
+    Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
+    Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
+    Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
+
+    Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
+    And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
+    Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
+    Within be fed, without be rich no more:--
+
+    So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
+    And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXXIX
+
+    The man of life upright,
+      Whose guiltless heart is free
+    From all dishonest deeds,
+      Or thought of vanity;
+
+    The man whose silent days
+      In harmless joys are spent,
+    Whom hopes cannot delude
+      Nor sorrow discontent:
+
+    That man needs neither towers
+      Nor armour for defence,
+    Nor secret vaults to fly
+      From thunder's violence:
+
+    He only can behold
+      With unaffrighted eyes
+    The horrors of the deep
+      And terrors of the skies.
+
+    Thus scorning all the cares
+      That fate or fortune brings,
+    He makes the heaven his book,
+      His wisdom heavenly things;
+
+    Good thoughts his only friends,
+      His wealth a well-spent age,
+    The earth his sober inn
+      And quiet pilgrimage.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LXXX
+
+_THE LESSONS OF NATURE_
+
+    Of this fair volume which we World do name
+    If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
+    Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
+    We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
+
+    Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
+    His providence extending everywhere,
+    His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
+    In every page, no period of the same.
+
+    But silly we, like foolish children, rest
+    Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
+    Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
+    On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
+
+    Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
+    It is some picture on the margin wrought.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXXI
+
+    Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+    Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
+    Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
+    Are these your influences, Powers above?
+
+    Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,
+    Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
+    And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,
+    Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.
+
+    Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all
+    Why should best minds groan under most distress?
+    Or why should pride humility make thrall,
+    And injuries the innocent oppress?
+
+    Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
+    When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXXII
+
+_THE WORLD'S WAY_
+
+    Tired with all these, for restful death I cry--
+    As, to behold desert a beggar born,
+    And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
+    And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
+
+    And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
+    And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
+    And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
+    And strength by limping sway disabled,
+
+    And art made tongue-tied by authority,
+    And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
+    And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
+    And captive Good attending captain Ill:--
+
+    --Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
+    Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXXXIII
+
+_A WISH_
+
+    Happy were he could finish forth his fate
+    In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure
+    From all society, from love and hate
+    Of worldly folk, there should he sleep secure;
+
+    Then wake again, and yield God ever praise;
+    Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry;
+    In contemplation passing still his days,
+    And change of holy thoughts to make him merry:
+
+    Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bush
+    Where harmless robin resteth with the thrush:
+              --Happy were he!
+
+_R. Devereux, Earl of Essex_
+
+
+LXXXIV
+
+_SAINT JOHN BAPTIST_
+
+    The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+    Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
+    Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
+    Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.
+
+    His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
+    With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
+    Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
+    Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
+
+    There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
+    On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
+    Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
+    --Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
+
+    Only the echoes, which he made relent,
+    Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Second
+
+LXXXV
+
+_ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY_
+
+    This is the month, and this the happy morn
+    Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
+    Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
+    Our great redemption from above did bring;
+    For so the holy sages once did sing
+    That He our deadly forfeit should release,
+    And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
+
+    That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
+    And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
+    Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
+    To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
+    He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
+    Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
+    And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
+
+    Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
+    Afford a present to the Infant God?
+    Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain
+    To welcome Him to this His new abode,
+    Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
+    Hath took no print of the approaching light,
+    And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
+
+    See how from far, upon the eastern road,
+    The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
+    O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
+    And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;
+    Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
+    And join thy voice unto the Angel quire
+    From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
+
+
+_THE HYMN_
+
+    It was the winter wild
+    While the heaven-born Child
+    All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
+    Nature in awe to Him
+    Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
+    With her great Master so to sympathize:
+    It was no season then for her
+    To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
+
+    Only with speeches fair
+    She woos the gentle air
+    To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
+    And on her naked shame,
+    Pollute with sinful blame,
+    The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
+    Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
+    Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
+
+    But He, her fears to cease,
+    Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;
+    She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
+    Down through the turning sphere,
+    His ready harbinger,
+    With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
+    And waving wide her myrtle wand,
+    She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
+
+    No war, or battle's sound
+    Was heard the world around:
+    The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
+    The hook�d chariot stood
+    Unstain'd with hostile blood;
+    The trumpet spake not to the arm�d throng;
+    And kings sat still with awful eye,
+    As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
+
+    But peaceful was the night
+    Wherein the Prince of Light
+    His reign of peace upon the earth began:
+    The winds, with wonder whist,
+    Smoothly the waters kist
+    Whispering new joys to the mild oce�n--
+    Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
+    While birds of calm sit brooding on the charm�d wave.
+
+    The stars, with deep amaze,
+    Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
+    Bending one way their precious influence;
+    And will not take their flight
+    For all the morning light,
+    Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
+    But in their glimmering orbs did glow
+    Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.
+
+    And though the shady gloom
+    Had given day her room,
+    The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
+    And hid his head for shame,
+    As his inferior flame
+    The new-enlighten'd world no more should need;
+    He saw a greater Sun appear
+    Than his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear.
+
+    The shepherds on the lawn
+    Or ere the point of dawn
+    Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
+    Full little thought they than
+    That the mighty Pan
+    Was kindly come to live with them below;
+    Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep
+    Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:--
+
+    When such music sweet
+    Their hearts and ears did greet
+    As never was by mortal finger strook--
+    Divinely-warbled voice
+    Answering the string�d noise,
+    As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
+    The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
+    With thousand echoes, still prolongs each heavenly close.
+
+    Nature, that heard such sound
+    Beneath the hollow round
+    Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling.
+    Now was almost won
+    To think her part was done,
+    And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
+    She knew such harmony alone
+    Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union,
+
+    At last surrounds their sight
+    A globe of circular light
+    That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
+    The helm�d Cherubim
+    And sworded Seraphim
+    Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
+    Harping in loud and solemn quire
+    With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
+
+    Such music (as 'tis said)
+    Before was never made
+    But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
+    While the Creator great
+    His constellations set
+    And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;
+    And cast the dark foundations deep,
+    And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep,
+
+    Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
+    Once bless our human ears,
+    If ye have power to touch our senses so;
+    And let your silver chime
+    Move in melodious time;
+    And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;
+    And with your ninefold harmony
+    Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
+
+    For if such holy song
+    Enwrap our fancy long,
+    Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;
+    And speckled Vanity
+    Will sicken soon and die,
+    And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
+    And Hell itself will pass away,
+    And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
+
+    Yea, Truth and Justice then
+    Will down return to men,
+    Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
+    Mercy will sit between
+    Throned in celestial sheen,
+    With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
+    And Heaven, as at some festival,
+    Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.
+
+    But wisest Fate says No;
+    This must not yet be so;
+    The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
+    That on the bitter cross
+    Must redeem our loss;
+    So both Himself and us to glorify:
+    Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep
+    The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
+
+    With such a horrid clang
+    As on Mount Sinai rang
+    While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
+    The aged Earth aghast
+    With terror of that blast
+    Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
+    When, at the world's last sessi�n,
+    The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
+
+    And then at last our bliss
+    Full and perfect is,
+    But now begins; for from this happy day
+    The old Dragon under ground,
+    In straiter limits bound,
+    Not half so far casts his usurp�d sway;
+    And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
+    Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
+
+    The Oracles are dumb;
+    No voice or hideous hum
+    Runs through the arch�d roof in words deceiving.
+    Apollo from his shrine
+    Can no more divine,
+    With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:
+    No nightly trance or breath�d spell
+    Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
+
+    The lonely mountains o'er
+    And the resounding shore
+    A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
+    From haunted spring and dale
+    Edged with poplar pale
+    The parting Genius is With sighing sent;
+    With flower-inwoven tresses torn
+    The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
+
+    In consecrated earth
+    And on the holy hearth
+    The Lars and Lemur�s moan with midnight plaint;
+    In urns, and altars round
+    A drear and dying sound
+    Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
+    And the chill marble seems to sweat,
+    While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.
+
+    Peor and Baalim
+    Forsake their temples dim,
+    With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;
+    And moon�d Ashtaroth
+    Heaven's queen and mother both,
+    Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
+    The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:
+    In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
+
+    And sullen Moloch, fled,
+    Hath left in shadows dread
+    His burning idol all of blackest hue;
+    In vain with cymbals' ring
+    They call the grisly king,
+    In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
+    The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
+    Isis; and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
+
+    Nor is Osiris seen
+    In Memphian grove, or green,
+    Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
+    Nor can he be at rest
+    Within his sacred chest;
+    Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
+    In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
+    The sable-stol�d sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
+
+    He feels from Juda's land
+    The dreaded Infant's hand;
+    The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
+    Nor all the gods beside
+    Longer dare abide,
+    Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
+    Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,
+    Can in His swaddling bands control the damn�d crew.
+
+    So, when the sun in bed
+    Curtain'd with cloudy red
+    Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
+    The flocking shadows pale
+    Troop to the infernal jail,
+    Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
+    And the yellow-skirted fays
+    Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
+
+    But see! the Virgin blest
+    Hath laid her Babe to rest;
+    Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:
+    Heaven's youngest-teem�d star
+    Hath fix'd her polish'd car,
+    Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
+    And all about the courtly stable
+    Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+LXXXVI
+
+_SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687_
+
+    From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+        This universal frame began:
+      When Nature underneath a heap
+        Of jarring atoms lay
+      And could not heave her head,
+    The tuneful voice was heard from high,
+        Arise, ye more than dead!
+    Then cold and hot and moist and dry
+    In order to their stations leap,
+        And Music's power obey.
+    From harmony, from heavenly harmony
+        This universal frame began:
+        From harmony to harmony
+    Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
+    The diapason closing full in Man.
+
+    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+        When Jubal struck the chorded shell
+      His listening brethren stood around,
+      And, wondering, on their faces fell
+      To worship that celestial sound.
+    Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
+        Within the hollow of that shell
+        That spoke so sweetly and so well.
+    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+
+    The trumpet's loud clangor
+      Excites us to arms,
+    With shrill notes of anger
+      And mortal alarms.
+    The double double double beat
+      Of the thundering drum
+      Cries 'Hark! the foes come;
+    Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'
+
+      The soft complaining flute
+        In dying notes discovers
+      The woes of hopeless lovers,
+    Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
+
+      Sharp violins proclaim
+    Their jealous pangs and desperation,
+    Fury, frantic indignation,
+    Depth of pains, and height of passion
+      For the fair disdainful dame.
+
+    But oh! what art can teach,
+    What human voice can reach
+      The sacred organ's praise?
+    Notes inspiring holy love,
+    Notes that wing their heavenly ways
+      To mend the choirs above.
+
+    Orpheus could lead the savage race,
+    And trees unrooted left their place
+      Sequacious of the lyre:
+    But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
+    When to her Organ vocal breath was given
+    An Angel heard, and straight appear'd--
+      Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
+
+_Grand Chorus_
+
+    As from the power of sacred lays
+      The spheres began to move,
+    And sung the great Creator's praise
+      To all the blest above;
+    So when the last and dreadful hour
+    This crumbling pageant shall devour,
+    The trumpet shall be heard on high,
+    The dead shall live, the living die,
+    And Music shall untune the sky.
+
+_J. Dryden_
+
+
+LXXXVII
+
+_ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT_
+
+    Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
+    Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
+    Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
+    When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,
+
+    Forget not: In Thy book record their groans
+    Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
+    Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd
+    Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
+
+    The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
+    To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
+    O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
+
+    The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
+    A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,
+    Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+LXXXVIII
+
+_HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND_
+
+    The forward youth that would appear,
+    Must now forsake his Muses dear,
+        Nor in the shadows sing
+        His numbers languishing.
+
+    'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
+    And oil the unus�d armour's rust,
+        Removing from the wall
+        The corslet of the hall.
+
+    So restless Cromwell could not cease
+    In the inglorious arts of peace,
+        But through adventurous war
+        Urg�d his active star:
+
+    And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
+    Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
+        Did thorough his own Side
+        His fiery way divide:
+
+    For 'tis all one to courage high,
+    The emulous, or enemy;
+        And with such, to enclose
+        Is more than to oppose;
+
+    Then burning through the air he went
+    And palaces and temples rent;
+        And Caesar's head at last
+        Did through his laurels blast.
+
+    'Tis madness to resist or blame
+    The face of angry heaven's flame;
+        And if we would speak true,
+        Much to the Man is due
+
+    Who, from his private gardens, where
+    He lived reserv�d and austere,
+        (As if his highest plot
+        To plant the bergamot,)
+
+    Could by industrious valour climb
+    To ruin the great work of time,
+        And cast the Kingdoms old
+        Into another mould;
+
+    Though Justice against Fate complain,
+    And plead the ancient Rights in vain--
+        But those do hold or break
+        As men are strong or weak;
+
+    Nature, that hateth emptiness,
+    Allows of penetration less,
+        And therefore must make room
+        Where greater spirits come.
+
+    What field of all the civil war
+    Where his were not the deepest scar?
+        And Hampton shows what part
+        He had of wiser art,
+
+    Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
+    He wove a net of such a scope
+        That Charles himself might chase
+        To Carisbrook's narrow case,
+
+    That thence the Royal actor borne
+    The tragic scaffold might adorn:
+        While round the arm�d bands
+        Did clap their bloody hands.
+
+    He nothing common did or mean
+    Upon that memorable scene,
+        But with his keener eye
+        The axe's edge did try;
+
+    Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,
+    To vindicate his helpless right;
+        But bow'd his comely head
+        Down, as upon a bed.
+
+    --This was that memorable hour
+    Which first assured the forc�d power:
+        So when they did design
+        The Capitol's first line,
+
+    A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
+    Did fright the architects to run;
+        And yet in that the State
+        Foresaw its happy fate!
+
+    And now the Irish are ashamed
+    To see themselves in one year tamed:
+        So much one man can do
+        That does both act and know.
+
+    They can affirm his praises best,
+    And have, though overcome, confest
+        How good he is, how just
+        And fit for highest trust.
+
+    Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
+    But still in the Republic's hand--
+        How fit he is to sway
+        That can so well obey!
+
+    He to the Commons' feet presents
+    A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
+        And (what he may) forbears
+        His fame, to make it theirs:
+
+    And has his sword and spoils ungirt
+    To lay them at the Public's skirt.
+       So when the falcon high
+       Falls heavy from the sky,
+
+    She, having kill'd, no more doth search
+    But on the next green bough to perch,
+        Where, when he first does lure,
+        The falconer has her sure.
+
+    --What may not then our Isle presume
+    While victory his crest does plume?
+        What may not others fear
+        If thus he crowns each year?
+
+    As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
+    To Italy an Hannibal,
+        And to all States not free
+        Shall climacteric be.
+
+    The Pict no shelter now shall find
+    Within his parti-colour'd mind,
+        But from this valour sad
+        Shrink underneath the plaid--
+
+    Happy, if in the tufted brake
+    The English hunter him mistake,
+        Nor lay his hounds in near
+        The Caledonian deer.
+
+    But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
+    March indefatigably on;
+        And for the last effect
+        Still keep the sword erect:
+
+    Besides the force it has to fright
+    The spirits of the shady night,
+        The same arts that did gain
+        A power, must it maintain.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+LXXXIX
+
+_LYCIDAS_
+
+_Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel 1637_
+
+    Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+    Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
+    I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
+    And with forced fingers rude
+    Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
+    Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
+    Compels me to disturb your season due:
+    For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
+    Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
+    Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
+    Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
+    He must not float upon his watery bier
+    Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
+    Without the meed of some melodious tear.
+
+      Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well
+    That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
+    Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
+    Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
+    So may some gentle Muse
+    With lucky words favour my destined urn;
+    And as he passes, turn
+    And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
+
+      For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
+    Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:
+    Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
+    Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
+    We drove a-field, and both together heard
+    What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
+    Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
+    Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
+    Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
+    Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
+    Temper'd to the oaten flute,
+    Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
+    From the glad sound would not be absent long;
+    And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
+
+      But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
+    Now thou art gone, and never must return!
+    Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves
+    With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
+    And all their echoes, mourn:
+    The willows and the hazel copses green
+    Shall now no more be seen
+    Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:--
+    As killing as the canker to the rose,
+    Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
+    Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear
+    When first the white-thorn blows;
+    Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
+
+      Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
+    Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
+    For neither were ye playing on the steep
+    Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
+    Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
+    Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
+    Ay me! I fondly dream--
+    Had ye been there ... For what could that have done?
+    What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
+    The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
+    Whom universal nature did lament,
+    When by the rout that made the hideous roar
+    His gory visage down the stream was sent,
+    Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
+
+      Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
+    To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade
+    And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
+    Were it not better done, as others use,
+    To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
+    Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
+    Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
+    (That last infirmity of noble mind)
+    To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
+    But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
+    And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
+    Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears
+    And slits the thin-spun life.  'But not the praise'
+    Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
+    'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
+    Nor in the glistering foil
+    Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
+    But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
+    And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
+    As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
+    Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'
+
+      O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
+    Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
+    That strain I heard was of a higher mood.
+    But now my oat proceeds,
+    And listens to the herald of the sea
+    That came in Neptune's plea;
+    He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
+    What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
+    And question'd every gust of rugged wings
+    That blows from off each beaked promontory:
+    They knew not of his story;
+    And sage Hippotad�s their answer brings,
+    That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
+    The air was calm, and on the level brine
+    Sleek Panop� with all her sisters play'd.
+    It was that fatal and perfidious bark
+    Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
+    That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
+
+      Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
+    His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge
+    Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
+    Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:
+    'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge!'
+    Last came, and last did go
+    The Pilot of the Galilean lake;
+    Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
+    (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
+    He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
+    'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
+    Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake
+    Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!
+    Of other care they little reckoning make
+    Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast.
+    And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
+    Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
+    A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least
+    That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
+    What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
+    And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
+    Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
+    The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
+    But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw
+    Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
+    Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
+    Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
+    --But that two-handed engine at the door
+    Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'
+
+      Return, Alph�us; the dread voice is past
+    That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
+    And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
+    Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
+    Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
+    Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
+    On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
+    Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
+    That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers
+    And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
+    Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
+    The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
+    The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
+    The glowing violet,
+    The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
+    With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
+    And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
+    Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,
+    And daffadillies fill their cups with tears
+    To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
+    For so to interpose a little ease,
+    Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:--
+    Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
+    Wash far away,--where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
+    Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
+    Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
+    Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
+    Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
+    Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
+    Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
+    Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,
+    --Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
+    --And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!
+
+      Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
+    For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
+    Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor:
+    So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
+    And yet anon repairs his drooping head
+    And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
+    Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
+    So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high
+    Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;
+    Where, other groves and other streams along,
+    With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
+    And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
+    In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
+    There entertain him all the Saints above
+    In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
+    That sing, and singing, in their glory move,
+    And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
+    Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
+    Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore
+    In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
+    To all that wander in that perilous flood.
+
+      Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
+    While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
+    He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
+    With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
+    And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
+    And now was dropt into the western bay:
+    At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
+    To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XC
+
+_ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY_
+
+    Mortality, behold and fear
+    What a change of flesh is here!
+    Think how many royal bones
+    Sleep within these heaps of stones;
+    Here they lie, had realms and lands,
+    Who now want strength to stir their hands,
+    Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
+    They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
+    Here's an acre sown indeed
+    With the richest royallest seed
+    That the earth did e'er suck in
+    Since the first man died for sin:
+    Here the bones of birth have cried
+    'Though gods they were, as men they died!'
+    Here are sands, ignoble things,
+    Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
+    Here's a world of pomp and state
+    Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
+
+_F. Beaumont_
+
+
+XCI
+
+_THE LAST CONQUEROR_
+
+    Victorious men of earth, no more
+      Proclaim how wide your empires are;
+    Though you bind-in every shore
+      And your triumphs reach as far
+          As night or day,
+      Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
+    And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
+    Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
+
+    Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
+      Each able to undo mankind,
+    Death's servile emissaries are;
+      Nor to these alone confined,
+          He hath at will
+      More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
+    A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
+    Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
+
+_J. Shirley_
+
+
+XCII
+
+_DEATH THE LEVELLER_
+
+    The glories of our blood and state
+        Are shadows, not substantial things;
+    There is no armour against fate;
+        Death lays his icy hand on kings:
+            Sceptre and Crown
+            Must tumble down,
+    And in the dust be equal made
+    With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
+
+    Some men with swords may reap the field,
+        And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
+    But their strong nerves at last must yield;
+        They tame but one another still:
+            Early or late
+            They stoop to fate,
+    And must give up their murmuring breath
+    When they, pale captives, creep to death.
+
+    The garlands wither on your brow;
+        Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
+    Upon Death's purple altar now
+        See where the victor-victim bleeds:
+            Your heads must come
+            To the cold tomb;
+    Only the actions of the just
+    Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
+
+_J. Shirley_
+
+
+XCIII
+
+_WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY_
+
+    Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,
+    Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
+    If deed of honour did thee ever please,
+    Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
+
+    He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
+    That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
+    And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
+    Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
+
+    Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
+    The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
+    The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
+
+    Went to the ground: and the repeated air
+    Of sad Electra's poet had the power
+    To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XCIV
+
+_ON HIS BLINDNESS_
+
+    When I consider how my light is spent
+    Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
+    And that one talent which is death to hide
+    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
+
+    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
+    My true account, lest He returning chide,--
+    Doth God exact day labour, light denied?
+    I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent
+
+    That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need
+    Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best
+    Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
+
+    Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
+    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:--
+    They also serve who only stand and wait.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XCV
+
+_CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE_
+
+    How happy is he born and taught
+    That serveth not another's will;
+    Whose armour is his honest thought
+    And simple truth his utmost skill!
+
+    Whose passions not his masters are,
+    Whose soul is still prepared for death,
+    Untied unto the world by care
+    Of public fame, or private breath;
+
+    Who envies none that chance doth raise
+    Nor vice; Who never understood
+    How deepest wounds are given by praise;
+    Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
+
+    Who hath his life from rumours freed,
+    Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
+    Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
+    Nor ruin make oppressors great;
+
+    Who God doth late and early pray
+    More of His grace than gifts to lend;
+    And entertains the harmless day
+    With a religious book or friend;
+
+    --This man is freed from servile bands
+    Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
+    Lord of himself, though not of lands;
+    And having nothing, yet hath all.
+
+_Sir H. Wotton_
+
+
+XCVI
+
+_THE NOBLE NATURE_
+
+        It is not growing like a tree
+        In bulk, doth make Man better be;
+    Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
+    To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
+            A lily of a day
+            Is fairer far in May,
+        Although it fall and die that night--
+        It was the plant and flower of Light.
+    In small proportions we just beauties see;
+    And in short measures life may perfect be.
+
+_B. Jonson_
+
+
+XCVII
+
+_THE GIFTS OF GOD_
+
+            When God at first made Man,
+    Having a glass of blessings standing by;
+    Let us (said He) pour on him all we can:
+    Let the world's riches, which dispers�d lie,
+            Contract into a span.
+
+            So strength first made a way;
+    Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
+    When almost all was out, God made a stay,
+    Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure,
+            Rest in the bottom lay.
+
+          For if I should (said He)
+    Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
+    He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
+    And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature,
+          So both should losers be.
+
+          Yet let him keep the rest,
+    But keep them with repining restlessness:
+    Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
+    If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
+          May toss him to My breast.
+
+_G. Herbert_
+
+
+XCVIII
+
+_THE RETREAT_
+
+    Happy those early days, when I
+    Shined in my Angel-infancy!
+    Before I understood this place
+    Appointed for my second race,
+    Or taught my soul to fancy aught
+    But a white, celestial thought;
+    When yet I had not walk'd above
+    A mile or two from my first Love,
+    And looking back, at that short space
+    Could see a glimpse of His bright face;
+    When on some gilded cloud or flower
+    My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
+    And in those weaker glories spy
+    Some shadows of eternity;
+    Before I taught my tongue to wound
+    My conscience with a sinful sound,
+    Or had the black art to dispense
+    A several sin to every sense,
+    But felt through all this fleshly dress
+    Bright shoots of everlastingness.
+
+    O how I long to travel back,
+    And tread again that ancient track!
+    That I might once more reach that plain
+    Where first I left my glorious train;
+    From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
+    That shady City of palm trees!
+    But ah! my soul with too much stay
+    Is drunk, and staggers in the way:--
+    Some men a forward motion love,
+    But I by backward steps would move;
+    And when this dust falls to the urn,
+    In that state I came, return.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+XCIX
+
+_TO MR. LAWRENCE_
+
+    Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
+    Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
+    Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
+    Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
+
+    From the hard season gaining? Time will run
+    On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
+    The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
+    The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
+
+    What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
+    Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
+    To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice.
+
+    Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
+    He who of those delights can judge, and spare
+    To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+C
+
+_TO CYRIACK SKINNER_
+
+    Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
+    Of British Themis, with no mean applause
+    Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
+    Which others at their bar so often wrench;
+
+    To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
+    In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
+    Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
+    And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
+
+    To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
+    Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
+    For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
+
+    And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
+    That with superfluous burden loads the day,
+    And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CI
+
+_A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE_
+
+    Of Neptune's empire let us sing,
+    At whose command the waves obey;
+    To whom the rivers tribute pay,
+    Down the high mountains sliding;
+    To whom the scaly nation yields
+    Homage for the crystal fields
+          Wherein they dwell;
+    And every sea-god pays a gem
+    Yearly out of his watery cell,
+    To deck great Neptune's diadem.
+
+    The Tritons dancing in a ring,
+    Before his palace gates do make
+    The water with their echoes quake,
+    Like the great thunder sounding:
+    The sea-nymphs chaunt their accents shrill,
+    And the Syrens taught to kill
+          With their sweet voice,
+    Make every echoing rock reply,
+    Unto their gentle murmuring noise,
+    The praise of Neptune's empery.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+CII
+
+_HYMN TO DIANA_
+
+    Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
+        Now the sun is laid to sleep,
+    Seated in thy silver chair
+        State in wonted manner keep:
+            Hesperus entreats thy light,
+            Goddess excellently bright.
+
+    Earth, let not thy envious shade
+        Dare itself to interpose;
+    Cynthia's shining orb was made
+        Heaven to clear when day did close:
+            Bless us then with wish�d sight,
+            Goddess excellently bright.
+
+    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_
+
+
+CIII
+
+_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 tread 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 commend the rest:
+
+    A face made up
+    Out of no other shop
+    Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
+
+    Sidneian 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_
+
+
+CIV
+
+_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.
+
+    Where there is no place
+    For the glow-worm to lie;
+    Where there is no space
+    For receipt of a fly;
+    Where the midge dares not venture
+    Lest herself fast she lay;
+    If love come, he will enter
+    And soon 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._
+
+
+CV
+
+_THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T.C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS_
+
+        See with what simplicity
+        This nymph begins her golden days!
+        In the green grass she loves to lie,
+        And there with her fair aspect tames
+        The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
+        But only with the roses plays,
+                          And them does tell
+    What colours best become them, and what smell.
+
+        Who can foretell for what high cause
+        This darling of the Gods was born?
+        Yet this is she whose chaster laws
+        The wanton Love shall one day fear,
+        And, under her command severe,
+        See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.
+                          Happy who can
+    Appease this virtuous enemy of man!
+
+        O then let me in time compound
+        And parley with those conquering eyes,
+        Ere they have tried their force to wound;
+        Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
+        In triumph over hearts that strive,
+        And them that yield but more despise:
+                          Let me be laid,
+    Where I may see the glories from some shade.
+
+        Mean time, whilst every verdant thing
+        Itself does at thy beauty charm,
+        Reform the errors of the Spring;
+        Make that the tulips may have share
+        Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,
+        And roses of their thorns disarm;
+                          But most procure
+    That violets may a longer age endure.
+
+        But O young beauty of the woods,
+        Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
+        Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
+        Lest FLORA, angry at thy crime
+        To kill her infants in their prime,
+        Should quickly make th' example yours;
+                         And ere we see--
+    Nip in the blossom--all our hopes and thee.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CVI
+
+_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_
+
+
+CVII
+
+_CONSTANCY_
+
+    I cannot change, as others do,
+      Though you unjustly scorn,
+    Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
+      For you alone was born;
+    No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
+      A surer way I'll try,--
+    And to revenge my slighted love,
+      Will still love on, and die.
+
+    When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,
+      And you to mind shall call
+    The sighs that now unpitied rise,
+      The tears that vainly fall,
+    That welcome hour that ends his smart
+      Will then begin your pain,
+    For such a faithful tender heart
+      Can never break in vain.
+
+_J. Wilmot, Earl of Rochester_
+
+
+CVIII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CIX
+
+_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 shall adore;
+    I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
+      Loved I not Honour more.
+
+_Colonel Lovelace_
+
+
+CX
+
+_ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA_
+
+    You meaner beauties of the night,
+      That 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?
+
+    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?
+
+    You 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?
+
+    So when my Mistress shall be seen
+      In form and beauty of her 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_
+
+
+CXI
+
+_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 Chaeroneia, 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_
+
+
+CXII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXIII
+
+_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._
+
+
+CXIV
+
+    Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise;
+        Old Time will make thee colder,
+    And though each morning new arise
+        Yet we each day grow older.
+    Thou as Heaven art fair and young,
+        Thine eyes like twin stars shining;
+    But ere another day be sprung
+        All these will be declining.
+    Then winter comes with all his fears,
+        And all thy sweets shall borrow;
+    Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,--
+        And I too late shall sorrow!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXV
+
+        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_
+
+
+CXVI
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXVII
+
+_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 may 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._
+
+
+CXVIII
+
+_CORINNA'S MAYING_
+
+    Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn
+    Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
+        See how Aurora throws her fair
+        Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
+        Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see
+        The dew bespangling herb and tree.
+    Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
+    Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
+        Nay! not so much as out of bed?
+        When all the birds have matins said,
+        And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
+        Nay, profanation, to keep in,--
+    Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,
+    Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch-in May,
+
+    Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
+    To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,
+        And sweet as Flora. Take no care
+        For jewels for your gown, or hair:
+        Fear not; the leaves will strew
+        Gems in abundance upon you:
+    Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
+    Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:
+        Come, and receive them while the light
+        Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
+        And Titan on the eastern hill
+        Retires himself, or else stands still
+    Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
+    Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.
+
+    Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
+    How each field turns a street; each street a park
+        Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how
+        Devotion gives each house a bough
+        Or branch: Each porch, each door, ere this,
+        An ark, a tabernacle is,
+    Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
+    As if here were those cooler shades of love.
+        Can such delights be in the street,
+        And open fields, and we not see't?
+        Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
+        The proclamation made for May:
+    And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
+    But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.
+
+    There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
+    But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
+        A deal of youth, ere this, is come
+        Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
+        Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,
+        Before that we have left to dream:
+    And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
+    And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
+        Many a green-gown has been given;
+        Many a kiss, both odd and even:
+        Many a glance too has been sent
+        From out the eye, Love's firmament:
+    Many a jest told of the keys betraying
+    This night, and locks pick'd:--Yet we're not a Maying.
+
+    --Come, let us go, while we are in our prime;
+    And take the harmless folly of the time!
+        We shall grow old apace, and die
+        Before we know our liberty.
+        Our life is short; and our days run
+        As fast away as does the sun:--
+    And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
+    Once lost, can ne'er be found again:
+        So when or you or I are made
+        A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
+        All love, all liking, all delight
+        Lies drown'd with us in endless night.
+    Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
+    Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXIX
+
+_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 distracti�n,--
+    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_
+
+
+CXX
+
+2
+
+    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_
+
+
+CXXI
+
+3
+
+    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._
+
+
+CXXII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXXIII
+
+_A MYSTICAL ECSTASY_
+
+    E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
+        That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
+    And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,
+        Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
+          Where in a greater current they conjoin:
+    So I my Best-Belov�d's am; so He is mine.
+
+    E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,
+        E'en so we join'd; we both became entire;
+    No need for either to renew a suit,
+        For I was flax and he was flames of fire:
+        Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
+    So I my Best-Belov�d's am; so He is mine.
+
+    If all those glittering Monarchs that command
+        The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
+    Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,
+        I would not change my fortunes for them all:
+        Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
+    The world's but theirs; but my Belov�d's mine.
+
+_F. Quarles_
+
+
+CXXIV
+
+_TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING_
+
+    Bid me to live, and I will live
+      Thy Protestant to be:
+    Or bid me love, and I will give
+      A loving heart to thee.
+
+    A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
+      A heart as sound and free
+    As in the whole world thou canst find,
+      That heart I'll give to thee.
+
+    Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
+      To honour thy decree:
+    Or bid it languish quite away,
+      And 't shall do so for thee.
+
+    Bid me to weep, and I will weep
+      While I have eyes to see:
+    And having none, yet I will keep
+      A heart to weep for thee.
+
+    Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
+      Under that cypress tree:
+    Or bid me die, and I will dare
+      E'en Death, to die for thee.
+
+    Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
+      The very eyes of me,
+    And hast command of every part,
+      To live and die for thee.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXXV
+
+    Love not me for comely grace,
+    For my pleasing eye or face,
+    Nor for any outward part,
+    No, nor for my constant heart,--
+      For those may fail, or turn to ill,
+        So thou and I shall sever:
+    Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
+    And love me still, but know not why--
+      So hast thou the same reason still
+        To doat upon me ever!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXVI
+
+    Not, Celia, that I juster am
+      Or better than the rest;
+    For I would change each hour, like them,
+      Were not my heart at rest,
+
+    But I am tied to very thee
+      By every thought I have;
+    Thy face I only care to see,
+      Thy heart I only crave.
+
+    All that in woman is adored
+      In thy dear self I find--
+    For the whole sex can but afford
+      The handsome and the kind.
+
+    Why then should I seek further store,
+      And still make love anew?
+    When change itself can give no more,
+      'Tis easy to be true.
+
+_Sir C. Sedley_
+
+
+CXXVII
+
+_TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON_
+
+    When Love with unconfin�d wings
+      Hovers within my gates,
+    And my divine Althea brings
+      To whisper at the grates;
+    When I lie tangled in her hair
+      And fetter'd to her eye,
+    The Gods that wanton in the air
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+    When flowing cups run swiftly round
+      With no allaying Thames,
+    Our careless heads with roses bound,
+      Our hearts with loyal flames;
+    When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
+      When healths and draughts go free--
+    Fishes that tipple in the deep
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+    When, (like committed linnets), I
+      With shriller throat shall sing
+    The sweetness, mercy, majesty
+      And glories of my King;
+    When I shall voice aloud how good
+      He is, how great should be,
+    Enlarg�d winds, that curl the flood,
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+    Stone walls do not a prison make,
+      Nor iron bars a cage;
+    Minds innocent and quiet take
+      That for an hermitage;
+    If I have freedom in my love
+      And in my soul am free,
+    Angels alone, that soar above,
+      Enjoy such liberty.
+
+_Colonel Lovelace_
+
+
+CXXVIII
+
+_TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS_
+
+        If to be absent were to be
+            Away from thee;
+          Or that when I am gone
+          You or I were alone;
+        Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
+    Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.
+
+        But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
+            To swell my sail,
+          Or pay a tear to 'suage
+          The foaming blue-god's rage;
+        For whether he will let me pass
+    Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.
+
+        Though seas and land betwixt us both,
+            Our faith and troth,
+          Like separated souls,
+          All time and space controls:
+        Above the highest sphere we meet
+    Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.
+
+        So then we do anticipate
+            Our after-fate,
+          And are alive i' the skies,
+          If thus our lips and eyes
+        Can speak like spirits unconfined
+    In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
+
+_Colonel Lovelace_
+
+
+CXXIX
+
+_ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER_
+
+      Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+          Prythee, why so pale?
+      Will, if looking well can't move her,
+          Looking ill prevail?
+          Prithee, why so pale?
+
+      Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
+          Prythee, why so mute?
+      Will, when speaking well can't win her,
+          Saying nothing do't?
+          Prythee, why so mute?
+
+    Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
+          This cannot take her;
+      If of herself she will not love,
+          Nothing can make her:
+          The D--l take her!
+
+_Sir J. Suckling_
+
+
+CXXX
+
+_A SUPPLICATION_
+
+        Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+    And tell thy silent master's humble tale
+        In sounds that may prevail;
+      Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
+        Though so exalted she
+        And I so lowly be
+    Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
+
+        Hark, how the strings awake!
+    And, though the moving hand approach not near,
+        Themselves with awful fear
+      A kind of numerous trembling make.
+        Now all thy forces try;
+        Now all thy charms apply;
+    Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
+
+        Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
+    Is useless here, since thou art only found
+        To cure, but not to wound,
+      And she to wound, but not to cure.
+        Too weak too wilt thou prove
+        My passion to remove;
+    Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.
+
+        Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
+    For thou canst never tell my humble tale
+        In sounds that will prevail,
+      Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
+        All thy vain mirth lay by,
+        Bid thy strings silent lie,
+    Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
+
+_A. Cowley_
+
+
+CXXXI
+
+_THE MANLY HEART_
+
+    Shall I, wasting in despair,
+    Die because a woman's fair?
+    Or make pale my cheeks with care
+    'Cause another's rosy are?
+    Be she fairer than the day
+    Or the flowery meads in May--
+        If she think not well of me
+        What care I how fair she be?
+
+    Shall my silly heart be pined
+    'Cause I see a woman kind;
+    Or a well disposed nature
+    Join�d with a lovely feature?
+    Be she meeker, kinder, than
+    Turtle-dove or pelican,
+        If she be not so to me
+        What care I how kind she be?
+
+    Shall a woman's virtues move
+    Me to perish for her love?
+    Or her well-deservings known
+    Make me quite forget mine own?
+    Be she with, that goodness blest
+    Which may merit name of Best;
+        If she be not such to me,
+        What care I how good she be?
+
+    'Cause her fortune seems too high,
+    Shall I play the fool and die?
+    She that bears a noble mind
+    If not outward helps she find,
+    Thinks what with them he would do
+    Who without them dares her woo;
+        And unless that mind I see,
+        What care I how great she be?
+
+    Great or good, or kind or fair,
+    I will ne'er the more despair;
+    If she love me, this believe,
+    I will die ere she shall grieve;
+    If she slight me when I woo,
+    I can scorn and let her go;
+        For if she be not for me,
+        What care I for whom she be?
+
+_G. Wither_
+
+
+CXXXII
+
+_MELANCHOLY_
+
+        Hence, all you vain delights,
+        As short as are the nights
+        Wherein you spend your folly:
+        There's nought in this life sweet
+        If man were wise to see't,
+        But only melancholy,
+        O sweetest Melancholy!
+      Welcome, folded arms, and fix�d eyes,
+      A sigh that piercing mortifies,
+      A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
+      A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
+      Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
+      Places which pale passion loves!
+      Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
+      Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
+      A midnight bell, a parting groan!
+      These are the sounds we feed upon;
+    Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
+    Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
+
+_J. Fletcher_
+
+
+CXXXIII
+
+_FORSAKEN_
+
+    O waly waly up the bank,
+      And waly waly down the brae,
+    And waly waly yon burn-side
+      Where I and my Love wont to gae!
+    I leant my back unto an aik,
+      I thought it was a trusty tree;
+    But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
+      Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
+
+    O waly waly, but love be bonny
+      A little time while it is new;
+    But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld
+      And fades awa' like morning dew.
+    O wherefore should I busk my head?
+      Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
+    For my true Love has me forsook,
+      And says he'll never loe me mair.
+
+    Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
+      The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
+    Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
+      Since my true Love has forsaken me.
+    Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
+      And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
+    O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
+      For of my life I am wear�e.
+
+    '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 velv�t,
+      And I mysell in cramasie.
+
+    But had I wist, before I kist,
+      That love had been sae ill to win;
+    I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
+      And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
+    And, O! if my young babe were born,
+      And set upon the nurse's knee,
+    And I mysell were dead and gane,
+      And the green grass growing over me!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXIV
+
+    Upon my lap my sovereign sits
+    And sucks upon my breast;
+    Meantime his love maintains my life
+    And gives my sense her rest.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    When thou hast taken thy repast,
+    Repose, my babe, on me;
+    So may thy mother and thy nurse
+    Thy cradle also be.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    I grieve that duty doth not work
+    All that my wishing would,
+    Because I would not be to thee
+    But in the best I should.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    Yet as I am, and as I may,
+    I must and will be thine,
+    Though all too little for thy self
+    Vouchsafing to be mine.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXV
+
+_FAIR HELEN_
+
+    I wish I were where Helen lies;
+    Night and day on me she cries;
+    O that I were where Helen lies
+        On fair Kirconnell lea!
+
+    Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
+    And curst the hand that fired the shot,
+    When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
+        And died to succour me!
+
+    O think na but my heart was sair
+    When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
+    I laid her down wi' meikle care
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+    As I went down the water-side,
+    None but my foe to be my guide,
+    None but my foe to be my guide,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea;
+
+    I lighted down my sword to draw,
+    I hack�d him in pieces sma',
+    I hack�d him in pieces sma',
+        For her sake that died for me.
+
+    O Helen fair, beyond compare!
+    I'll make a garland of thy hair
+    Shall bind my heart for evermair
+        Until the day I die.
+
+    O that I were where Helen lies!
+    Night and day on me she cries;
+    Out of my bed she bids me rise,
+        Says, 'Haste and come to me!'
+
+    O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
+    If I were with thee, I were blest,
+    Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+    I wish my grave were growing green,
+    A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
+    And I in Helen's arms lying,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+    I wish I were where Helen lies;
+    Night and day on me she cries;
+    And I am weary of the skies,
+        Since my Love died for me.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXVI
+
+_THE TWA CORBIES_
+
+    As I was walking all alane
+    I heard twa corbies making a mane;
+    The tane unto the t'other say,
+    'Where sall we gang and dine today?'
+
+    '--In behint yon auld fail dyke,
+    I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
+    And naebody kens that he lies there,
+    But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
+
+    'His hound is to the hunting gane,
+    His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
+    His lady's ta'en another mate,
+    So we may mak our dinner sweet.
+
+    'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
+    And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een:
+    Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
+    We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
+
+    'Mony a one for him makes mane,
+    But nane sall ken where he is gane;
+    O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
+    The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXVII
+
+_ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY_
+
+    It was a dismal and a fearful night,--
+    Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,
+    When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
+        By something liker death possest.
+    My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
+        And on my soul hung the dull weight
+        Of some intolerable fate.
+    What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!
+
+    My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,
+    Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
+    Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
+        O thou hast left me all alone!
+    Thy soul and body, when death's agony
+        Besieged around thy noble heart,
+        Did not with more reluctance part
+    Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.
+
+    Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
+    Have ye not seen us walking every day?
+    Was there a tree about which did not know
+        The love betwixt us two?
+    Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,
+        Or your sad branches thicker join,
+        And into darksome shades combine,
+    Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.
+
+    Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
+    Submitted to inform a body here;
+    High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,
+        But low and humble as his grave;
+    So high that all the virtues there did come
+        As to the chiefest seat
+        Conspicuous, and great;
+    So low that for me too it made a room.
+
+    Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
+    As if for him knowledge had rather sought;
+    Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
+        In such a short mortality.
+    Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
+        Still did the notions throng
+        About his eloquent tongue;
+    Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.
+
+    His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
+    Yet never did his God or friends forget.
+    And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
+        Retired, and gave to them their due.
+    For the rich help of books he always took,
+        Though his own searching mind before
+        Was so with notions written o'er,
+    As if wise Nature had made that her book.
+
+    With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
+    He always lived, as other saints do die.
+    Still with his soul severe account he kept,
+        Weeping all debts out ere he slept.
+    Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
+        Like the sun's laborious light,
+        Which still in water sets at night,
+    Unsullied with his journey of the day.
+
+_A. Cowley_
+
+
+CXXXVIII
+
+_FRIENDS IN PARADISE_
+
+    They are all gone into the world of light!
+        And I alone sit lingering here;
+    Their very memory is fair and bright,
+          And my sad thoughts doth clear:--
+
+    It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
+        Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
+    Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
+          After the sun's remove.
+
+    I see them walking in an air of glory,
+        Whose light doth trample on my days:
+    My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
+            Mere glimmering and decays.
+
+    O holy Hope! and high Humility,
+        High as the heavens above!
+    These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me,
+            To kindle my cold love.
+
+    Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
+        Shining no where, but in the dark;
+    What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
+            Could man outlook that mark!
+
+    He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know
+        At first sight, if the bird be flown;
+    But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
+            That is to him unknown.
+
+    And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
+        Call to the soul, when man doth sleep;
+    So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
+            And into glory peep.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+CXXXIX
+
+_TO BLOSSOMS_
+
+    Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
+        Why do ye fall so fast?
+        Your date is not so past,
+    But you may stay yet here awhile
+        To blush and gently smile,
+            And go at last.
+
+    What, were ye born to be
+        An hour or half's delight,
+        And so to bid good-night?
+    'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
+        Merely to show your worth,
+            And lose you quite.
+
+    But you are lovely leaves, where we
+        May read how soon things have
+        Their end, though ne'er so brave:
+    And after they have shown their pride
+        Like you, awhile, they glide
+            Into the grave.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXL
+
+_TO DAFFODILS_
+
+    Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+        You haste away so soon:
+    As yet the early-rising Sun
+        Has not attain'd his noon.
+            Stay, stay,
+        Until the hasting day
+            Has run
+        But to the even-song;
+    And, having pray'd together, we
+        Will go with you along.
+
+    We have short time to stay, as you,
+        We have as short a Spring;
+    As quick a growth to meet decay
+        As you, or any thing.
+            We die,
+        As your hours do, and dry
+            Away
+        Like to the Summer's rain;
+    Or as the pearls of morning's dew
+        Ne'er to be found again.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXLI
+
+_THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN_
+
+    With sweetest milk and sugar first
+    I it at my own fingers nursed;
+    And as it grew, so every day
+    It wax'd more white and sweet than they--
+    It had so sweet a breath! and oft
+    I blush'd to see its foot more soft
+    And white,--shall I say,--than my hand?
+    Nay, any lady's of the land!
+
+    It is a wondrous thing how fleet
+    'Twas on those little silver feet:
+    With what a pretty skipping grace
+    It oft would challenge me the race:--
+    And when 't had left me far away
+    'Twould stay, and run again, and stay:
+    For it was nimbler much than hinds,
+    And trod as if on the four winds.
+
+    I have a garden of my own,
+    But so with roses overgrown
+    And lilies, that you would it guess
+    To be a little wilderness:
+    And all the spring-time of the year
+    It only lov�d to be there.
+    Among the beds of lilies I
+    Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
+    Yet could not, till itself would rise,
+    Find it, although before mine eyes:--
+    For in the flaxen lilies' shade
+    It like a bank of lilies laid.
+
+    Upon the roses it would feed,
+    Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed:
+    And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
+    And print those roses on my lip.
+    But all its chief delight was still
+    On roses thus itself to fill,
+    And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+    In whitest sheets of lilies cold:--
+    Had it lived long, it would have been
+    Lilies without--roses within.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLII
+
+_THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN_
+
+    How vainly men themselves amaze
+    To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
+    And their uncessant labours see
+    Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
+    Whose short and narrow-verg�d shade
+    Does prudently their toils upbraid;
+    While all the flowers and trees do close
+    To weave the garlands of Repose.
+
+    Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
+    And Innocence thy sister dear!
+    Mistaken long, I sought you then
+    In busy companies of men:
+    Your sacred plants, if here below,
+    Only among the plants will grow:
+    Society is all but rude
+    To this delicious solitude.
+
+    No white nor red was ever seen
+    So amorous as this lovely green.
+    Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
+    Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
+    Little, alas, they know or heed
+    How far these beauties hers exceed!
+    Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,
+    No name shall but your own be found.
+
+    When we have run our passions' heat
+    Love hither makes his best retreat:
+    The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
+    Still in a tree did end their race;
+    Apollo hunted Daphne so
+    Only that she might laurel grow;
+    And Pan did after Syrinx speed
+    Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
+
+    What wondrous life is this I lead!
+    Ripe apples drop about my head;
+    The luscious clusters of the vine
+    Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
+    The nectarine and curious peach
+    Into my hands themselves do reach;
+    Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
+    Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
+
+    Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
+    Withdraws into its happiness;
+    The mind, that ocean where each kind
+    Does straight its own resemblance find;
+    Yet it creates, transcending these,
+    Far other worlds, and other seas;
+    Annihilating all that's made
+    To a green thought in a green shade.
+
+    Here at the fountain's sliding foot
+    Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
+    Casting the body's vest aside
+    My soul into the boughs does glide;
+    There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
+    Then whets and claps its silver wings,
+    And, till prepared for longer flight,
+    Waves in its plumes the various light.
+
+    Such was that happy Garden-state
+    While man there walk'd without a mate:
+    After a place so pure and sweet,
+    What other help could yet be meet!
+    But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
+    To wander solitary there:
+    Two paradises 'twere in one,
+    To live in Paradise alone.
+
+    How well the skilful gardener drew
+    Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
+    Where, from above, the milder sun
+    Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
+    And, as it works, th' industrious bee
+    Computes its time as well as we.
+    How could such sweet and wholesome hours
+    Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLIII
+
+_FORTUNATI NIMIUM_
+
+    Jack and Joan, they think no ill,
+    But loving live, and merry still;
+    Do their week-day's work, and pray
+    Devoutly on the holy-day:
+    Skip and trip it on the green,
+    And help to choose the Summer Queen;
+    Lash out at a country feast
+    Their silver penny with the best.
+
+    Well can they judge of nappy ale,
+    And tell at large a winter tale;
+    Climb up to the apple loft,
+    And turn the crabs till they be soft.
+    Tib is all the father's joy,
+    And little Tom the mother's boy:--
+    All their pleasure is, Content,
+    And care, to pay their yearly rent.
+
+    Joan can call by name her cows
+    And deck her windows with green boughs;
+    She can wreaths and tutties make,
+    And trim with plums a bridal cake.
+    Jack knows what brings gain or loss,
+    And his long flail can stoutly toss:
+    Makes the hedge which others break,
+    And ever thinks what he doth speak.
+
+    --Now, you courtly dames and knights,
+    That study only strange delights,
+    Though you scorn the homespun gray,
+    And revel in your rich array;
+    Though your tongues dissemble deep
+    And can your heads from danger keep;
+    Yet, for all your pomp and train,
+    Securer lives the silly swain!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+CXLIV
+
+_L'ALLEGRO_
+
+    Hence, loath�d Melancholy,
+      Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
+    In Stygian cave forlorn
+      'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
+    Find out some uncouth cell
+      Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
+    And the night-raven sings;
+      There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks
+    As ragged as thy locks,
+      In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
+
+          But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
+        In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
+        And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
+        Whom lovely Venus at a birth
+        With two sister Graces more
+        To ivy-crown�d 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 wreath�d 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 unreprov�d pleasures free;
+        To hear the lark begin his flight
+        And singing startle the dull night
+        From his watch-tower in the skies,
+        Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
+        Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
+        And at my window bid good-morrow
+        Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
+        Or the twisted eglantine:
+        While the cock with lively din
+        Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
+        And to the stack, or the barn-door,
+        Stoutly struts his dames before:
+        Oft listening how the hounds and horn
+        Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
+        From the side of some hoar hill,
+        Through the high wood echoing shrill:
+        Sometime walking, not unseen,
+        By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
+        Right against the eastern gate
+        Where the great Sun begins his state
+        Robed in flames and amber light,
+        The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
+        While the ploughman, near at hand,
+        Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
+        And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
+        And the mower whets his scythe,
+        And every shepherd tells his tale
+        Under the hawthorn in the dale.
+          Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
+        Whilst the landscape round it measures;
+        Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
+        Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
+        Mountains, on whose barren breast
+        The labouring clouds do often rest;
+        Meadows trim with daisies pied,
+        Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
+        Towers and battlements it sees
+        Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
+        Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
+        The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
+          Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
+        From betwixt two aged oaks,
+        Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,
+        Are at their savoury dinner set
+        Of herbs, and other country messes
+        Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
+        And then in haste her bower she leaves
+        With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
+        Or, if the earlier season lead,
+        To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
+          Sometimes with secure delight
+        The upland hamlets will invite,
+        When the merry bells ring round,
+        And the jocund rebecks sound
+        To many a youth and many a maid,
+        Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
+        And young and old come forth to play
+        On a sunshine holyday,
+        Till the live-long day-light fail:
+        Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
+        With stories told of many a feat,
+        How Faery Mab the junkets eat:--
+        She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said;
+        And he, by Friar's lantern led;
+        Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
+        To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
+        When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
+        His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
+        That ten day-labourers could not end;
+        Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
+        And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
+        Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
+        And crop-full out of doors he flings,
+        Ere the first cock his matin rings.
+          Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
+        By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.
+          Tower'd cities please us then
+        And the busy hum of men,
+        Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
+        In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,
+        With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
+        Rain influence, and judge the prize
+        Of wit or arms, while both contend
+        To win her grace, whom all commend.
+        There let Hymen oft appear
+        In saffron robe, with taper clear,
+        And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
+        With mask, and antique pageantry;
+        Such sights as youthful poets dream
+        On summer eves by haunted stream.
+        Then to the well-trod stage anon,
+        If Jonson's learned sock be on,
+        Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
+        Warble his native wood-notes wild.
+          And ever against eating cares
+        Lap me in soft Lydian airs
+        Married to immortal verse,
+        Such as the meeting soul may pierce
+        In notes, with many a winding bout
+        Of link�d sweetness long drawn out,
+        With wanton heed and giddy cunning,
+        The melting voice through mazes running,
+        Untwisting all the chains that tie
+        The hidden soul of harmony;
+        That Orpheus' self may heave his head
+        From golden slumber, on a bed
+        Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear
+        Such strains as would have won the ear
+        Of Pluto, to have quite set free
+        His half-regain'd Eurydice.
+        These delights if thou canst give,
+        Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CXLV
+
+_IL PENSEROSO_
+
+    Hence, vain deluding Joys,
+      The brood of Folly without father bred!
+    How little you bestead
+      Or fill the fix�d mind with all your toys!
+    Dwell in some idle brain,
+      And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess
+    As thick and numberless
+      As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
+    Or likest hovering dreams,
+      The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
+
+        But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,
+      Hail, divinest Melancholy!
+      Whose saintly visage is too bright
+      To hit the sense of human sight,
+      And therefore to our weaker view
+      O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
+      Black, but such as in esteem
+      Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
+      Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
+      To set her beauty's praise above
+      The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:
+      Yet thou art higher far descended:
+      Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
+      To solitary Saturn bore;
+      His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
+      Such mixture was not held a stain:
+      Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
+      He met her, and in secret shades
+      Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
+      While yet there was no fear of Jove.
+
+        Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
+      Sober, steadfast, and demure,
+      All in a robe of darkest grain
+      Flowing with majestic train,
+      And sable stole of Cipres lawn
+      Over thy decent shoulders drawn:
+      Come, but keep thy wonted state,
+      With even step, and musing gait,
+      And looks commercing with the skies,
+      Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
+      There, held in holy passion still,
+      Forget thyself to marble, till
+      With a sad leaden downward cast
+      Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
+      And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
+      Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
+      And hears the Muses in a ring
+      Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
+      And add to these retired Leisure
+      That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:--
+      But first and chiefest, with thee bring
+      Him that yon soars on golden wing
+      Guiding the fiery-wheel�d throne,
+      The cherub Contemplati�n;
+      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 remov�d place will fit,
+      Where glowing embers through the room
+      Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
+      Far from all resort of mirth,
+      Save the cricket on the hearth,
+      Or the bellman's drowsy charm
+      To bless the doors from nightly harm.
+        Or let my lamp at midnight hour
+      Be seen in some high lonely tower,
+      Where I may oft out-watch the Bear
+      With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
+      The spirit of Plato, to unfold
+      What worlds or what vast regions hold
+      The immortal mind, that hath forsook
+      Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
+      And of those demons that are found
+      In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
+      Whose power hath a true consent
+      With planet, or with element.
+      Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
+      In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
+      Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
+      Or the tale of Troy divine;
+      Or what (though rare) of later age
+      Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
+        But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
+      Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
+      Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
+      Such notes as, warbled to the string,
+      Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
+      And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
+      Or call up him that left half-told
+      The story of Cambuscan bold,
+      Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
+      And who had Canac� to wife
+      That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;
+      And of the wondrous horse of brass
+      On which the Tartar king did ride:
+      And if aught else great bards beside
+      In sage and solemn tunes have sung
+      Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
+      Of forests, and enchantments drear,
+      Where more is meant than meets the ear.
+        Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
+      Till civil-suited Morn appear,
+      Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
+      With the Attic Boy to hunt,
+      But kercheft in a comely cloud
+      While rocking winds are piping loud,
+      Or usher'd with a shower still,
+      When the gust hath blown his fill,
+      Ending on the rustling leaves
+      With minute drops from off the eaves.
+      And when the sun begins to fling
+      His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
+      To arch�d walks of twilight groves,
+      And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
+      Of pine, or monumental oak,
+      Where the rude axe, with heav�d stroke,
+      Was never heard the nymphs to daunt
+      Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
+      There in close covert by some brook
+      Where no profaner eye may look,
+      Hide me from day's garish eye,
+      While the bee with honey'd thigh
+      That at her flowery work doth sing,
+      And the waters murmuring,
+      With such consort as they keep
+      Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
+      And let some strange mysterious dream
+      Wave at his wings in airy stream
+      Of lively portraiture display'd,
+      Softly on my eyelids laid:
+      And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
+      Above, about, or underneath,
+      Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
+      Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
+        But let my due feet never fail
+      To walk the studious cloister's pale,
+      And love the high-embow�d roof,
+      With antique pillars massy proof,
+      And storied windows richly dight
+      Casting a dim religious light.
+      There let the pealing organ blow
+      To the full-voiced quire below
+      In service high and anthems clear,
+      As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
+      Dissolve me into ecstasies,
+      And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
+        And may at last my weary age
+      Find out the peaceful hermitage,
+      The hairy gown and mossy cell
+      Where I may sit and rightly spell
+      Of every star that heaven doth shew,
+      And every herb that sips the dew;
+      Till old experience do attain
+      To something like prophetic strain.
+
+      These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
+      And I with thee will choose to live.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CXLVI
+
+_SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA_
+
+    Where the remote Bermudas ride
+    In the ocean's bosom unespied,
+    From a small boat that row'd along
+    The listening winds received this song.
+      'What should we do but sing His praise
+    That led us through the watery maze
+    Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
+    That lift the deep upon their backs,
+    Unto an isle so long unknown,
+    And yet far kinder than our own?
+    He lands us on a grassy stage,
+    Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:
+    He gave us this eternal Spring
+    Which here enamels everything,
+    And sends the fowls to us in care
+    On daily visits through the air.
+    He hangs in shades the orange bright
+    Like golden lamps in a green night,
+    And does in the pomegranates close
+    Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
+    He makes the figs our mouths to meet
+    And throws the melons at our feet;
+    But apples plants of such a price,
+    No tree could ever bear them twice.
+    With cedars chosen by His hand
+    From Lebanon He stores the land;
+    And makes the hollow seas that roar
+    Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
+    He cast (of which we rather boast)
+    The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
+    And in these rocks for us did frame
+    A temple where to sound His name.
+    Oh! let our voice His praise exalt
+    Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
+    Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may
+    Echo beyond the Mexique bay!'
+    --Thus sung they in the English boat
+    A holy and a cheerful note:
+    And all the way, to guide their chime,
+    With falling oars they kept the time.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLVII
+
+_AT A SOLEMN MUSIC_
+
+    Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
+    Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!
+    Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ,
+    Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
+    And to our high-raised phantasy present
+    That undisturb�d Song of pure concent
+    Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
+          To Him that sits thereon,
+
+    With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
+    Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
+    Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
+    And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
+    Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
+    With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
+          Hymns devout and holy psalms
+          Singing everlastingly:
+    That we on Earth, with undiscording voice
+    May rightly answer that melodious noise;
+    As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
+    Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
+    Broke the fair music that all creatures made
+    To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
+    In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
+    In first obedience, and their state of good.
+    O may we soon again renew that Song,
+    And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
+    To His celestial consort us unite,
+  To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CXLVIII
+
+_NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM_.
+
+        When I survey the bright
+            Celestial sphere:
+    So rich with jewels hung, that night
+    Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;
+
+        My soul her wings doth spread,
+            And heaven-ward flies,
+    The Almighty's mysteries to read
+    In the large volumes of the skies.
+
+        For the bright firmament
+            Shoots forth no flame
+    So silent, but is eloquent
+    In speaking the Creator's name.
+
+        No unregarded star
+            Contracts its light
+    Into so small a character,
+    Removed far from our human sight,
+
+        But if we steadfast look,
+            We shall discern
+    In it as in some holy book,
+    How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
+
+        It tells the Conqueror,
+            That far-stretch'd power
+    Which his proud dangers traffic for,
+    Is but the triumph of an hour.
+
+        That from the farthest North
+            Some nation may
+    Yet undiscover'd issue forth,
+    And o'er his new-got conquest sway.
+
+        Some nation yet shut in
+            With hills of ice,
+    May be let out to scourge his sin,
+    Till they shall equal him in vice.
+
+        And then they likewise shall
+            Their ruin have;
+    For as yourselves your Empires fall,
+    And every Kingdom hath a grave.
+
+        Thus those celestial fires,
+            Though seeming mute,
+    The fallacy of our desires
+    And all the pride of life, confute.
+
+        For they have watch'd since first
+            The World had birth:
+    And found sin in itself accursed,
+    And nothing permanent on earth.
+
+_W. Habington_
+
+
+CXLIX
+
+_HYMN TO DARKNESS_
+
+      Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!
+          What Muse is worthy thee to sing?
+        Thee, from whose pregnant universal womb
+        All things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come.
+        What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,
+          Thou first and greatest mystery?
+        Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?
+    Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible.
+
+        Before great Love this monument did raise,
+          This ample theatre of praise;
+        Before the folding circles of the sky
+        Were tuned by Him, Who is all harmony;
+        Before the morning Stars their hymn began,
+          Before the council held for man,
+        Before the birth of either time or place,
+    Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space.
+
+        Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,
+          But still half of the globe is thine.
+        Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand,
+        Like the best emperors thou dost command.
+        To thee the stars above their brightness owe,
+          And mortals their repose below:
+        To thy protection fear and sorrow flee,
+    And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.
+
+_J. Norris of Bemerton_
+
+
+CL
+
+_A VISION_
+
+    I saw Eternity the other night,
+    Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
+        All calm, as it was bright:--
+    And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,
+        Driven by the spheres,
+    Like a vast shadow moved; in which the World
+        And all her train were hurl'd.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+CLI
+
+_ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC_
+
+      'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+        By Philip's warlike son--
+        Aloft in awful state
+        The godlike hero sate
+        On his imperial throne;
+        His valiant peers were placed around,
+        Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,
+        (So should desert in arms be crown'd);
+        The lovely Thais by his side
+        Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
+        In flower of youth and beauty's pride:--
+        Happy, happy, happy pair!
+        None but the brave
+        None but the brave
+        None but the brave deserves the fair!
+
+      Timotheus placed on high
+    Amid the tuneful quire
+    With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
+    The trembling notes ascend the sky
+    And heavenly joys inspire.
+    The song began from Jove
+    Who left his blissful seats above--
+    Such is the power of mighty love!
+    A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
+    Sublime on radiant spires he rode
+    When he to fair Olympia prest,
+    And while he sought her snowy breast,
+    Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
+    And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
+    --The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
+    A present deity! they shout around:
+    A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:
+    With ravish'd ears
+    The monarch hears,
+    Assumes the god;
+    Affects to nod
+    And seems to shake the spheres.
+
+      The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
+    Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
+    The jolly god in triumph comes;
+    Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
+    Flush'd with a purple grace
+    He shows his honest face:
+    Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
+    Bacchus, ever fair and young,
+    Drinking joys did first ordain;
+    Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
+    Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
+    Rich the treasure,
+    Sweet the pleasure,
+    Sweet is pleasure after pain.
+
+      Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
+    Fought all his battles o'er again,
+    And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
+    The master saw the madness rise,
+    His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
+    And while he Heaven and Earth defied
+    Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
+    He chose a mournful Muse
+    Soft pity to infuse:
+    He sung Darius great and good,
+    By too severe a fate
+    Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
+    Fallen from his high estate,
+    And weltering in his blood;
+    Deserted at his utmost need
+    By those his former bounty fed;
+    On the bare earth exposed he lies
+    With not a friend to close his eyes.
+    --With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
+    Revolving in his alter'd soul
+    The various turns of Chance below;
+    And now and then a sigh he stole,
+    And tears began to flow.
+
+      The mighty master smiled to see
+    That love was in the next degree;
+    'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,
+    For pity melts the mind to love.
+    Softly sweet, in Lydian measures
+    Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
+    War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
+    Honour but an empty bubble;
+    Never ending, still beginning,
+    Fighting still, and still destroying;
+    If the world be worth thy winning,
+    Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
+    Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
+    Take the good the gods provide thee!
+    --The many rend the skies with loud applause
+    So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
+    The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
+    Gazed on the fair
+    Who caused his care,
+    And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
+    Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
+    At length with love and wine at once opprest
+    The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
+
+      Now strike the golden lyre again:
+    A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
+    Break his bands of sleep asunder
+    And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
+    Hark, hark! the horrid sound
+    Has raised up his head:
+    As awaked from the dead
+    And amazed he stares around.
+    Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
+    See the Furies arise!
+    See the snakes that they rear
+    How they hiss in their hair,
+    And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
+    Behold a ghastly band,
+    Each a torch in his hand!
+    Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
+    And unburied remain
+    Inglorious on the plain:
+    Give the vengeance due
+    To the valiant crew!
+    Behold how they toss their torches on high,
+    How they point to the Persian abodes
+    And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
+    --The princes applaud with a furious joy:
+    And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
+    Thais led the way
+    To light him to his prey,
+    And like another Helen, fired another Troy!
+
+      --Thus, long ago,
+    Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
+    While organs yet were mute,
+    Timotheus, to his breathing flute
+    And sounding lyre
+    Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire
+    At last divine Cecilia came,
+    Inventress of the vocal frame;
+    The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store
+    Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
+    And added length to solemn sounds,
+    With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before
+    --Let old Timotheus yield the prize
+    Or both divide the crown;
+    He raised a mortal to the skies;
+    She drew an angel down!
+
+_J. Dryden_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Third
+
+
+CLII
+
+_ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE_
+
+    Now the golden Morn aloft
+      Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
+    With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
+      She woos the tardy Spring:
+    Till April starts, and calls around
+    The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
+    And lightly o'er the living scene
+    Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
+
+    New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
+      Frisking ply their feeble feet;
+    Forgetful of their wintry trance
+      The birds his presence greet:
+    But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
+    His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
+    And lessening from the dazzled sight,
+    Melts into air and liquid light.
+
+    Yesterday the sullen year
+      Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
+    Mute was the music of the air,
+      The herd stood drooping by:
+    Their raptures now that wildly flow
+    No yesterday nor morrow know;
+    'Tis Man alone that joy descries
+    With forward and reverted eyes.
+
+    Smiles on past misfortune's brow
+      Soft reflection's hand can trace,
+    And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
+      A melancholy grace;
+    While hope prolongs our happier hour,
+    Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
+    And blacken round our weary way,
+    Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
+
+    Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
+      See a kindred grief pursue;
+    Behind the steps that misery treads
+      Approaching comfort view:
+    The hues of bliss more brightly glow
+    Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
+    And blended form, with artful strife,
+    The strength and harmony of life.
+
+    See the wretch that long has tost
+      On the thorny bed of pain,
+    At length repair his vigour lost
+      And breathe and walk again:
+    The meanest floweret of the vale,
+    The simplest note that swells the gale,
+    The common sun, the air, the skies,
+    To him are opening Paradise.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLIII
+
+_ODE TO SIMPLICITY_
+
+        O Thou, by Nature taught
+        To breathe her genuine thought
+    In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;
+        Who first, on mountains wild,
+        In Fancy, loveliest child,
+    Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!
+
+        Thou, who with hermit heart,
+        Disdain'st the wealth of art,
+    And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,
+        But com'st, a decent maid
+        In Attic robe array'd,
+    O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!
+
+        By all the honey'd store
+        On Hybla's thymy shore,
+    By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;
+        By her whose love-lorn woe
+        In evening musings slow
+    Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
+
+        By old Cephisus deep,
+        Who spread his wavy sweep
+    In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat;
+        On whose enamell'd side,
+        When holy Freedom died,
+    No equal haunt allured thy future feet:--
+
+        O sister meek of Truth,
+        To my admiring youth
+    Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
+        The flowers that sweetest breathe,
+        Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,
+    Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
+
+        While Rome could none esteem
+        But Virtue's patriot theme,
+    You loved her hills, and led her laureat band;
+        But stay'd to sing alone
+        To one distinguish'd throne;
+    And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.
+
+        No more, in hall or bower,
+        The Passions own thy power;
+    Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:
+        For thou hast left her shrine;
+        Nor olive more, nor vine,
+    Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
+
+        Though taste, though genius, bless
+        To some divine excess,
+    Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;
+        What each, what all supply
+        May court, may charm our eye;
+    Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
+
+        Of these let others ask
+        To aid some mighty task;
+    I only seek to find thy temperate vale;
+        Where oft my reed might sound
+        To maids and shepherds round,
+    And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLIV
+
+_SOLITUDE_
+
+    Happy the man, whose wish and care
+    A few paternal acres bound,
+    Content to breathe his native air
+                      In his own ground.
+
+    Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
+    Whose flocks supply him with attire;
+    Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
+                      In winter fire.
+
+    Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
+    Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
+    In health of body, peace of mind,
+                      Quiet by day,
+
+    Sound sleep by night; study and ease
+    Together mixt, sweet recreation,
+    And innocence, which most does please
+                      With meditation.
+
+    Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
+    Thus unlamented let me die;
+    Steal from the world, and not a stone
+                      Tell where I lie.
+
+_A. Pope_
+
+
+CLV
+
+_THE BLIND BOY_
+
+    O say what is that thing call'd Light,
+      Which I must ne'er enjoy;
+    What are the blessings of the sight,
+      O tell your poor blind boy!
+
+    You talk of wondrous things you see,
+      You say the sun shines bright;
+    I feel him warm, but how can he
+      Or make it day or night?
+
+    My day or night myself I make
+      Whene'er I sleep or play;
+    And could I ever keep awake
+      With me 'twere always day.
+
+    With heavy sighs I often hear
+      You mourn my hapless woe;
+    But sure with patience I can bear
+      A loss I ne'er can know.
+
+    Then let not what I cannot have
+      My cheer of mind destroy:
+    Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
+      Although a poor blind boy.
+
+_C. Cibber_
+
+
+CLVI
+
+_ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES_
+
+    'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
+    Where China's gayest art had dyed
+    The azure flowers that blow,
+    Demurest of the tabby kind
+    The pensive Selima, reclined,
+    Gazed on the lake below.
+
+    Her conscious tail her joy declared:
+    The fair round face, the snowy beard,
+    The velvet of her paws,
+    Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
+    Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes--
+    She saw, and purr'd applause.
+
+    Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide
+    Two angel forms were seen to glide,
+    The Genii of the stream:
+    Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
+    Through richest purple, to the view
+    Betray'd a golden gleam.
+
+    The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:
+    A whisker first, and then a claw
+    With many an ardent wish
+    She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize--
+    What female heart can gold despise?
+    What Cat's averse to fish?
+
+    Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
+    Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
+    Nor knew the gulf between--
+    Malignant Fate sat by and smiled--
+    The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
+    She tumbled headlong in!
+
+    Eight times emerging from the flood
+    She mew'd to every watery God
+    Some speedy aid to send:--
+    No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
+    Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard--
+    A favourite has no friend!
+
+    From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
+    Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
+    And be with caution bold:
+    Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
+    And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
+    Nor all that glisters, gold!
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLVII
+
+_TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY_
+
+    Timely blossom, Infant fair,
+    Fondling of a happy pair,
+    Every morn and every night
+    Their solicitous delight,
+    Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
+    Pleasing, without skill to please;
+    Little gossip, blithe and hale,
+    Tattling many a broken tale,
+    Singing many a tuneless song,
+    Lavish of a heedless tongue;
+    Simple maiden, void of art,
+    Babbling out the very heart,
+    Yet abandon'd to thy will,
+    Yet imagining no ill,
+    Yet too innocent to blush;
+    Like the linnet in the bush
+    To the mother-linnet's note
+    Moduling her slender throat;
+    Chirping forth thy petty joys,
+    Wanton in the change of toys,
+    Like the linnet green, in May
+    Flitting to each bloomy spray;
+    Wearied then and glad of rest,
+    Like the linnet in the nest:--
+    This thy present happy lot
+    This, in time will be forgot:
+    Other pleasures, other cares,
+    Ever-busy Time prepares;
+  And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
+  This picture, once, resembled thee.
+
+_A. Philips_
+
+
+CLVIII
+
+_RULE BRITANNIA_
+
+      When Britain first at Heaven's command
+        Arose from out the azure main,
+      This was the charter of her land,
+        And guardian angels sung the strain:
+    Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
+          Britons never shall be slaves.
+
+      The nations not so blest as thee
+        Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
+      Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free
+        The dread and envy of them all.
+
+      Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
+        More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
+      As the loud blast that tears the skies
+        Serves but to root thy native oak.
+
+      Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
+        All their attempts to bend thee down
+      Will but arouse thy generous flame,
+        And work their woe and thy renown.
+
+      To thee belongs the rural reign;
+        Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
+      All thine shall be the subject main,
+        And every shore it circles thine!
+
+      The Muses, still with Freedom found,
+        Shall to thy happy coast repair;
+      Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd
+        And manly hearts to guard the fair:--
+    Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
+          Britons never shall be slaves!
+
+_J. Thomson_
+
+
+CLIX
+
+_THE BARD_
+
+_Pindaric Ode_
+
+        'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+      Confusion on thy banners wait;
+    Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
+      They mock the air with idle state.
+    Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
+    Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
+    To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
+    From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'
+    --Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
+      Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
+    As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
+      He wound with toilsome march his long array:--
+    Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;
+      'To arms!', cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.
+
+      On a rock, whose haughty brow
+    Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
+      Robed in the sable garb of woe
+    With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
+    (Loose his beard and hoary hair
+    Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)
+    And with a master's hand and prophet's fire
+    Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:
+      'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave
+    Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
+    O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
+      Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
+    Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
+    To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
+
+      'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
+      That hush'd the stormy main:
+    Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
+      Mountains, ye mourn in vain
+      Modred, whose magic song
+    Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
+      On dreary Arvon's shore they lie
+    Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:
+    Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
+      The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
+    Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
+      Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
+    Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
+      Ye died amidst your dying country's cries--
+    No more I weep; They do not sleep;
+      On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
+    I see them sit; They linger yet,
+      Avengers of their native land:
+    With me in dreadful harmony they join,
+    And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
+
+    _Weave the warp and weave the woof
+      The winding sheet of Edward's race:
+    Give ample room and verge enough
+      The characters of hell to trace.
+    Mark the year, and mark the night,
+    When Severn shall re-echo with affright
+    The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
+    Shrieks of an agonizing king!
+      She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
+    That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
+      From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
+    The scourge of heaven! What terrors round him wait!
+    Amazement in his van, with flight combined,
+    And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind._
+
+    _'Mighty victor, mighty lord,
+      Low on his funeral couch he lies!
+    No pitying heart, no eye, afford
+      A tear to grace his obsequies.
+    Is the sable warrior fled?
+    Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
+    The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
+    --Gone to salute the rising morn.
+    Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
+      While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
+    In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes:
+      Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:
+    Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
+    That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey._
+
+      _'Fill high the sparkling bowl,
+    The rich repast prepare;
+      Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
+    Close by the regal chair
+      Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
+      A baleful smile upon their baffled guest,
+    Heard ye the din of battle bray,
+      Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
+      Long years of havock urge their destined course,
+    And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
+      Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
+    With many afoul and midnight murder fed,
+      Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
+    And spare the meek usurpers holy head!
+    Above, below, the rose of snow,
+      Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
+    The bristled boar in infant-gore
+      Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
+    Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurs�d loom,
+    Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom._
+
+    _'Edward, lo! to sudden fate
+      (Weave we the woof; The thread is spun;)
+    Half of thy heart we consecrate.
+      (The web is wove; The work is done.)_
+    --Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
+    Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
+    In yon bright track that fires the western skies
+    They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
+    But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
+      Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
+    Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
+    Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
+    No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:--
+    All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!
+
+      'Girt with many a baron bold
+    Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
+      And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
+    In bearded majesty, appear.
+    In the midst a form divine!
+    Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line:
+    Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face
+    Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
+    What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
+      What strains of vocal transport round her play?
+    Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
+      They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
+    Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
+    Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings.
+
+    'The verse adorn again
+      Fierce war, and faithful love,
+    And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
+      In buskin'd measures move
+    Pale grief, and pleasing pain,
+    With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
+    A voice as of the cherub-choir
+      Gales from blooming Eden bear,
+      And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
+    That lost in long futurity expire.
+    Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud
+      Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
+    To-morrow he repairs the golden flood
+      And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
+    Enough for me: with joy I see
+      The different doom our fates assign:
+    Be thine despair and sceptred care,
+      To triumph and to die are mine,'
+    --He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
+    Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLX
+
+_ODE WRITTEN IN 1746_
+
+    How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
+    By all their country's wishes blest!
+    When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
+    Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
+    She there shall dress a sweeter sod
+    Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
+
+    By fairy hands their knell is rung,
+    By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
+    There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
+    To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
+    And Freedom shall awhile repair
+    To dwell a weeping hermit there!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXI
+
+_LAMENT FOR CULLODEN_
+
+    The lovely lass o' Inverness,
+    Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
+    For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
+    And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
+    Drumossie moor--Drumossie day--
+    A waefu' day it was to me!
+    For there I lost my father dear,
+    My father dear, and brethren three.
+
+    Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
+    Their graves are growing green to see:
+    And by them lies the dearest lad
+    That ever blest a woman's ee!
+    Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
+    A bluidy man I trow thou be;
+    For mony a heart thou hast made sair
+    That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXII
+
+_LAMENT FOR FLODDEN_
+
+    I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
+      Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
+    But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+    At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
+      Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
+    Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
+      Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
+
+    In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
+      Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
+    At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+    At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
+      'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
+    But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.
+
+    Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
+      The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
+    The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
+      The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.
+
+    We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
+      Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
+    Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+_J. Elliott_
+
+
+CLXIII
+
+_THE BRAES OF YARROW_
+
+    Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
+    When first on them I met my lover;
+    Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
+    When now thy waves his body cover!
+    For ever now, O Yarrow stream!
+    Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
+    For never on thy banks shall I
+    Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!
+
+    He promised me a milk-white steed
+    To bear me to his father's bowers;
+    He promised me a little page
+    To squire me to his father's towers;
+    He promised me a wedding-ring,--
+    The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;--
+    Now he is wedded to his grave,
+    Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!
+
+    Sweet were his words when last we met;
+    My passion I as freely told him;
+    Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
+    That I should never more behold him!
+    Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
+    It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
+    Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
+    And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.
+
+    His mother from the window look'd
+    With all the longing of a mother;
+    His little sister weeping walk'd
+    The greenwood path to meet her brother;
+    They sought him east, they sought him west,
+    They sought him all the forest thorough;
+    They only saw the cloud of night,
+    They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
+
+    No longer from thy window look--
+    Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
+    No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
+    Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
+    No longer seek him east or west
+    And search no more the forest thorough;
+    For, wandering in the night so dark,
+    He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
+
+    The tear shall never leave my cheek,
+    No other youth shall be my marrow--
+    I'll seek thy body in the stream,
+    And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
+    --The tear did never leave her cheek,
+    No other youth became her marrow;
+    She found his body in the stream,
+    And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
+
+_J. Logan_
+
+
+CLXIV
+
+_WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW_
+
+    Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+      Where bonnie grows the lily,
+    I heard a fair maid sighing say,
+      'My wish be wi' sweet Willie!
+
+    'Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
+      And Willie's wondrous bonny;
+    And Willie hecht to marry me
+      Gin e'er he married ony.
+
+    'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
+      From where my Love repaireth,
+    Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth
+      And tell me how he fareth!
+
+    'O tell sweet Willie to come doun
+      And hear the mavis singing,
+    And see the birds on ilka bush
+      And leaves around them hinging.
+
+    'The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
+      And gentle throat sae narrow;
+    There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
+      On Leader haughs and Yarrow.
+
+    'O Leader haughs are wide and braid
+      And Yarrow haughs are bonny;
+    There Willie hecht to marry me
+      If e'er he married ony.
+
+    'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
+      And does not hear me weeping;
+    Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
+      When other maids are sleeping.
+
+    'Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
+      The night I'll mak' it narrow,
+    For a' the live-lang winter night
+      I lie twined o' my marrow.
+
+    'O came ye by yon water-side?
+      Pou'd you the rose or lily?
+    Or came you by yon meadow green,
+      Or saw you my sweet Willie?'
+
+    She sought him up, she sought him down,
+      She sought him braid and narrow;
+    Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,
+      She found him drown'd in Yarrow!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CLXV
+
+_LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE_
+
+    Toll for the Brave!
+    The brave that are no more!
+    All sunk beneath the wave
+    Fast by their native shore!
+
+    Eight hundred of the brave
+    Whose courage well was tried,
+    Had made the vessel heel
+    And laid her on her side.
+
+    A land-breeze shook the shrouds
+    And she was overset;
+    Down went the Royal George,
+    With all her crew complete.
+
+    Toll for the brave!
+    Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
+    His last sea-fight is fought,
+    His work of glory done.
+
+    It was not in the battle;
+    No tempest gave the shock;
+    She sprang no fatal leak,
+    She ran upon no rock.
+
+    His sword was in its sheath,
+    His fingers held the pen,
+    When Kempenfelt went down
+    With twice four hundred men.
+
+    --Weigh the vessel up
+    Once dreaded by our foes!
+    And mingle with our cup
+    The tears that England owes.
+
+    Her timbers yet are sound,
+    And she may float again
+    Full charged with England's thunder,
+    And plough the distant main:
+
+    But Kempenfelt is gone,
+    His victories are o'er;
+    And he and his eight hundred
+    Shall plough the wave no more.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXVI
+
+_BLACK-EYED SUSAN_
+
+    All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
+      The streamers waving in the wind,
+    When black-eyed Susan came aboard;
+      'O! where shall I my true-love find?
+    Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true
+    If my sweet William sails among the crew.'
+
+    William, who high upon the yard
+      Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
+    Soon as her well-known voice he heard
+      He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:
+    The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
+    And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.
+
+    So the sweet lark, high poised in air,
+      Shuts close his pinions to his breast
+    If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,
+      And drops at once into her nest:--
+    The noblest captain in the British fleet
+    Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.
+
+    'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
+      My vows shall ever true remain;
+    Let me kiss off that falling tear;
+      We only part to meet again.
+    Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
+    The faithful compass that still points to thee.
+
+    'Believe not what the landmen say
+      Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:
+    They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
+      In every port a mistress find:
+    Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
+    For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
+
+    'If to fair India's coast we sail,
+      Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
+    Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
+      Thy skin is ivory so white.
+    Thus every beauteous object that I view
+    Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
+
+    'Though battle call me from thy arms
+      Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
+    Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms
+      William shall to his Dear return.
+    Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
+    Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
+
+    The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
+      The sails their swelling bosom spread
+    No longer must she stay aboard;
+      They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.
+    Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;
+    'Adieu!' she cries; and waved her lily hand.
+
+_J. Gay_
+
+
+CLXVII
+
+_SALLY IN OUR ALLEY_
+
+    Of all the girls that are so smart
+      There's none like pretty Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+    There is no lady in the land
+      Is half so sweet as Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    Her father he makes cabbage-nets
+      And through the streets does cry 'em;
+    Her mother she sells laces long
+      To such as please to buy 'em:
+    But sure such folks could ne'er beget
+      So sweet a girl as Sally!
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    When she is by, I leave my work,
+      I love her so sincerely;
+    My master comes like any Turk,
+      And bangs me most severely--
+    But let him bang his bellyful,
+      I'll bear it all for Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    Of all the days that's in the week
+      I dearly love but one day--
+    And that's the day that comes betwixt
+      A Saturday and Monday;
+    For then I'm drest all in my best
+      To walk abroad with Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    My master carries me to church,
+      And often am I blamed
+    Because I leave him in the lurch
+      As soon as text is named;
+    I leave the church in sermon-time
+      And slink away to Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    When Christmas comes about again
+      O then I shall have money;
+    I'll hoard it up, and box it all,
+      I'll give it to my honey:
+    I would it were ten thousand pound,
+      I'd give it all to Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    My master and the neighbours all
+      Make game of me and Sally,
+    And, but for her, I'd better be
+      A slave and row a galley;
+    But when my seven long years are out
+      O then I'll marry Sally,--
+    O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed...
+      But not in our alley!
+
+_H. Carey_
+
+
+CLXVIII
+
+_A FAREWELL_
+
+    Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
+      An' fill it in a silver tassie;
+    That I may drink before I go
+      A service to my bonnie lassie:
+    The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
+      Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
+    The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
+      And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
+
+    The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
+      The glittering spears are rank�d ready;
+    The shouts o' war are heard afar,
+      The battle closes thick and bloody;
+    But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
+      Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
+    Nor shout o' war that's heard afar--
+      It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXIX
+
+    If doughty deeds my lady please
+      Right soon I'll mount my steed;
+    And strong his arm, and fast his seat
+      That bears frae me the meed.
+    I'll wear thy colours in my cap
+      Thy picture at my heart;
+    And he that bends not to thine eye
+      Shall rue it to his smart!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+    If gay attire delight thine eye
+      I'll dight me in array;
+    I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
+      And squire thee all the day.
+    If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
+      These sounds I'll strive to catch;
+    Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
+      That voice that nane can match.
+
+    But if fond love thy heart can gain,
+      I never broke a vow;
+    Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
+      I never loved but you.
+    For you alone I ride the ring,
+      For you I wear the blue;
+    For you alone I strive to sing,
+      O tell me how to woo!
+
+    Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+      O tell me how to woo thee!
+    For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
+      Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+_R. Graham of Gartmore_
+
+
+CLXX
+
+_TO A YOUNG LADY_
+
+    Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,
+    Apt emblem of a virtuous maid--
+    Silent and chaste she steals along,
+    Far from the world's gay busy throng:
+    With gentle yet prevailing force,
+    Intent upon her destined course;
+    Graceful and useful all she does,
+    Blessing and blest where'er she goes;
+    Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,
+    And Heaven reflected in her face.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXXI
+
+_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY_
+
+    Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile--
+    Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
+    Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
+    And move, and breathe delicious sighs!
+
+    Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
+    And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
+    Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
+    What most I wish--and fear to know!
+
+    She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
+    Her fair hands folded on her breast:
+    --And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
+    A seraph in the realms of rest!
+
+    Sleep on secure! Above controul
+    Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
+    And may the secret of thy soul
+    Remain within its sanctuary!
+
+_S. Rogers_
+
+
+CLXXII
+
+    For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+    An unrelenting foe to Love,
+    And when we meet a mutual heart
+    Come in between, and bid us part?
+
+    Bid us sigh on from day to day,
+    And wish and wish the soul away;
+    Till youth and genial years are flown,
+    And all the life of life is gone?
+
+    But busy, busy, still art thou,
+    To bind the loveless joyless vow,
+    The heart from pleasure to delude,
+    To join the gentle to the rude.
+
+    For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
+    And I absolve thy future care;
+    All other blessings I resign,
+    Make but the dear Amanda mine.
+
+_J. Thomson_
+
+
+CLXXIII
+
+    The merchant, to secure his treasure,
+    Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
+    Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
+    But Cloe is my real flame.
+
+    My softest verse, my darling lyre
+    Upon Euphelia's toilet lay--
+    When Cloe noted her desire
+    That I should sing, that I should play.
+
+    My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
+    But with my numbers mix my sighs;
+    And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
+    I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
+
+    Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
+    I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:
+    And Venus to the Loves around
+    Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.
+
+_M. Prior_
+
+
+CLXXIV
+
+_LOVE'S SECRET_
+
+    Never seek to tell thy love,
+      Love that never told can be;
+    For the gentle wind doth move
+      Silently, invisibly.
+
+    I told my love, I told my love,
+      I told her all my heart,
+    Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears:--
+      Ah! she did depart.
+
+    Soon after she was gone from me
+      A traveller came by,
+    Silently, invisibly:
+      He took her with a sigh.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXV
+
+    When lovely woman stoops to folly
+    And finds too late that men betray,--
+    What charm can soothe her melancholy,
+    What art can wash her guilt away?
+
+    The only art her guilt to cover,
+    To hide her shame from every eye,
+    To give repentance to her lover
+    And wring his bosom, is--to die.
+
+_O. Goldsmith_
+
+
+CLXXVI
+
+    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+      How can ye blume sae fair!
+    How can ye chant, ye little birds,
+      And I sae fu' o' care!
+
+    Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+      That sings upon the bough;
+    Thou minds me o' the happy days
+      When my fause Luve was true.
+
+    Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+      That sings beside thy mate;
+    For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
+      And wist na o' my fate.
+
+    Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
+      To see the woodbine twine,
+    And ilka bird sang o' its love;
+      And sae did I o' mine.
+
+    Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
+      Frae aff its thorny tree;
+    And my fause luver staw the rose,
+      But left the thorn wi' me.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXVII
+
+_THE PROGRESS OF POESY_
+
+_A Pindaric Ode_
+
+      Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
+    And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
+    From Helicon's harmonious springs
+        A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
+    The laughing flowers that round them blow
+    Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
+    Now the rich stream of music winds along
+    Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
+    Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
+    Now rolling down the steep amain
+    Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
+    The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.
+
+      Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,
+    Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
+    Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
+      And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul
+    On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
+    Has curb'd the fury of his car
+    And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
+    Perching on the sceptred hand
+    Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
+    With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
+    Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
+    The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
+
+    Thee the voice, the dance, obey
+    Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
+    O'er Idalia's velvet-green
+    The rosy-crown�d Loves are seen
+    On Cytherea's day;
+    With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
+    Frisking light in frolic measures;
+    Now pursuing, now retreating,
+      Now in circling troops they meet:
+    To brisk notes in cadence beating
+      Glance their many-twinkling feet.
+    Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
+      Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay:
+    With arms sublime that float upon the air
+      In gliding state she wins her easy way:
+    O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
+    The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
+
+      Man's feeble race what ills await!
+    Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
+    Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
+      And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!
+    The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
+    And justify the laws of Jove.
+    Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
+    Night, and all her sickly dews,
+    Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry
+    He gives to range the dreary sky:
+    Till down the eastern cliffs afar
+    Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.
+
+      In climes beyond the solar road
+    Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
+    The Muse has broke the twilight gloom
+      To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.
+    And oft, beneath the odorous shade
+    Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
+    She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat
+    In loose numbers wildly sweet
+    Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
+    Her track, where'er the goddess roves,
+    Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
+    Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
+
+    Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
+    Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
+    Fields that cool Ilissus laves,
+    Or where Maeander's amber waves
+    In lingering labyrinths creep,
+    How do your tuneful echoes languish,
+    Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
+    Where each old poetic mountain
+      Inspiration breathed around;
+    Every shade and hallow'd fountain
+      Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
+    Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour
+      Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
+    Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
+      And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
+    When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
+    They sought, oh Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
+
+      Far from the sun and summer-gale
+    In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
+    What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
+      To him the mighty Mother did unveil
+    Her awful face: the dauntless child
+    Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
+    'This pencil take' (she said), 'whose colours clear
+    Richly paint the vernal year:
+    Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
+    This can unlock the gates of joy;
+    Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
+    Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'
+
+      Nor second He, that rode sublime
+    Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy
+    The secrets of the abyss to spy:
+      He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
+    The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze
+    Where angels tremble while they gaze,
+    He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
+    Closed his eyes in endless night.
+    Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
+    Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
+    Two coursers of ethereal race,
+    With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
+
+    Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
+    Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
+    Scatters from her pictured urn
+    Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
+    But ah! 'tis heard no more--
+    Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
+    Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit
+    Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
+      That the Theban eagle bear,
+    Sailing with supreme dominion
+      Thro' the azure deep of air:
+    Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
+      Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
+    With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:
+      Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
+    Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:
+    Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXVIII
+
+_THE PASSIONS_
+
+_An Ode for Music_
+
+    When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
+    While yet in early Greece she sung,
+    The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
+    Throng'd around her magic cell
+    Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
+    Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
+    By turns they felt the glowing mind
+    Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
+    'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
+    Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
+    From the supporting myrtles round
+    They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
+    And, as they oft had heard apart
+    Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
+    Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
+    Would prove his own expressive power.
+
+    First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
+      Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
+    And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
+      E'en at the sound himself had made.
+
+    Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
+      In lightnings, own'd his secret stings;
+    In one rude clash he struck the lyre
+      And swept with hurried hand the strings.
+
+    With woeful measures wan Despair,
+      Low sullen sounds, his grief beguiled;
+    A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
+      'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
+
+    But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
+      What was thy delighted measure?
+    Still it whisper'd promised pleasure
+      And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
+    Still would her touch the strain prolong;
+      And from the rocks, the woods, the vale
+    She call'd on Echo still through all the song;
+      And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
+      A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
+    And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;--
+
+    And longer had she sung:--but with a frown
+        Revenge impatient rose:
+    He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
+        And with a withering look
+      The war-denouncing trumpet took
+    And blew a blast so loud and dread,
+    Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
+        And ever and anon he beat
+        The doubling drum with furious heat;
+    And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
+        Dejected Pity at his side
+        Her soul-subduing voice applied,
+      Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
+    While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
+
+    Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:
+      Sad proof of thy distressful state!
+    Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;
+      And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
+
+    With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
+    Pale Melancholy sat retired;
+    And from her wild sequester'd seat,
+    In notes by distance made more sweet,
+    Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
+        And dashing soft from rocks around
+        Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
+    Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
+      Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
+        Round an holy calm diffusing,
+        Love of peace, and lonely musing,
+      In hollow murmurs died away.
+
+    But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone
+    When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
+      Her bow across her shoulder flung,
+      Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
+    Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
+      The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
+    The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,
+      Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen
+      Peeping from forth their alleys green:
+    Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
+      And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.
+
+    Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
+    He, with viny crown advancing,
+      First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:
+    But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol
+      Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:
+    They would have thought who heard the strain
+        They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids
+        Amidst the festal-sounding shades
+    To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
+    While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
+      Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
+      Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
+      And he, amidst his frolic play,
+      As if he would the charming air repay,
+    Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
+
+    O Music! sphere-descended maid,
+    Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
+    Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
+    Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
+    As in that loved Athenian bower
+    You learn'd an all-commanding power,
+    Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
+    Can well recall what then it heard.
+    Where is thy native simple heart
+    Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
+    Arise, as in that elder time,
+    Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
+    Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
+    Fill thy recording Sister's page;--
+    'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
+    Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
+    Had more of strength, diviner rage,
+    Than all which charms this laggard age:
+    E'en all at once together found,
+    Cecilia's mingled world of sound:--
+    O bid our vain endeavours cease:
+    Revive the just designs of Greece:
+    Return in all thy simple state!
+    Confirm the tales her sons relate!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXXIX
+
+_THE SONG OF DAVID_
+
+    He sang of God, the mighty source
+    Of all things, the stupendous force
+      On which all strength depends:
+    From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,
+    All period, power, and enterprise
+      Commences, reigns, and ends.
+
+    The world, the clustering spheres He made,
+    The glorious light, the soothing shade,
+      Dale, champaign, grove and hill:
+    The multitudinous abyss,
+    Where secrecy remains in bliss,
+      And wisdom hides her skill.
+
+    Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said
+    To Moses: while Earth heard in dread,
+      And, smitten to the heart,
+    At once, above, beneath, around,
+    All Nature, without voice or sound,
+      Replied, 'O Lord, THOU ART.'
+
+_C. Smart_
+
+
+CLXXX
+
+_INFANT JOY_
+
+    'I have no name;
+    I am but two days old.'
+    --What shall I call thee?
+    'I happy am;
+    Joy is my name.'
+    --Sweet joy befall thee!
+
+    Pretty joy!
+    Sweet joy, but two days old;
+    Sweet joy I call thee:
+    Thou dost smile:
+    I sing the while,
+    Sweet joy befall thee!
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXXI
+
+_A CRADLE SONG_
+
+    Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
+    Dreaming in the joys of night;
+    Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
+    Little sorrows sit and weep.
+
+    Sweet babe, in thy face
+    Soft desires I can trace,
+    Secret joys and secret smiles,
+    Little pretty infant wiles.
+
+    As thy softest limbs I feel,
+    Smiles as of the morning steal
+    O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
+    Where thy little heart doth rest.
+
+    Oh the cunning wiles that creep
+    In thy little heart asleep!
+    When thy little heart doth wake,
+    Then the dreadful light shall break.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXXII
+
+_ODE ON THE SPRING_
+
+    Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
+      Fair Venus' train, appear,
+    Disclose the long-expecting flowers
+      And wake the purple year!
+    The Attic warbler pours her throat
+    Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
+    The untaught harmony of Spring:
+    While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
+    Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
+      Their gather'd fragrance fling.
+
+    Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
+      A broader, browner shade,
+    Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
+      O'er-canopies the glade,
+    Beside some water's rushy brink
+    With me the Muse shall sit, and think
+    (At ease reclined in rustic state)
+    How vain the ardour of the crowd,
+    How low, how little are the proud,
+      How indigent the great!
+
+    Still is the toiling hand of Care;
+      The panting herds repose:
+    Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
+      The busy murmur glows!
+    The insect-youth are on the wing,
+    Eager to taste the honied spring
+    And float amid the liquid noon:
+    Some lightly o'er the current skim,
+    Some show their gaily-gilded trim
+      Quick-glancing to the sun.
+
+    To Contemplation's sober eye
+      Such is the race of Man:
+    And they that creep, and they that
+      Shall end where they began.
+    Alike the Busy and the Gay
+    But flutter thro' life's little day,
+    In Fortune's varying colours drest:
+    Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
+    Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
+      They leave, in dust to rest.
+
+    Methinks I hear in accents low
+      The sportive kind reply:
+    Poor moralist! and what art thou?
+      A solitary fly!
+    Thy joys no glittering female meets,
+    No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
+    No painted plumage to display:
+    On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
+    Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone--
+      We frolic while 'tis May.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXXIII
+
+_THE POPLAR FIELD_
+
+    The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade
+    And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
+    The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
+    Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
+
+    Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
+    Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:
+    And now in the grass behold they are laid,
+    And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!
+
+    The blackbird has fled to another retreat
+    Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
+    And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
+    Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
+
+    My fugitive years are all hasting away,
+    And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
+    With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
+    Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
+
+    The change both my heart and my fancy employs;
+    I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys:
+    Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
+    Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXXXIV
+
+_TO A MOUSE_
+
+_On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785_
+
+    Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
+    O what a panic's in thy breastie!
+    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
+    Wi' bickering brattle!
+    I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
+    Wi' murd'ring pattle!
+
+    I'm truly sorry man's dominion
+    Has broken Nature's social union,
+    An' justifies that ill opinion
+    Which makes thee startle
+    At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
+    An' fellow-mortal!
+
+    I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
+    What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
+    A daimen-icker in a thrave
+    'S a sma' request:
+    I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,
+    And never miss't!
+
+    Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
+    Its silly wa's the win's are strewin:
+    And naething, now, to big a new ane,
+    O' foggage green!
+    An' bleak December's winds ensuin'
+    Baith snell an' keen!
+
+    Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste
+    An' weary winter comin' fast,
+    An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
+    Thou thought to dwell,
+    Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
+    Out thro' thy cell.
+
+    That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
+    Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
+    Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
+    But house or hald,
+    To thole the winter's sleety dribble
+    An' cranreuch cauld!
+
+    But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
+    In proving foresight may be vain:
+    The best laid schemes o mice an' men
+    Gang aft a-gley,
+    An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
+    For promised joy.
+
+    Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
+    The present only toucheth thee:
+    But, Och! I backward cast my e'e
+    On prospects drear!
+    An' forward, tho' I canna see,
+    I guess an' fear!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXXV
+
+_A WISH_
+
+    Mine be a cot beside the hill;
+    A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
+    A willowy brook that turns a mill,
+    With many a fall shall linger near.
+
+    The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
+    Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
+    Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
+    And share my meal, a welcome guest.
+
+    Around my ivied porch shall spring
+    Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
+    And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
+    In russet-gown and apron blue.
+
+    The village-church among the trees,
+    Where first our marriage-vows were given,
+    With merry peals shall swell the breeze
+    And point with taper spire to Heaven.
+
+_S. Rogers_
+
+
+CLXXXVI
+
+_ODE TO EVENING_
+
+    If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
+    May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear
+        Like thy own solemn springs,
+        Thy springs, and dying gales;
+
+    O Nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun
+    Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
+        With brede ethereal wove,
+        O'erhang his wavy bed;
+
+    Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
+    With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
+        Or where the beetle winds
+        His small but sullen horn,
+
+    As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
+    Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,--
+        Now teach me, maid composed,
+        To breathe some soften'd strain
+
+    Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
+    May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
+        As, musing slow, I hail
+        Thy genial loved return.
+
+    For when thy folding-star arising shows
+    His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
+        The fragrant Hours, and Elves
+        Who slept in buds the day,
+
+    And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge
+    And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
+        The pensive Pleasures sweet,
+        Prepare thy shadowy car.
+
+    Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
+    Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
+        Whose walls more awful nod
+        By thy religious gleams.
+
+    Or, if chill blustering winds or driving rain
+    Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
+        That, from the mountain's side,
+        Views wilds, and swelling floods,
+
+    And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
+    And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
+        Thy dewy fingers draw
+        The gradual dusky veil.
+
+    While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
+    And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
+        While Summer loves to sport
+        Beneath thy lingering light;
+
+    While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
+    Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
+        Affrights thy shrinking train
+        And rudely rends thy robes;
+
+    So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
+    Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
+        Thy gentlest influence own,
+        And love thy favourite name!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXXXVII
+
+_ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD_
+
+    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
+    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
+    The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
+    And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
+
+    Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
+    And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
+    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
+    And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
+
+    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
+    The moping owl does to the moon complain
+    Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
+    Molest her ancient solitary reign.
+
+    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade
+    Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
+    Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
+    The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
+
+    The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
+    The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
+    The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
+    No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
+
+    For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn
+    Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
+    No children run to lisp their sire's return,
+    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
+
+    Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
+    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
+    How jocund did they drive their team afield!
+    How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
+
+    Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
+    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
+    Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
+    The short and simple annals of the poor.
+
+    The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
+    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
+    Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:--
+    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
+
+    Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
+    If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
+    Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
+    The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
+
+    Can storied urn or animated bust
+    Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
+    Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
+    Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
+
+    Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
+    Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
+    Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
+    Or waked to extasy the living lyre:
+
+    But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
+    Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
+    Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
+    And froze the genial current of the soul.
+
+    Full many a gem of purest ray serene
+    The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
+    Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
+    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
+
+    Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
+    The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
+    Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
+    Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
+
+    Th' applause of listening senates to command,
+    The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
+    To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
+    And read their history in a nation's eyes
+
+    Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
+    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
+    Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,
+    And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
+
+    The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
+    To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
+    Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
+    With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
+
+    Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
+    Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
+    Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
+    They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
+
+    Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
+    Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
+    With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
+    Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
+
+    Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
+    The place of fame and elegy supply:
+    And many a holy text around she strews,
+    That teach the rustic moralist to die.
+
+    For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
+    This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
+    Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
+    Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
+
+    On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
+    Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
+    E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
+    E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
+
+    For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
+    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
+    If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
+    Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,--
+
+    Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
+    'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
+    Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
+    To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
+
+    'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
+    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
+    His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
+    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
+
+    'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
+    Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
+    Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
+    Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
+
+    'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
+    Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
+    Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
+    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
+
+    'The next with dirges due in sad array
+    Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,--
+    Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
+    Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
+
+THE EPITAPH
+
+    Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
+    A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
+    Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth
+    And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
+
+    Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
+    Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
+    He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,
+    He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
+
+    No farther seek his merits to disclose,
+    Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
+    (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
+    The bosom of his Father and his God.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXXVIII
+
+_MARY MORISON_
+
+    O Mary, at thy window be,
+    It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
+    Those smiles and glances let me see
+    That make the miser's treasure poor:
+    How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
+    A weary slave frae sun to sun,
+    Could I the rich reward secure,
+    The lovely Mary Morison.
+
+    Yestreen when to the trembling string
+    The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
+    To thee my fancy took its wing,--
+    I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
+    Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
+    And yon the toast of a' the town,
+    I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
+    'Ye are na Mary Morison.'
+
+    O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
+    Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
+    Or canst thou break that heart of his,
+    Whase only faut is loving thee?
+    If love for love thou wilt na gie,
+    At least be pity to me shown;
+    A thought ungentle canna be
+    The thought o' Mary Morison.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXXIX
+
+_BONNIE LESLEY_
+
+    O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+      As she gaed o'er the border?
+    She's gane, like Alexander,
+      To spread her conquests farther.
+
+    To see her is to love her,
+      And love but her for ever;
+    For Nature made her what she is,
+      And ne'er made sic anither!
+
+    Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,
+      Thy subjects we, before thee;
+    Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,
+      The hearts o' men adore thee.
+
+    The Deil he could na scaith thee,
+      Or aught that wad belang thee;
+    He'd look into thy bonnie face,
+      And say 'I canna wrang thee!'
+
+    The Powers aboon will tent thee;
+      Misfortune sha' na steer thee;
+    Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely
+      That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
+
+    Return again, Fair Lesley,
+      Return to Caledonie!
+    That we may brag we hae a lass
+      There's nane again sae bonnie.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXC
+
+    O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+      That's newly sprung in June:
+    O my Luve's like the melodie
+      That's sweetly play'd in tune.
+
+    As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
+      So deep in luve am I:
+    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
+      Till a' the seas gang dry:
+
+    Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
+      And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
+    I will luve thee still, my dear,
+      While the sands o' life shall run.
+
+    And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
+      And fare thee weel awhile!
+    And I will come again, my Luve,
+      Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCI
+
+_HIGHLAND MARY_
+
+    Ye banks and braes and streams around
+      The castle o' Montgomery,
+    Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
+      Your waters never drumlie!
+    There simmer first unfauld her robes,
+      And there the langest tarry;
+    For there I took the last fareweel
+      O' my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+    How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
+      How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
+    As underneath their fragrant shade
+      I clasp'd her to my bosom!
+    The golden hours on angel wings
+      Flew o'er me and my dearie;
+    For dear to me as light and life
+      Was my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+    Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace
+      Our parting was fu' tender;
+    And pledging aft to meet again,
+      We tore oursels asunder;
+    But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
+      That nipt my flower sae early!
+    Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
+      That wraps my Highland Mary!
+
+    O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
+      I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
+    And closed for aye the sparkling glance
+      That dwelt on me sae kindly;
+    And mouldering now in silent dust
+      That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
+    But still within my bosom's core
+      Shall live my Highland Mary.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCII
+
+_AULD ROBIN GRAY_
+
+    When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a hame,
+    And a' the warld to rest are gane,
+    The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
+    While my gudeman lies sound by me.
+
+    Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
+    But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
+    To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
+    And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
+
+    He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
+    When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
+    My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--
+    And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
+
+    My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
+    I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
+    Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
+    Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!
+
+    My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
+    But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
+    His ship it was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee?
+    Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
+
+    My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
+    But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:
+    They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
+    Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
+
+    I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
+    When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
+    I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he
+    Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.
+
+    O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
+    We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
+    I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
+    And why was I born to say, Wae's me!
+
+    I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
+    I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
+    But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
+    For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
+
+_Lady A. Lindsay._
+
+
+CXCIII
+
+_DUNCAN GRAY_
+
+    Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
+    On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't:
+    Maggie coost her head fu' high,
+    Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
+    Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+    Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
+    Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
+    Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
+    Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
+    Spak o' lowpin ower a linn!
+
+    Time and chance are but a tide,
+    Slighted love is sair to bide;
+    Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
+    For a haughty hizzie dee?
+    She may gae to--France for me!
+
+    How it comes let doctors tell,
+    Meg grew sick--as he grew well;
+    Something in her bosom wrings,
+    For relief a sigh she brings;
+    And O, her een, they spak sic things!
+
+    Duncan was a lad o' grace;
+    Maggie's was a piteous case;
+    Duncan couldna be her death,
+    Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
+    Now they're crouse and canty baith:
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCIV
+
+_THE SAILOR'S WIFE_
+
+    And are ye sure the news is true?
+      And are ye sure he's weel?
+    Is this a time to think o' wark?
+      Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
+    Is this the time to spin a thread,
+      When Colin's at the door?
+    Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
+      And see him come ashore.
+    For there's nae luck about the house,
+      There's nae luck at a';
+    There's little pleasure in the house
+      When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+    And gie to me my bigonet,
+      My bishop's satin gown;
+    For I maun tell the baillie's wife
+      That Colin's in the town.
+    My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
+      My stockins pearly blue;
+    It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
+      For he's baith leal and true.
+
+    Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
+      Put on the muckle pot;
+    Gie little Kate her button gown
+      And Jock his Sunday coat;
+    And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
+      Their hose as white as snaw;
+    It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
+      For he's been long awa.
+
+    There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
+      Been fed this month and mair;
+    Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
+      That Colin weel may fare;
+    And spread the table neat and clean,
+      Gar ilka thing look braw,
+    For wha can tell how Colin fared
+      When he was far awa?
+
+    Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
+      His breath like caller air;
+    His very foot has music in't
+      As he comes up the stair--
+    And will I see his face again?
+      And will I hear him speak?
+    I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+      In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+    If Colin's weel, and weel content,
+      I hae nae mair to crave:
+    And gin I live to keep him sae,
+      I'm blest aboon the lave:
+    And will I see his face again,
+      And will I hear him speak?
+    I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+      In troth I'm like to greet.
+    For there's nae luck about the house,
+      There's nae luck at a';
+    There's little pleasure in the house
+      When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+_W. J. Mickle_
+
+
+CXCV
+
+_ABSENCE_
+
+    When I think on the happy days
+      I spent wi' you, my dearie;
+    And now what lands between us lie,
+      How can I be but eerie!
+
+    How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
+      As ye were wae and weary!
+    It was na sae ye glinted by
+      When I was wi' my dearie.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXCVI
+
+_JEAN_
+
+    Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+      I dearly like the West,
+    For there the bonnie lassie lives,
+      The lassie I lo'e best:
+    There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
+      And mony a hill between;
+    But day and night my fancy's flight
+      Is ever wi' my Jean.
+
+    I see her in the dewy flowers,
+      I see her sweet and fair:
+    I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
+      I hear her charm the air:
+    There's not a bonnie flower that springs
+      By fountain, shaw, or green,
+    There's not a bonnie bird that sings
+      But minds me o' my Jean.
+
+    O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft
+      Amang the leafy trees;
+    Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
+      Bring hame the laden bees;
+    And bring the lassie back to me
+      That's aye sae neat and clean;
+    Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
+      Sae charming is my Jean.
+
+    What sighs and vows amang the knowes
+      Hae pass'd atween us twa!
+    How fond to meet, how wae to part
+      That night she gaed awa!
+    The Powers aboon can only ken
+      To whom the heart is seen,
+    That nane can be sae dear to me
+      As my sweet lovely Jean!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCVII
+
+_JOHN ANDERSON_
+
+    John Anderson my jo, John,
+    When we were first acquent
+    Your locks were like the raven,
+    Your bonnie brow was brent;
+    But now your brow is bald, John,
+    Your locks are like the snow;
+    But blessings on your frosty pow,
+    John Anderson my jo.
+
+    John Anderson my jo, John,
+    We clamb the hill thegither,
+    And mony a canty day, John,
+    We've had wi' ane anither:
+    Now we maun totter down, John,
+    But hand in hand we'll go,
+    And sleep thegither at the foot,
+    John Anderson my jo.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCVIII
+
+_THE LAND O' THE LEAL_
+
+    I'm wearing awa', Jean,
+    Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
+    I'm wearing awa'
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
+    There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
+    The day is aye fair
+      In the land o' the leal.
+
+    Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
+    Your task's ended noo, Jean,
+    And I'll welcome you
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
+    She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
+    O we grudged her right sair
+      To the land o' the leal!
+
+    Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
+    My soul langs to be free, Jean,
+    And angels wait on me
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
+    This warld's care is vain, Jean;
+    We'll meet and aye be fain
+      In the land o' the leal.
+
+_Lady Nairn_
+
+
+CXCIX
+
+_ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE_
+
+    Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+      That crown the watery glade,
+    Where grateful Science still adores
+      Her Henry's holy shade;
+    And ye, that from the stately brow
+    Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
+    Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
+    Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
+    Wanders the hoary Thames along
+      His silver-winding way:
+
+    Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
+      Ah fields beloved in vain!
+    Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
+      A stranger yet to pain!
+    I feel the gales that from ye blow
+    A momentary bliss bestow,
+    As waving fresh their gladsome wing
+    My weary soul they seem to soothe,
+    And, redolent of joy and youth,
+      To breathe a second spring.
+
+    Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
+      Full many a sprightly race
+    Disporting on thy margent green
+      The paths of pleasure trace;
+    Who foremost now delight to cleave
+    With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
+    The captive linnet which enthral?
+    What idle progeny succeed
+    To chase the rolling circle's speed
+      Or urge the flying ball?
+
+    While some on earnest business bent
+      Their murmuring labours ply
+    'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
+      To sweeten liberty:
+    Some bold adventurers disdain
+    The limits of their little reign
+    And unknown regions dare descry:
+    Still as they run they look behind,
+    They hear a voice in every wind,
+      And snatch a fearful joy.
+
+    Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
+      Less pleasing when possest;
+    The tear forgot as soon as shed,
+      The sunshine of the breast:
+    Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,
+    Wild wit, invention ever new,
+    And lively cheer, of vigour born;
+    The thoughtless day, the easy night,
+    The spirits pure, the slumbers light
+      That fly th' approach of morn.
+
+    Alas! regardless of their doom
+      The little victims play;
+    No sense have they of ills to come
+      Nor care beyond to-day:
+    Yet see how all around 'em wait
+    The ministers of human fate
+    And black Misfortune's baleful train!
+    Ah show them where in ambush stand
+    To seize their prey, the murderous band!
+      Ah, tell them they are men!
+
+    These shall the fury Passions tear,
+      The vultures of the mind,
+    Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
+      And Shame that sculks behind;
+    Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
+    Or Jealousy with rankling tooth
+    That inly gnaws the secret heart,
+    And Envy wan, and faded Care,
+    Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
+      And Sorrow's piercing dart.
+
+    Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
+      Then whirl the wretch from high
+    To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
+      And grinning Infamy.
+    The stings of Falsehood those shall try
+    And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
+    That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
+    And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
+    And moody Madness laughing wild
+      Amid severest woe.
+
+    Lo, in the vale of years beneath
+      A griesly troop are seen,
+    The painful family of Death,
+      More hideous than their queen:
+    This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
+    That every labouring sinew strains,
+    Those in the deeper vitals rage:
+    Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
+    That numbs the soul with icy hand,
+      And slow-consuming Age.
+
+    To each his sufferings: all are men,
+      Condemn'd alike to groan;
+    The tender for another's pain,
+      Th' unfeeling for his own.
+    Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
+    Since sorrow never comes too late,
+    And happiness too swiftly flies?
+    Thought would destroy their paradise.
+    No more;--where ignorance is bliss,
+      'Tis folly to be wise.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CC
+
+_THE SHRUBBERY_
+
+    O happy shades! to me unblest!
+      Friendly to peace, but not to me!
+    How ill the scene that offers rest,
+      And heart that cannot rest, agree!
+
+    This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
+      Those alders quivering to the breeze,
+    Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
+      And please, if anything could please.
+
+    But fix'd unalterable Care
+      Foregoes not what she feels within,
+    Shows the same sadness everywhere,
+      And slights the season and the scene.
+
+    For all that pleased in wood or lawn
+      While Peace possess'd these silent bowers,
+    Her animating smile withdrawn,
+      Has lost its beauties and its powers.
+
+    The saint or moralist should tread
+      This moss-grown alley, musing, slow,
+    They seek like me the secret shade,
+      But not, like me, to nourish woe!
+
+    Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste
+      Alike admonish not to roam;
+    These tell me of enjoyments past,
+      And those of sorrows yet to come.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCI
+
+_HYMN TO ADVERSITY_
+
+      Daughter of Jove, relentless power,
+        Thou tamer of the human breast,
+      Whose iron scourge and torturing hour
+        The bad affright, afflict the best!
+      Bound in thy adamantine chain
+      The proud are taught to taste of pain,
+      And purple tyrants vainly groan
+    With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
+
+      When first thy Sire to send on earth
+        Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
+      To thee he gave the heavenly birth
+        And bade to form her infant mind.
+      Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
+      With patience many a year she bore;
+      What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,
+    And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.
+
+      Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
+        Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
+      Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
+        And leave us leisure to be good.
+      Light they disperse, and with them go
+      The summer friend, the flattering foe;
+      By vain Prosperity received,
+    To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
+
+      Wisdom in sable garb array'd
+        Immersed in rapturous thought profound,
+      And Melancholy, silent maid,
+        With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
+      Still on thy solemn steps attend:
+      Warm Charity, the general friend,
+      With Justice, to herself severe,
+    And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
+
+      Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head
+        Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!
+      Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
+        Nor circled with the vengeful band
+      (As by the impious thou art seen)
+      With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
+      With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
+    Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;--
+
+      Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,
+        Thy milder influence impart,
+      Thy philosophic train be there
+        To soften, not to wound my heart.
+      The generous spark extinct revive,
+      Teach me to love and to forgive,
+      Exact my own defects to scan,
+    What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CCII
+
+_THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK_
+
+    I am monarch of all I survey;
+    My right there is none to dispute;
+    From the centre all round to the sea
+    I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
+    O Solitude! where are the charms
+    That sages have seen in thy face?
+    Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
+    Than reign in this horrible place.
+
+    I am out of humanity's reach,
+    I must finish my journey alone,
+    Never hear the sweet music of speech;
+    I start at the sound of my own.
+    The beasts that roam over the plain
+    My form with indifference see;
+    They are so unacquainted with man,
+    Their tameness is shocking to me.
+
+    Society, Friendship, and Love
+    Divinely bestow'd upon man,
+    Oh, had I the wings of a dove
+    How soon would I taste you again!
+    My sorrows I then might assuage
+    In the ways of religion and truth,
+    Might learn from the wisdom of age,
+    And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
+
+    Ye winds that have made me your sport,
+    Convey to this desolate shore
+    Some cordial endearing report
+    Of a land I shall visit no more:
+    My friends, do they now and then send
+    A wish or a thought after me?
+    O tell me I yet have a friend,
+    Though a friend I am never to see.
+
+    How fleet is a glance of the mind!
+    Compared with the speed of its flight,
+    The tempest itself lags behind,
+    And the swift-wing�d arrows of light.
+    When I think of my own native land
+    In a moment I seem to be there;
+    But alas! recollection at hand
+    Soon hurries me back to despair.
+
+    But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
+    The beast is laid down in his lair;
+    Even here is a season of rest,
+    And I to my cabin repair.
+    There's mercy in every place,
+    And mercy, encouraging thought!
+    Gives even affliction a grace
+    And reconciles man to his lot.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCIII
+
+_TO MARY UNWIN_
+
+    Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
+    Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
+    An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
+    And undebased by praise of meaner things,
+
+    That ere through age or woe I shed my wings
+    I may record thy worth with honour due,
+    In verse as musical as thou art true,
+    And that immortalizes whom it sings:--
+
+    But thou hast little need. There is a Book
+    By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
+    On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
+
+    A chronicle of actions just and bright--
+    There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
+    And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCIV
+
+_TO THE SAME_
+
+    The twentieth year is well-nigh past
+    Since first our sky was overcast;
+    Ah would that this might be the last!
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
+    I see thee daily weaker grow--
+    'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy needles, once a shining store,
+    For my sake restless heretofore,
+    Now rust disused, and shine no more;
+          My Mary!
+
+    For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
+    The same kind office for me still,
+    Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
+          My Mary!
+
+    But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
+    And all thy threads with magic art
+    Have wound themselves about this heart,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy indistinct expressions seem
+    Like language utter'd in a dream;
+    Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
+    Are still more lovely in my sight
+    Than golden beams of orient light,
+          My Mary!
+
+    For could I view nor them nor thee,
+    What sight worth seeing could I see?
+    The sun would rise in vain for me,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Partakers of thy sad decline
+    Thy hands their little force resign;
+    Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
+    That now at every step thou mov'st
+    Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
+          My Mary!
+
+    And still to love, though prest with ill,
+    In wintry age to feel no chill,
+    With me is to be lovely still,
+          My Mary!
+
+    But ah! by constant heed I know
+    How oft the sadness that I show
+    Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
+          My Mary!
+
+    And should my future lot be cast
+    With much resemblance of the past,
+    Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
+          My Mary!
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCV
+
+_THE CASTAWAY_
+
+    Obscurest night involved the sky,
+      The Atlantic billows roar'd,
+    When such a destined wretch as I,
+      Wash'd headlong from on board,
+    Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
+    His floating home for ever left.
+
+    No braver chief could Albion boast
+      Than he with whom he went,
+    Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
+      With warmer wishes sent.
+    He loved them both, but both in vain,
+    Nor him beheld, nor her again.
+
+    Not long beneath the whelming brine,
+      Expert to swim, he lay;
+    Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
+      Or courage die away;
+    But waged with death a lasting strife,
+    Supported by despair of life.
+
+    He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
+      To check the vessel's course,
+    But so the furious blast prevail'd,
+      That, pitiless perforce,
+    They left their outcast mate behind,
+    And scudded still before the wind.
+
+    Some succour yet they could afford;
+      And such as storms allow,
+    The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
+      Delay'd not to bestow.
+    But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
+    Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
+
+    Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
+      Their haste himself condemn,
+    Aware that flight, in such a sea,
+      Alone could rescue them;
+    Yet bitter felt it still to die
+    Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
+
+    He long survives, who lives an hour
+      In ocean, self-upheld;
+    And so long he, with unspent power,
+      His destiny repell'd;
+    And ever, as the minutes flew,
+    Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'
+
+    At length, his transient respite past,
+      His comrades, who before
+    Had heard his voice in every blast,
+      Could catch the sound no more;
+    For then, by toil subdued, he drank
+    The stifling wave, and then he sank.
+
+    No poet wept him; but the page
+      Of narrative sincere,
+    That tells his name, his worth, his age,
+      Is wet with Anson's tear:
+    And tears by bards or heroes shed
+    Alike immortalize the dead.
+
+    I therefore purpose not, or dream,
+      Descanting on his fate,
+    To give the melancholy theme
+      A more enduring date:
+    But misery still delights to trace
+    Its semblance in another's case.
+
+    No voice divine the storm allay'd,
+      No light propitious shone,
+    When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
+      We perish'd, each alone:
+    But I beneath a rougher sea,
+    And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCVI
+
+_TOMORROW_
+
+    In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
+      May my fate no less fortunate be
+    Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
+      And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
+    With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
+      While I carol away idle sorrow,
+    And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
+      Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.
+
+    With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
+      As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
+    And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
+      With a barn for the use of the flail:
+    A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
+      And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
+    I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
+      Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow.
+
+    From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
+      Secured by a neighbouring hill;
+    And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
+      By the sound of a murmuring rill:
+    And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
+      With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
+    With my friends may I share what Today may afford,
+      And let them spread the table Tomorrow.
+
+    And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring
+      Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
+    On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,
+      Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:
+    But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
+      And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
+    As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,
+      May become Everlasting Tomorrow.
+
+_J. Collins_
+
+
+CCVII
+
+    Life! I know not what thou art,
+    But know that thou and I must part;
+    And when, or how, or where we met
+    I own to me's a secret yet.
+
+      Life! we've been long together
+    Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
+    'Tis hard to part when friends are dear--
+    Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
+    --Then steal away, give little warning,
+      Choose thine own time;
+    Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime
+      Bid me Good Morning.
+
+_A. L. Barbauld_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Fourth
+
+
+CCVIII
+
+_TO THE MUSES_
+
+    Whether on Ida's shady brow,
+      Or in the chambers of the East,
+    The chambers of the sun, that now
+      From ancient melody have ceased;
+
+    Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
+      Or the green corners of the earth,
+    Or the blue regions of the air,
+      Where the melodious winds have birth;
+
+    Whether on crystal rocks ye rove
+      Beneath the bosom of the sea,
+    Wandering in many a coral grove,--
+      Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
+
+    How have you left the ancient love
+      That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
+    The languid strings do scarcely move,
+      The sound is forced, the notes are few.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CCIX
+
+_ODE ON THE POETS_
+
+    Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+    Ye have left your souls on earth!
+    Have ye souls in heaven too,
+    Double-lived in regions new?
+
+    --Yes, and those of heaven commune
+    With the spheres of sun and moon;
+    With the noise of fountains wond'rous
+    And the parle of voices thund'rous;
+    With the whisper of heaven's trees
+    And one another, in soft ease
+    Seated on Elysian lawns
+    Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
+    Underneath large blue-bells tented,
+    Where the daisies are rose-scented,
+    And the rose herself has got
+    Perfume which on earth is not;
+    Where the nightingale doth sing
+    Not a senseless, tranc�d thing,
+    But divine melodious truth;
+    Philosophic numbers smooth;
+    Tales and golden histories
+    Of heaven and its mysteries.
+
+      Thus ye live on high, and then
+    On the earth ye live again;
+    And the souls ye left behind you
+    Teach us, here, the way to find you,
+    Where your other souls are joying,
+    Never slumber'd, never cloying.
+    Here, your earth-born souls still speak
+    To mortals, of their little week;
+    Of their sorrows and delights;
+    Of their passions and their spites;
+    Of their glory and their shame;
+    What doth strengthen and what maim:--
+    Thus ye teach us, every day,
+    Wisdom, though fled far away.
+
+      Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+    Ye have left your souls on earth!
+    Ye have souls in heaven too,
+    Double-lived in regions new!
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCX
+
+_ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER_
+
+    Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+    And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
+    Round many western islands have I been
+    Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
+
+    Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
+    That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
+    Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
+    Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
+
+    --Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
+    When a new planet swims into his ken;
+    Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
+
+    He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
+    Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
+    Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXI
+
+_LOVE_
+
+    All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
+    Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
+    All are but ministers of Love,
+        And feed his sacred flame.
+
+    Oft in my waking dreams do I
+    Live o'er again that happy hour,
+    When midway on the mount I lay,
+        Beside the ruin'd tower.
+
+    The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
+    Had blended with the lights of eve;
+    And she was there, my hope, my joy,
+        My own dear Genevieve!
+
+    She lean'd against the arm�d man,
+    The statue of the arm�d knight;
+    She stood and listen'd to my lay,
+        Amid the lingering light.
+
+    Few sorrows hath she of her own,
+    My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
+    She loves me best, whene'er I sing
+        The songs that make her grieve.
+
+    I play'd a soft and doleful air,
+    I sang an old and moving story--
+    An old rude song, that suited well
+        That ruin wild and hoary.
+
+    She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+    With downcast eyes and modest grace;
+    For well she knew, I could not choose
+        But gaze upon her face.
+
+    I told her of the Knight that wore
+    Upon his shield a burning brand;
+    And that for ten long years he woo'd
+        The Lady of the Land.
+
+    I told her how he pined: and ah!
+    The deep, the low, the pleading tone
+    With which I sang another's love
+        Interpreted my own.
+
+    She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+    With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
+    And she forgave me, that I gazed
+        Too fondly on her face!
+
+    But when I told the cruel scorn
+    That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
+    And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
+        Nor rested day nor night;
+
+    That sometimes from the savage den,
+    And sometimes from the darksome shade,
+    And sometimes starting up at once
+        In green and sunny glade,--
+
+    There came and look'd him in the face
+    An angel beautiful and bright;
+    And that he knew it was a Fiend,
+        This miserable Knight!
+
+    And that unknowing what he did,
+    He leap'd amid a murderous band,
+    And saved from outrage worse than death
+        The Lady of the Land;--
+
+    And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
+    And how she tended him in vain--
+    And ever strove to expiate
+        The scorn that crazed his brain;--
+
+    And that she nursed him in a cave,
+    And how his madness went away,
+    When on the yellow forest-leaves
+        A dying man he lay;--
+
+    His dying words--but when I reach'd
+    That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
+    My faltering voice and pausing harp
+        Disturb'd her soul with pity!
+
+    All impulses of soul and sense
+    Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
+    The music and the doleful tale,
+        The rich and balmy eve;
+
+    And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
+    An undistinguishable throng,
+    And gentle wishes long subdued,
+        Subdued and cherish'd long!
+
+    She wept with pity and delight,
+    She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
+    And like the murmur of a dream,
+        I heard her breathe my name.
+
+    Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside,
+    As conscious of my look she stept--
+    Then suddenly, with timorous eye
+        She fled to me and wept.
+
+    She half inclosed me with her arms,
+    She press'd me with a meek embrace;
+    And bending back her head, look'd up,
+        And gazed upon my face.
+
+    'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
+    And partly 'twas a bashful art
+    That I might rather feel, than see,
+        The swelling of her heart.
+
+    I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
+    And told her love with virgin pride;
+    And so I won my Genevieve,
+        My bright and beauteous Bride.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCXII
+
+_ALL FOR LOVE_
+
+    O talk not to me of a name great in story;
+    The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
+    And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
+    Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
+
+    What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
+    'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
+    Then away with all such from the head that is hoary--
+    What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
+
+    Oh Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
+    'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
+    Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
+    She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
+
+    There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
+    Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
+    When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
+    I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXIII
+
+_THE OUTLAW_
+
+    O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+    And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+    And as I rode by Dalton-Hall
+      Beneath the turrets high,
+    A Maiden on the castle-wall
+      Was singing merrily:
+    'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+    I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.'
+
+    'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
+      To leave both tower and town,
+    Thou first must guess what life lead we
+      That dwell by dale and down.
+    And if thou canst that riddle read,
+      As read full well you may,
+    Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
+      As blithe as Queen of May.'
+    Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+    I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.
+
+    'I read you, by your bugle-horn
+      And by your palfrey good,
+    I read you for a ranger sworn
+      To keep the king's greenwood.'
+    'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,
+      And 'tis at peep of light;
+    His blast is heard at merry morn,
+      And mine at dead of night.'
+    Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are gay;
+    I would I were with Edmund there
+      To reign his Queen of May!
+
+    'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
+      So gallantly you come,
+    I read you for a bold Dragoon
+      That lists the tuck of drum.'
+    'I list no more the tuck of drum,
+      No more the trumpet hear;
+    But when the beetle sounds his hum
+      My comrades take the spear.
+    And O! though Brignall banks be fair
+      And Greta woods be gay,
+    Yet mickle must the maiden dare
+      Would reign my Queen of May!
+
+    'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
+      A nameless death I'll die;
+    The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
+      Were better mate than I!
+    And when I'm with my comrades met
+      Beneath the greenwood bough,--
+    What once we were we all forget,
+      Nor think what we are now.'
+
+_Chorus_
+
+    'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+    And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXIV
+
+    There be none of Beauty's daughters
+      With a magic like Thee;
+    And like music on the waters
+      Is thy sweet voice to me:
+    When, as if its sound were causing
+    The charmed ocean's pausing,
+    The waves lie still and gleaming,
+    And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
+
+    And the midnight moon is weaving
+      Her bright chain o'er the deep,
+    Whose breast is gently heaving
+      As an infant's asleep:
+    So the spirit bows before thee
+    To listen and adore thee;
+    With a full but soft emotion,
+    Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXV
+
+_THE INDIAN SERENADE_
+
+    I arise from dreams of Thee
+    In the first sweet sleep of night,
+    When the winds are breathing low
+    And the stars are shining bright:
+    I arise from dreams of thee,
+    And a spirit in my feet
+    Hath led me--who knows how?
+    To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
+
+    The wandering airs they faint
+    On the dark, the silent stream--
+    The champak odours fail
+    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+    The nightingale's complaint
+    It dies upon her heart,
+    As I must die on thine
+    O belov�d as thou art!
+
+    Oh lift me from the grass!
+    I die, I faint, I fail!
+    Let thy love in kisses rain
+    On my lips and eyelids pale.
+    My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+    My heart beats loud and fast;
+    Oh! press it close to thine again
+    Where it will break at last.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXVI
+
+    She walks in beauty, like the night
+    Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
+    And all that's best of dark and bright
+    Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
+    Thus mellow'd to that tender light
+    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
+
+    One shade the more, one ray the less,
+    Had half impair'd the nameless grace
+    Which waves in every raven tress
+    Or softly lightens o'er her face,
+    Where thoughts serenely sweet express
+    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
+
+    And on that cheek and o'er that brow
+    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
+    The smiles that win, the tints that glow
+    But tell of days in goodness spent,--
+    A mind at peace with all below,
+    A heart whose love is innocent.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXVII
+
+    She was a Phantom of delight
+    When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
+    A lovely Apparition, sent
+    To be a moment's ornament;
+    Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
+    Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
+    But all things else about her drawn
+    From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
+    A dancing shape, an image gay,
+    To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
+
+    I saw her upon nearer view,
+    A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
+    Her household motions light and free,
+    And steps of virgin-liberty;
+    A countenance in which did meet
+    Sweet records, promises as sweet;
+    A creature not too bright or good
+    For human nature's daily food,
+    For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
+    Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
+
+    And now I see with eye serene
+    The very pulse of the machine;
+    A being breathing thoughtful breath,
+    A traveller between life and death:
+    The reason firm, the temperate will,
+    Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
+    A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
+    To warn, to comfort, and command;
+    And yet a Spirit still, and bright
+    With something of an angel-light.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXVIII
+
+    She is not fair to outward view
+      As many maidens be;
+    Her loveliness I never knew
+      Until she smiled on me.
+    O then I saw her eye was bright,
+    A well of love, a spring of light.
+
+    But now her looks are coy and cold,
+      To mine they ne'er reply,
+    And yet I cease not to behold
+      The love-light in her eye:
+    Her very frowns are fairer far
+    Than smiles of other maidens are.
+
+_H. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCXIX
+
+    I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
+    Thou needest not fear mine;
+    My spirit is too deeply laden
+    Ever to burthen thine.
+
+    I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
+    Thou needest not fear mine;
+    Innocent is the heart's devotion
+    With which I worship thine.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXX
+
+    She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+      Beside the springs of Dove;
+    A maid whom there were none to praise,
+      And very few to love.
+
+    A violet by a mossy stone
+      Half-hidden from the eye!
+    --Fair as a star, when only one
+      Is shining in the sky.
+
+    She lived unknown, and few could know
+      When Lucy ceased to be;
+    But she is in her grave, and, oh,
+      The difference to me!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXI
+
+    I travell'd among unknown men
+      In lands beyond the sea;
+    Nor, England! did I know till then
+      What love I bore to thee.
+
+    'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
+      Nor will I quit thy shore
+    A second time; for still I seem
+      To love thee more and more.
+
+    Among thy mountains did I feel
+      The joy of my desire;
+    And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
+      Beside an English fire.
+
+    Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd
+      The bowers where Lucy play'd;
+    And thine too is the last green field
+      That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXII
+
+_THE EDUCATION OF NATURE_
+
+    Three years she grew in sun and shower;
+    Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
+    On earth was never sown:
+    This Child I to myself will take;
+    She shall be mine, and I will make
+    A lady of my own.
+
+    'Myself will to my darling be
+    Both law and impulse: and with me
+    The girl, in rock and plain,
+    In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
+    Shall feel an overseeing power
+    To kindle or restrain.
+
+    'She shall be sportive as the fawn
+    That wild with glee across the lawn
+    Or up the mountain springs;
+    And her's shall be the breathing balm,
+    And her's the silence and the calm
+    Of mute insensate things.
+
+    'The floating clouds their state shall lend
+    To her; for her the willow bend;
+    Nor shall she fail to see
+    Ev'n in the motions of the storm
+    Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
+    By silent sympathy.
+
+    'The stars of midnight shall be dear
+    To her; and she shall lean her ear
+    In many a secret place
+    Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+    And beauty born of murmuring sound
+    Shall pass into her face.
+
+    'And vital feelings of delight
+    Shall rear her form to stately height,
+    Her virgin bosom swell;
+    Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
+    While she and I together live
+    Here in this happy dell.'
+
+    Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
+    How soon my Lucy's race was run!
+    She died, and left to me
+    This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
+    The memory of what has been,
+    And never more will be.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXIII
+
+    A slumber did my spirit seal;
+      I had no human fears:
+    She seem'd a thing that could not feel
+      The touch of earthly years.
+
+    No motion has she now, no force;
+      She neither hears nor sees;
+    Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
+      With rocks, and stones, and trees.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXIV
+
+_A LOST LOVE_
+
+    I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
+      Thy thrilling voice I hear;
+    And former hours and scenes retrace,
+      Too fleeting, and too dear!
+
+    Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
+      Though none is nigh to share;
+    And life has nought beside for me
+      So sweet as this despair.
+
+    There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
+      And mine, methinks, is one;
+    Or thus I should not weep and wake,
+      And thou to slumber gone.
+
+    I little thought it thus could be
+      In days more sad and fair--
+    That earth could have a place for me,
+      And thou no longer there.
+
+    Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
+      Or make thee less my own:
+    'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
+      Than watching here alone.
+
+    Yet never, never can we part,
+      While Memory holds her reign:
+    Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart
+      Till we shall meet again.
+
+_H. F. Lyte_
+
+
+CCXXV
+
+_LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER_
+
+    A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+    Cries 'Boatman, do not tarry!
+    And I'll give thee a silver pound
+    To row us o'er the ferry!'
+
+    'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
+    This dark and stormy water?'
+    'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
+    And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
+
+    'And fast before her father's men
+    Three days we've fled together,
+    For should he find us in the glen,
+    My blood would stain the heather.
+
+    'His horsemen hard behind us ride--
+    Should they our steps discover,
+    Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
+    When they have slain her lover?'
+
+    Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
+    'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
+    It is not for your silver bright,
+    But for your winsome lady:--
+
+    'And by my word! the bonny bird
+    In danger shall not tarry;
+    So though the waves are raging white
+    I'll row you o'er the ferry.'
+
+    By this the storm grew loud apace,
+    The water-wraith was shrieking;
+    And in the scowl of Heaven each face
+    Grew dark as they were speaking.
+
+    But still as wilder blew the wind,
+    And as the night grew drearer,
+    Adown the glen rode arm�d men,
+    Their trampling sounded nearer.
+
+    'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
+    'Though tempests round us gather;
+    I'll meet the raging of the skies,
+    But not an angry father.'
+
+    The boat has left a stormy land,
+    A stormy sea before her,--
+    When, oh! too strong for human hand
+    The tempest gather'd o'er her.
+
+    And still they row'd amidst the roar
+    Of waters fast prevailing:
+    Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--
+    His wrath was changed to wailing.
+
+    For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
+    His child he did discover:--
+    One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
+    And one was round her lover.
+
+    'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief
+    'Across this stormy water:
+    And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
+    My daughter!--Oh, my daughter!'
+
+    'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
+    Return or aid preventing:
+    The waters wild went o'er his child,
+    And he was left lamenting.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXXVI
+
+_LUCY GRAY_
+
+    Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
+    And when I cross'd the wild,
+    I chanced to see at break of day
+    The solitary child.
+
+    No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
+    She dwelt on a wide moor,
+    The sweetest thing that ever grew
+    Beside a human door!
+
+    You yet may spy the fawn at play,
+    The hare upon the green;
+    But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
+    Will never more be seen.
+
+    'To-night will be a stormy night--
+    You to the town must go;
+    And take a lantern, Child, to light
+    Your mother through the snow.'
+
+    'That, Father! will I gladly do:
+    'Tis scarcely afternoon--
+    The minster-clock has just struck two,
+    And yonder is the moon!'
+
+    At this the father raised his hook,
+    And snapp'd a faggot-band;
+    He plied his work;--and Lucy took
+    The lantern in her hand.
+
+    Not blither is the mountain roe:
+    With many a wanton stroke
+    Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
+    That rises up like smoke.
+
+    The storm came on before its time:
+    She wander'd up and down;
+    And many a hill did Lucy climb:
+    But never reach'd the town.
+
+    The wretched parents all that night
+    Went shouting far and wide;
+    But there was neither sound nor sight
+    To serve them for a guide.
+
+    At day-break on a hill they stood
+    That overlook'd the moor;
+    And thence they saw the bridge of wood
+    A furlong from their door.
+
+    They wept--and, turning homeward, cried
+    'In heaven we all shall meet!'
+    --When in the snow the mother spied
+    The print of Lucy's feet.
+
+    Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
+    They track'd the footmarks small;
+    And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
+    And by the long stone-wall:
+
+    And then an open field they cross'd:
+    The marks were still the same;
+    They track'd them on, nor ever lost;
+    And to the bridge they came:
+
+    They follow'd from the snowy bank
+    Those footmarks, one by one,
+    Into the middle of the plank;
+    And further there were none!
+
+    --Yet some maintain that to this day
+    She is a living child;
+    That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
+    Upon the lonesome wild.
+
+    O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
+    And never looks behind;
+    And sings a solitary song
+    That whistles in the wind.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXVII
+
+_JOCK OF HAZELDEAN_
+
+    'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+      Why weep ye by the tide?
+    I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
+      And ye sall be his bride:
+    And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
+      Sae comely to be seen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
+      And dry that cheek so pale;
+    Young Frank is chief of Errington
+      And lord of Langley-dale;
+    His step is first in peaceful ha',
+      His sword in battle keen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
+      Nor braid to bind your hair,
+    Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
+      Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
+    And you the foremost o' them a'
+      Shall ride our forest-queen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
+      The tapers glimmer'd fair;
+    The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
+      And dame and knight are there:
+    They sought her baith by bower and ha';
+      The ladie was not seen!
+    She's o'er the Border, and awa'
+      Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXVIII
+
+_LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY_
+
+    The fountains mingle with the river
+    And the rivers with the ocean,
+    The winds of heaven mix for ever
+    With a sweet emotion;
+    Nothing in the world is single,
+    All things by a law divine
+    In one another's being mingle--
+    Why not I with thine?
+
+    See the mountains kiss high heaven,
+    And the waves clasp one another;
+    No sister-flower would be forgiven
+    If it disdain'd its brother:
+    And the sunlight clasps the earth,
+    And the moonbeams kiss the sea--
+    What are all these kissings worth,
+    If thou kiss not me?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXXIX
+
+_ECHOES_
+
+    How sweet the answer Echo makes
+    To Music at night
+    When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
+    And far away o'er lawns and lakes
+    Goes answering light!
+
+    Yet Love hath echoes truer far
+    And far more sweet
+    Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
+    Of horn or lute or soft guitar
+    The songs repeat.
+
+    'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere
+    And only then,
+    The sigh that's breathed for one to hear--
+    Is by that one, that only Dear
+    Breathed back again.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCXXX
+
+_A SERENADE_
+
+    Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
+      The sun has left the lea,
+    The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
+      The breeze is on the sea.
+    The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
+      Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
+    Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
+      But where is County Guy?
+
+    The village maid steals through the shade
+      Her shepherd's suit to hear;
+    To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
+      Sings high-born Cavalier.
+    The star of Love, all stars above,
+      Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
+    And high and low the influence know--
+      But where is County Guy?
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXI
+
+_TO THE EVENING STAR_
+
+    Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,
+    Companion of retiring day,
+    Why at the closing gates of heaven,
+    Beloved Star, dost thou delay?
+
+    So fair thy pensile beauty burns
+    When soft the tear of twilight flows;
+    So due thy plighted love returns
+    To chambers brighter than the rose;
+
+    To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love
+    So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
+    Sure some enamour'd orb above
+    Descends and burns to meet with thee.
+
+    Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
+    When all unheavenly passions fly,
+    Chased by the soul-subduing power
+    Of Love's delicious witchery.
+
+    O! sacred to the fall of day
+    Queen of propitious stars, appear,
+    And early rise, and long delay,
+    When Caroline herself is here!
+
+    Shine on her chosen green resort
+    Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
+    And wanton flowers, that well may court
+    An angel's feet to tread them down:--
+
+    Shine on her sweetly scented road
+    Thou star of evening's purple dome,
+    That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
+    And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
+
+    Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
+    Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
+    Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
+    To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--
+
+    Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
+    Her silken tresses darkly flow
+    And fall upon her brow so fair,
+    Like shadows on the mountain snow.
+
+    Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
+    In converse sweet to wander far--
+    O bring with thee my Caroline,
+    And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXXXII
+
+_TO THE NIGHT_
+
+    Swiftly walk over the western wave,
+                Spirit of Night!
+    Out of the misty eastern cave
+    Where, all the long and lone daylight,
+    Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
+    Which make thee terrible and dear,--
+                Swift be thy flight!
+
+    Wrap thy form in a mantle gray
+                Star-inwrought;
+    Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,
+    Kiss her until she be wearied out:
+    Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
+    Touching all with thine opiate wand--
+                Come, long-sought!
+
+    When I arose and saw the dawn,
+                I sigh'd for thee;
+    When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
+    And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
+    And the weary Day turn'd to his rest
+    Lingering like an unloved guest,
+                I sigh'd for thee.
+
+    Thy brother Death came, and cried
+                Wouldst thou me?
+    Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
+    Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
+    Shall I nestle near thy side?
+    Wouldst thou me?--And I replied
+                No, not thee!
+
+    Death will come when thou art dead,
+                Soon, too soon--
+    Sleep will come when thou art fled;
+    Of neither would I ask the boon
+    I ask of thee, belov�d Night--
+    Swift be thine approaching flight,
+                Come soon, soon!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXXXIII
+
+_TO A DISTANT FRIEND_
+
+    Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
+    Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
+    Of absence withers what was once so fair?
+    Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
+
+    Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
+    Bound to thy service with unceasing care--
+    The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
+    For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
+
+    Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
+    A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
+    Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
+
+    Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
+    'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
+    Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXXIV
+
+    When we two parted
+    In silence and tears,
+    Half broken-hearted,
+    To sever for years,
+    Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
+    Colder thy kiss;
+    Truly that hour foretold
+    Sorrow to this!
+
+    The dew of the morning
+    Sunk chill on my brow;
+    It felt like the warning
+    Of what I feel now.
+    Thy vows are all broken,
+    And light is thy fame:
+    I hear thy name spoken
+    And share in its shame.
+
+    They name thee before me,
+    A knell to mine ear;
+    A shudder comes o'er me--
+    Why wert thou so dear?
+    They know not I knew thee
+    Who knew thee too well:
+    Long, long shall I rue thee,
+    Too deeply to tell.
+
+    In secret we met:
+    In silence I grieve
+    That thy heart could forget,
+    Thy spirit deceive.
+    If I should meet thee
+    After long years,
+    How should I greet thee?--
+    With silence and tears.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXXXV
+
+_HAPPY INSENSIBILITY_
+
+    In a drear-nighted December,
+    Too happy, happy tree,
+    Thy branches ne'er remember
+    Their green felicity:
+    The north cannot undo them
+    With a sleety whistle through them,
+    Nor frozen thawings glue them
+    From budding at the prime.
+
+    In a drear-nighted December,
+    Too happy, happy brook,
+    Thy bubblings ne'er remember
+    Apollo's summer look;
+    But with a sweet forgetting
+    They stay their crystal fretting,
+    Never, never petting
+    About the frozen time.
+
+    Ah! would 'twere so with many
+    A gentle girl and boy!
+    But were there ever any
+    Writhed not at pass�d joy?
+    To know the change and feel it,
+    When there is none to heal it
+    Nor numb�d sense to steal it--
+    Was never said in rhyme.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXXXVI
+
+    Where shall the lover rest
+      Whom the fates sever
+    From his true maiden's breast
+      Parted for ever?
+    Where, through groves deep and high
+      Sounds the far billow,
+    Where early violets die
+      Under the willow.
+        _Eleu loro
+      Soft shall be his pillow._
+
+    There through the summer day
+      Cool streams are laving:
+    There, while the tempests sway,
+      Scarce are boughs waving;
+    There thy rest shalt thou take,
+      Parted for ever,
+    Never again to wake
+      Never, O never!
+        _Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!_
+
+    Where shall the traitor rest,
+      He, the deceiver,
+    Who could win maiden's breast,
+      Ruin, and leave her?
+    In the lost battle,
+      Borne down by the flying,
+    Where mingles war's rattle
+      With groans of the dying;
+        _Eleu loro
+      There shall he be lying._
+
+    Her wing shall the eagle flap
+      O'er the falsehearted;
+    His warm blood the wolf shall lap
+      Ere life be parted:
+    Shame and dishonour sit
+      By his grave ever;
+    Blessing shall hallow it
+      Never, O never!
+        _Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!_
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXVII
+
+_LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI_
+
+    'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      Alone and palely loitering?
+    The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.
+
+    'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
+      So haggard and so woe-begone?
+    The squirrel's granary is full,
+      And the harvest's done.
+
+    'I see a lily on thy brow
+      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
+    And on thy cheeks a fading rose
+      Fast withereth too.'
+
+    'I met a lady in the meads,
+      Full beautiful--a faery's child,
+    Her hair was long, her foot was light,
+      And her eyes were wild.
+
+    'I made a garland for her head,
+      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
+    She look'd at me as she did love,
+      And made sweet moan.
+
+    'I set her on my pacing steed
+      And nothing else saw all day long,
+    For sidelong would she bend, and sing
+      A faery's song.
+
+    'She found me roots of relish sweet,
+      And honey wild and manna-dew,
+    And sure in language strange she said
+      "I love thee true."
+
+    'She took me to her elfin grot,
+      And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;
+    And there I shut her wild wild eyes
+      With kisses four.
+
+    'And there she lull�d me asleep,
+      And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
+    The latest dream I ever dream'd
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+    'I saw pale kings and princes too,
+      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
+    They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci
+      Hath thee in thrall!"
+
+    'I saw their starved lips in the gloam
+      With horrid warning gap�d wide,
+    And I awoke and found me here
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+    'And this is why I sojourn here
+      Alone and palely loitering,
+    Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.'
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXXXVIII
+
+_THE ROVER_
+
+    A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
+      A weary lot is thine!
+    To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
+      And press the rue for wine.
+    A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
+      A feather of the blue,
+    A doublet of the Lincoln green--
+      No more of me you knew
+                    My Love!
+    No more of me you knew.
+
+    'This morn is merry June, I trow,
+      The rose is budding fain;
+    But she shall bloom in winter snow
+      Ere we two meet again.'
+    He turn'd his charger as he spake
+      Upon the river shore,
+    He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
+      Said 'Adieu for evermore
+                    My Love!
+    And adieu for evermore.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXIX
+
+_THE FLIGHT OF LOVE_
+
+    When the lamp is shatter'd
+    The light in the dust lies dead--
+    When the cloud is scatter'd,
+    The rainbow's glory is shed.
+    When the lute is broken,
+    Sweet tones are remember'd not;
+    When the lips have spoken,
+    Loved accents are soon forgot.
+
+    As music and splendour
+    Survive not the lamp and the lute,
+    The heart's echoes render
+    No song when the spirit is mute--
+    No song but sad dirges,
+    Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
+    Or the mournful surges
+    That ring the dead seaman's knell.
+
+    When hearts have once mingled,
+    Love first leaves the well-built nest;
+    The weak one is singled
+    To endure what it once possesst.
+    O Love! who bewailest
+    The frailty of all things here,
+    Why choose you the frailest
+    For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
+
+    Its passions will rock thee
+    As the storms rock the ravens on high;
+    Bright reason will mock thee
+    Like the sun from a wintry sky.
+    From thy nest every rafter
+    Will rot, and thine eagle home
+    Leave thee naked to laughter,
+    When leaves fall and cold winds come.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXL
+
+_THE MAID OF NEIDPATH_
+
+    O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
+      And lovers' ears in hearing;
+    And love, in life's extremity,
+      Can lend an hour of cheering.
+    Disease had been in Mary's bower
+      And slow decay from mourning,
+    Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
+      To watch her Love's returning.
+
+    All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
+      Her form decay'd by pining,
+    Till through her wasted hand, at night,
+      You saw the taper shining.
+    By fits a sultry hectic hue
+      Across her cheek was flying;
+    By fits so ashy pale she grew
+      Her maidens thought her dying.
+
+    Yet keenest powers to see and hear
+      Seem'd in her frame residing;
+    Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
+      She heard her lover's riding;
+    Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
+      She knew and waved to greet him,
+    And o'er the battlement did bend
+      As on the wing to meet him.
+
+    He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze
+      As o'er some stranger glancing;
+    Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
+      Lost in his courser's prancing--
+    The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
+      Returns each whisper spoken,
+    Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
+      Which told her heart was broken.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXLI
+
+    Earl March look'd on his dying child,
+      And, smit with grief to view her--
+    The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
+      Shall be restored to woo her.
+
+    She's at the window many an hour
+      His coming to discover:
+    And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
+      And she look'd on her lover--
+
+    But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
+      Though her smile on him was dwelling--
+    And am I then forgot--forgot?
+      It broke the heart of Ellen.
+
+    In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
+      Her cheek is cold as ashes;
+    Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
+      To lift their silken lashes.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXLII
+
+    Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
+    Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
+    And watching, with eternal lids apart,
+    Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
+
+    The moving waters at their priestlike task
+    Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
+    Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
+    Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--
+
+    No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
+    Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast
+    To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
+    Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
+
+    Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
+    And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXLIII
+
+_THE TERROR OF DEATH_
+
+    When I have fears that I may cease to be
+    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
+    Before high-pil�d books, in charact'ry
+    Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
+
+    When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
+    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
+    And think that I may never live to trace
+    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
+
+    And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
+    That I shall never look upon thee more,
+    Never have relish in the faery power
+    Of unreflecting love--then on the shore
+
+    Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
+    Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
+
+_Keats_
+
+
+CCXLIV
+
+_DESIDERIA_
+
+    Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind--
+    I turn'd to share the transport--Oh! with whom
+    But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb,
+    That spot which no vicissitude can find?
+
+    Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind--
+    But how could I forget thee? Through what power
+    Even for the least division of an hour
+    Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
+
+    To my most grievous loss!--That thought's return
+    Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
+    Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
+
+    Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
+    That neither present time, nor years unborn
+    Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXLV
+
+    At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
+    To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
+    And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
+    To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there
+    And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!
+
+    Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
+    When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;
+    And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
+    I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
+    Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCXLVI
+
+_ELEGY ON THYRZA_
+
+    And thou art dead, as young and fair
+      As aught of mortal birth;
+    And forms so soft and charms so rare
+      Too soon return'd to Earth!
+    Though Earth received them in her bed,
+    And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
+      In carelessness or mirth,
+    There is an eye which could not brook
+    A moment on that grave to look.
+
+    I will not ask where thou liest low
+      Nor gaze upon the spot;
+    There flowers or weeds at will may grow
+      So I behold them not:
+    It is enough for me to prove
+    That what I loved, and long must love,
+      Like common earth can rot;
+    To me there needs no stone to tell
+    'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
+
+    Yet did I love thee to the last,
+      As fervently as thou
+    Who didst not change through all the past
+      And canst not alter now.
+    The love where Death has set his seal
+    Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
+      Nor falsehood disavow:
+    And, what were worse, thou canst not see
+    Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
+
+    The better days of life were ours;
+      The worst can be but mine:
+    The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,
+      Shall never more be thine.
+    The silence of that dreamless sleep
+    I envy now too much to weep;
+      Nor need I to repine
+    That all those charms have pass'd away
+    I might have watch'd through long decay.
+
+    The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
+      Must fall the earliest prey;
+    Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
+      The leaves must drop away.
+    And yet it were a greater grief
+    To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
+      Than see it pluck'd today;
+    Since earthly eye but ill can bear
+    To trace the change to foul from fair.
+
+    I know not if I could have borne
+      To see thy beauties fade;
+    The night that follow'd such a morn
+      Had worn a deeper shade:
+    Thy day without a cloud hath past,
+    And thou wert lovely to the last,
+      Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
+    As stars that shoot along the sky
+    Shine brightest as they fall from high.
+
+    As once I wept, if I could weep,
+      My tears might well be shed
+    To think I was not near, to keep
+      One vigil o'er thy bed:
+    To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
+    To fold thee in a faint embrace,
+      Uphold thy drooping head;
+    And show that love, however vain,
+    Nor thou nor I can feel again.
+
+    Yet how much less it were to gain,
+      Though thou hast left me free,
+    The loveliest things that still remain
+      Than thus remember thee!
+    The all of thine that cannot die
+    Through dark and dread Eternity
+      Returns again to me,
+    And more thy buried love endears
+    Than aught except its living years.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXLVII
+
+    One word is too often profaned
+      For me to profane it,
+    One feeling too falsely disdain'd
+      For thee to disdain it.
+    One hope is too like despair
+      For prudence to smother,
+    And pity from thee more dear
+      Than that from another.
+
+    I can give not what men call love;
+      But wilt thou accept not
+    The worship the heart lifts above
+      And the Heavens reject not:
+    The desire of the moth for the star,
+      Of the night for the morrow,
+    The devotion to something afar
+      From the sphere of our sorrow?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXLVIII
+
+_GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK_
+
+    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+      Pibroch of Donuil
+    Wake thy wild voice anew,
+      Summon Clan Conuil.
+    Come away, come away,
+      Hark to the summons!
+    Come in your war-array,
+      Gentles and commons.
+
+    Come from deep glen, and
+      From mountain so rocky;
+    The war-pipe and pennon
+      Are at Inverlocky.
+    Come every hill-plaid, and
+      True heart that wears one,
+    Come every steel blade, and
+      Strong hand that bears one.
+
+    Leave untended the herd,
+      The flock without shelter;
+    Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
+      The bride at the altar;
+    Leave the deer, leave the steer,
+      Leave nets and barges:
+    Come with your fighting gear,
+      Broadswords and targes.
+
+    Come as the winds come, when
+      Forests are rended,
+    Come as the waves come, when
+      Navies are stranded:
+    Faster come, faster come,
+      Faster and faster,
+    Chief, vassal, page and groom,
+      Tenant and master.
+
+    Fast they come, fast they come;
+      See how they gather!
+    Wide waves the eagle plume
+      Blended with heather.
+    Cast your plaids, draw your blades
+      Forward each man set!
+    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+      Knell for the onset!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXLIX
+
+    A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
+      A wind that follows fast
+    And fills the white and rustling sail
+      And bends the gallant mast;
+    And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
+      While like the eagle free
+    Away the good ship flies, and leaves
+      Old England on the lee.
+
+    O for a soft and gentle wind!
+      I heard a fair one cry;
+    But give to me the snoring breeze
+      And white waves heaving high;
+    And white waves heaving high, my lads,
+      The good ship tight and free--
+    The world of waters is our home,
+      And merry men are we.
+
+    There's tempest in yon horn�d moon,
+      And lightning in yon cloud;
+    But hark the music, mariners!
+      The wind is piping loud;
+    The wind is piping loud, my boys,
+      The lightning flashes free--
+    While the hollow oak our palace is,
+      Our heritage the sea.
+
+_A. Cunningham_
+
+
+CCL
+
+    Ye Mariners of England
+    That guard our native seas!
+    Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
+    The battle and the breeze!
+    Your glorious standard launch again
+    To match another foe:
+    And sweep through the deep,
+    While the stormy winds do blow;
+    While the battle rages loud and long
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    The spirits of your fathers
+    Shall start from every wave--
+    For the deck it was their field of fame,
+    And Ocean was their grave:
+    Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
+    Your manly hearts shall glow,
+    As ye sweep through the deep,
+    While the stormy winds do blow;
+    While the battle rages loud and long
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    Britannia needs no bulwarks,
+    No towers along the steep;
+    Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
+    Her home is on the deep.
+    With thunders from her native oak
+    She quells the floods below--
+    As they roar on the shore,
+    When the stormy winds do blow;
+    When the battle rages loud and long,
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    The meteor flag of England
+    Shall yet terrific burn;
+    Till danger's troubled night depart
+    And the star of peace return.
+    Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
+    Our song and feast shall flow
+    To the fame of your name,
+    When the storm has ceased to blow;
+    When the fiery fight is heard no more,
+    And the storm has ceased to blow.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLI
+
+_BATTLE OF THE BALTIC_
+
+    Of Nelson and the North
+    Sing the glorious day's renown,
+    When to battle fierce came forth
+    All the might of Denmark's crown,
+    And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
+    By each gun the lighted brand
+    In a bold determined hand,
+    And the Prince of all the land
+    Led them on.
+
+    Like leviathans afloat
+    Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
+    While the sign of battle flew
+    On the lofty British line:
+    It was ten of April morn by the chime:
+    As they drifted on their path
+    There was silence deep as death,
+    And the boldest held his breath
+    For a time.
+
+    But the might of England flush'd
+    To anticipate the scene;
+    And her van the fleeter rush'd
+    O'er the deadly space between.
+    'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun
+    From its adamantine lips
+    Spread a death-shade round the ships,
+    Like the hurricane eclipse
+    Of the sun.
+
+    Again! again! again!
+    And the havoc did not slack,
+    Till a feeble cheer the Dane
+    To our cheering sent us back;--
+    Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
+    Then ceased--and all is wail,
+    As they strike the shatter'd sail;
+    Or in conflagration pale
+    Light the gloom.
+
+    Out spoke the victor then
+    As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
+    'Ye are brothers! ye are men!
+    And we conquer but to save:--
+    So peace instead of death let us bring:
+    But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
+    With the crews, at England's feet,
+    And make submission meet
+    To our King.'
+
+    Then Denmark bless'd our chief
+    That he gave her wounds repose;
+    And the sounds of joy and grief
+    From her people wildly rose,
+    As death withdrew his shades from the day:
+    While the sun look'd smiling bright
+    O'er a wide and woeful sight,
+    Where the fires of funeral light
+    Died away.
+
+    Now joy, old England, raise!
+    For the tidings of thy might,
+    By the festal cities' blaze,
+    Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
+    And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
+    Let us think of them that sleep
+    Full many a fathom deep
+    By thy wild and stormy steep,
+    Elsinore!
+
+    Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
+    Once so faithful and so true,
+    On the deck of fame that died,
+    With the gallant good Riou:
+    Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
+    While the billow mournful rolls
+    And the mermaid's song condoles
+    Singing glory to the souls
+    Of the brave!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLII
+
+_ODE TO DUTY_
+
+      Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
+      O Duty! if that name thou love
+      Who art a light to guide, a rod
+      To check the erring, and reprove;
+      Thou who art victory and law
+      When empty terrors overawe;
+      From vain temptations dost set free,
+    And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
+
+      There are who ask not if thine eye
+      Be on them; who, in love and truth
+      Where no misgiving is, rely
+      Upon the genial sense of youth:
+      Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
+      Who do thy work, and know it not:
+      Oh! if through confidence misplaced
+    They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
+
+      Serene will be our days and bright
+      And happy will our nature be
+      When love is an unerring light,
+      And joy its own security.
+      And they a blissful course may hold
+      Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold,
+      Live in the spirit of this creed;
+    Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
+
+      I, loving freedom, and untried,
+      No sport of every random gust,
+      Yet being to myself a guide,
+      Too blindly have reposed my trust:
+      And oft, when in my heart was heard
+      Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
+      The task, in smoother walks to stray;
+    But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
+
+      Through no disturbance of my soul
+      Or strong compunction in me wrought,
+      I supplicate for thy controul,
+      But in the quietness of thought:
+      Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
+      I feel the weight of chance-desires:
+      My hopes no more must change their name;
+    I long for a repose that ever is the same.
+
+      Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
+      The Godhead's most benignant grace;
+      Nor know we anything so fair
+      As is the smile upon thy face:
+      Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
+      And fragrance in thy footing treads;
+      Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
+    And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
+
+      To humbler functions, awful Power!
+      I call thee: I myself commend
+      Unto thy guidance from this hour;
+      Oh let my weakness have an end!
+      Give unto me, made lowly wise,
+      The spirit of self-sacrifice;
+      The confidence of reason give;
+    And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.
+
+_W. Wordsworth._
+
+
+CCLIII
+
+_ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON_
+
+    Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+    Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
+    For there thy habitation is the heart--
+    The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
+
+    And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,
+    To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
+    Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
+    And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
+
+    Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
+    And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,
+    Until his very steps have left a trace
+
+    Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
+    By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
+    For they appeal from tyranny to God.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLIV
+
+_ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802_
+
+    Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
+    One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:
+    In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
+    They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
+
+    There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
+    Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven:
+    Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
+    Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
+
+    --Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
+    Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left--
+    For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
+
+    That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
+    And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
+    And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLV
+
+_ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC._
+
+    Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+    And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
+    Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
+    Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
+
+    She was a maiden city, bright and free;
+    No guile seduced, no force could violate;
+    And when she took unto herself a mate,
+    She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
+
+    And what if she had seen those glories fade,
+    Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,--
+    Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
+
+    When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
+    Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
+    Of that which once was great is pass'd away.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVI
+
+_LONDON, 1802_
+
+    O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+    For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
+    To think that now our life is only drest
+    For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
+
+    Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
+    In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
+    The wealthiest man among us is the best:
+    No grandeur now in nature or in book
+
+    Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
+    This is idolatry; and these we adore:
+    Plain living and high thinking are no more:
+
+    The homely beauty of the good old cause
+    Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
+    And pure religion breathing household laws.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVII
+
+_THE SAME_
+
+    Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
+    England hath need of thee: she is a fen
+    Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
+    Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
+
+    Have forfeited their ancient English dower
+    Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
+    Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
+    And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
+
+    Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
+    Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
+    Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
+
+    So didst thou travel on life's common way
+    In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
+    The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVIII
+
+    When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+    Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
+    When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
+    The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed
+
+    I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
+    Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
+    Verily, in the bottom of my heart
+    Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
+
+    For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
+    In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
+    And I by my affection was beguiled:
+
+    What wonder if a Poet now and then,
+    Among the many movements of his mind,
+    Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLIX
+
+_HOHENLINDEN_
+
+    On Linden, when the sun was low,
+    All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
+    And dark as winter was the flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+    But Linden saw another sight,
+    When the drum beat at dead of night
+    Commanding fires of death to light
+        The darkness of her scenery.
+
+    By torch and trumpet fast array'd
+    Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
+    And furious every charger neigh'd
+        To join the dreadful revelry.
+
+    Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
+    Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
+    And louder than the bolts of Heaven
+        Far flash'd the red artillery.
+
+    But redder yet that light shall glow
+    On Linden's hills of stain�d snow;
+    And bloodier yet the torrent flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+    'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
+    Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
+    Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
+        Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
+
+    The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
+    Who rush to glory, or the grave!
+    Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
+        And charge with all thy chivalry!
+
+    Few, few shall part, where many meet!
+    The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
+    And every turf beneath their feet
+        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLX
+
+_AFTER BLENHEIM_
+
+    It was a summer evening,
+      Old Kaspar's work was done,
+    And he before his cottage door
+      Was sitting in the sun;
+    And by him sported on the green
+    His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
+
+    She saw her brother Peterkin
+      Roll something large and round
+    Which he beside the rivulet
+      In playing there had found;
+    He came to ask what he had found
+    That was so large and smooth and round.
+
+    Old Kaspar took it from the boy
+      Who stood expectant by;
+    And then the old man shook his head,
+      And with a natural sigh
+    ''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,
+    'Who fell in the great victory.
+
+    'I find them in the garden,
+      For there's many here about;
+    And often when I go to plough
+      The ploughshare turns them out.
+    For many thousand men,' said he,
+    'Were slain in that great victory.'
+
+    'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'
+      Young Peterkin he cries;
+    And little Wilhelmine looks up
+      With wonder-waiting eyes;
+    'Now tell us all about the war,
+    And what they fought each other for.'
+
+    'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
+      'Who put the French to rout;
+    But what they fought each other for
+      I could not well make out.
+    But every body said,' quoth he,
+    'That 'twas a famous victory.
+
+    'My father lived at Blenheim then,
+      Yon little stream hard by;
+    They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
+      And he was forced to fly:
+    So with his wife and child he fled,
+    Nor had he where to rest his head.
+
+    'With fire and sword the country round
+      Was wasted far and wide,
+    And many a childing mother then
+      And new-born baby died:
+    But things like that, you know, must be
+    At every famous victory.
+
+    'They say it was a shocking sight
+      After the field was won;
+    For many thousand bodies here
+      Lay rotting in the sun:
+    But things like that, you know, must be
+    After a famous victory.
+
+    'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
+      And our good Prince Eugene;'
+    'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'
+      Said little Wilhelmine;
+    'Nay ... nay ... my little girl,' quoth he,
+    'It was a famous victory.
+
+    'And every body praised the Duke
+      Who this great fight did win.'
+    'But what good came of it at last?'
+      Quoth little Peterkin:--
+    'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,
+    'But 'twas a famous victory.'
+
+_R. Southey_
+
+
+CCLXI
+
+_PRO PATRIA MORI_
+
+    When he who adores thee has left out the name
+      Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
+    Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
+      Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
+    Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
+      Thy tears shall efface their decree;
+    For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
+      I have been but too faithful to thee.
+
+    With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
+      Every thought of my reason was thine:
+    In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
+      Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
+    Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
+      The days of thy glory to see;
+    But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
+      Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXII
+
+_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA_
+
+    Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
+      As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
+    Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
+      O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
+
+    We buried him darkly at dead of night,
+      The sods with our bayonets turning;
+    By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
+      And the lantern dimly burning.
+
+    No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
+      Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
+    But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
+      With his martial cloak around him.
+
+    Few and short were the prayers we said,
+      And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
+    But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
+      And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
+
+    We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
+      And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
+    That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
+      And we far away on the billow!
+
+    Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
+      And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
+    But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
+      In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
+
+    But half of our heavy task was done
+      When the clock struck the hour for retiring:
+    And we heard the distant and random gun
+      That the foe was sullenly firing.
+
+    Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
+      From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
+    We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
+      But we left him alone with his glory.
+
+_C. Wolfe_
+
+
+CCLXIII
+
+_SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN_
+
+    In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
+    Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
+    An old man dwells, a little man,--
+    'Tis said he once was tall.
+    Full five-and-thirty years he lived
+    A running huntsman merry;
+    And still the centre of his cheek
+    Is red as a ripe cherry.
+
+    No man like him the horn could sound,
+    And hill and valley rang with glee,
+    When Echo bandied, round and round,
+    The halloo of Simon Lee.
+    In those proud days he little cared
+    For husbandry or tillage;
+    To blither tasks did Simon rouse
+    The sleepers of the village.
+
+    He all the country could outrun,
+    Could leave both man and horse behind;
+    And often, ere the chase was done,
+    He reel'd and was stone-blind.
+    And still there's something in the world
+    At which his heart rejoices;
+    For when the chiming hounds are out,
+    He dearly loves their voices.
+
+    But oh the heavy change!--bereft
+    Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see!
+    Old Simon to the world is left
+    In liveried poverty:--
+    His master's dead, and no one now
+    Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
+    Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
+    He is the sole survivor.
+
+    And he is lean and he is sick,
+    His body, dwindled and awry,
+    Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
+    His legs are thin and dry.
+    One prop he has, and only one,--
+    His wife, an aged woman,
+    Lives with him, near the waterfall,
+    Upon the village common.
+
+    Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
+    Not twenty paces from the door,
+    A scrap of land they have, but they
+    Are poorest of the poor.
+    This scrap of land he from the heath
+    Enclosed when he was stronger;
+    But what to them avails the land
+    Which he can till no longer?
+
+    Oft, working by her husband's side,
+    Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
+    For she, with scanty cause for pride,
+    Is stouter of the two.
+    And, though you with your utmost skill
+    From labour could not wean them,
+    'Tis little, very little, all
+    That they can do between them.
+
+    Few months of life has he in store
+    As he to you will tell,
+    For still, the more he works, the more
+    Do his weak ankles swell.
+    My gentle Reader, I perceive
+    How patiently you've waited,
+    And now I fear that you expect
+    Some tale will be related.
+
+    O Reader! had you in your mind
+    Such stores as silent thought can bring,
+    O gentle Reader! you would find
+    A tale in every thing.
+    What more I have to say is short,
+    And you must kindly take it:
+    It is no tale; but, should you think,
+    Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
+
+    One summer-day I chanced to see
+    This old Man doing all he could
+    To unearth the root of an old tree,
+    A stump of rotten wood.
+    The mattock totter'd in his hand;
+    So vain was his endeavour
+    That at the root of the old tree
+    He might have work'd for ever.
+
+    'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
+    Give me your tool,' to him I said;
+    And at the word right gladly he
+    Received my proffer'd aid.
+    I struck, and with a single blow
+    The tangled root I sever'd,
+    At which the poor old man so long
+    And vainly had endeavour'd.
+
+    The tears into his eyes were brought,
+    And thanks and praises seem'd to run
+    So fast out of his heart, I thought
+    They never would have done.
+    --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed
+    With coldness still returning;
+    Alas! the gratitude of men
+    Hath oftener left me mourning.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXIV
+
+_THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES_
+
+    I have had playmates, I have had companions,
+    In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+    Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
+    Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
+    Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+    Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+
+    Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
+    Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+    Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+
+    Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+    Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+    So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
+
+    How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+    And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXV
+
+_THE JOURNEY ONWARDS_
+
+    As slow our ship her foamy track
+      Against the wind was cleaving,
+    Her trembling pennant still look'd back
+      To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
+    So loth we part from all we love,
+      From all the links that bind us;
+    So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+    When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
+      We talk with joyous seeming--
+    With smiles that might as well be tears,
+      So faint, so sad their beaming;
+    While memory brings us back again
+      Each early tie that twined us,
+    Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+    And when, in other climes, we meet
+      Some isle or vale enchanting,
+    Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
+      And nought but love is wanting;
+    We think how great had been our bliss
+      If Heaven had but assign'd us
+    To live and die in scenes like this,
+      With some we've left behind us!
+
+    As travellers oft look back at eve
+      When eastward darkly going,
+    To gaze upon that light they leave
+      Still faint behind them glowing,--
+    So, when the close of pleasure's day
+      To gloom hath near consign'd us,
+    We turn to catch one fading ray
+      Of joy that's left behind us.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXVI
+
+_YOUTH AND AGE_
+
+    There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+    When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
+    'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
+    But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
+
+    Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
+    Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:
+    The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
+    The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
+
+    Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
+    It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
+    That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
+    And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
+
+    Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
+    Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
+    'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
+    All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
+
+    Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
+    Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--
+    As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
+    So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLXVII
+
+_A LESSON_
+
+    There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
+    That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
+    And the first moment that the sun may shine,
+    Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
+
+    When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
+    Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
+    Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
+    In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
+
+    But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,
+    And recognized it, though an alter'd form,
+    Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
+    And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
+
+    I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,
+    'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
+    This neither is its courage nor its choice,
+    But its necessity in being old.
+
+    'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
+    It cannot help itself in its decay;
+    Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'--
+    And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
+
+    To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,
+    A miser's pensioner--behold our lot!
+    O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
+    Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXVIII
+
+_PAST AND PRESENT_
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The house where I was born,
+    The little window where the sun
+    Came peeping in at morn;
+    He never came a wink too soon
+    Nor brought too long a day;
+    But now, I often wish the night
+    Had borne my breath away.
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The roses, red and white,
+    The violets, and the lily-cups--
+    Those flowers made of light!
+    The lilacs where the robin built,
+    And where my brother set
+    The laburnum on his birth-day,--
+    The tree is living yet!
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    Where I was used to swing,
+    And thought the air must rush as fresh
+    To swallows on the wing;
+    My spirit flew in feathers then
+    That is so heavy now,
+    And summer pools could hardly cool
+    The fever on my brow.
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The fir trees dark and high;
+    I used to think their slender tops
+    Were close against the sky:
+    It was a childish ignorance,
+    But now 'tis little joy
+    To know I'm farther off from Heaven
+    Than when I was a boy.
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXIX
+
+_THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS_
+
+    Oft in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Fond Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me:
+        The smiles, the tears
+        Of boyhood's years,
+      The words of love then spoken;
+        The eyes that shone,
+        Now dimm'd and gone,
+      The cheerful hearts now broken!
+    Thus in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+    When I remember all
+      The friends so link'd together
+    I've seen around me fall
+      Like leaves in wintry weather,
+        I feel like one
+        Who treads alone
+      Some banquet-hall deserted,
+        Whose lights are fled
+        Whose garlands dead,
+      And all but he departed!
+    Thus in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXX
+
+_STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES_
+
+        The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
+        The waves are dancing fast and bright,
+        Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
+        The purple noon's transparent might:
+        The breath of the moist earth is light
+        Around its unexpanded buds;
+        Like many a voice of one delight--
+        The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'--
+    The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
+
+        I see the deep's untrampled floor
+        With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
+        I see the waves upon the shore
+        Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:
+        I sit upon the sands alone;
+        The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
+        Is flashing round me, and a tone
+        Arises from its measured motion--
+    How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
+
+        Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
+        Nor peace within nor calm around,
+        Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
+        The sage in meditation found,
+        And walk'd with inward glory crown'd--
+        Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
+        Others I see whom these surround--
+        Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
+    To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
+
+        Yet now despair itself is mild
+        Even as the winds and waters are;
+        I could lie down like a tired child,
+        And weep away the life of care
+        Which I have borne, and yet must bear,--
+        Till death like sleep might steal on me,
+        And I might feel in the warm air
+        My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
+    Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCLXXI
+
+_THE SCHOLAR_
+
+    My days among the Dead are past;
+    Around me I behold,
+    Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
+    The mighty minds of old:
+    My never-failing friends are they,
+    With whom I converse day by day.
+
+    With them I take delight in weal
+    And seek relief in woe;
+    And while I understand and feel
+    How much to them I owe,
+    My cheeks have often been bedew'd
+    With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
+
+    My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
+    I live in long-past years,
+    Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
+    Partake their hopes and fears,
+    And from their lessons seek and find
+    Instruction with an humble mind.
+
+    My hopes are with the Dead; anon
+    My place with them will be,
+    And I with them shall travel on
+    Through all Futurity;
+    Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
+    That will not perish in the dust.
+
+_R. Southey_
+
+
+CCLXXII
+
+_THE MERMAID TAVERN_
+
+    Souls of Poets dead and gone,
+    What Elysium have ye known,
+    Happy field or mossy cavern,
+    Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+    Have ye tippled drink more fine
+    Than mine host's Canary wine?
+
+    Or are fruits of Paradise
+    Sweeter than those dainty pies
+    Of venison? O generous food!
+    Drest as though bold Robin Hood
+    Would, with his Maid Marian,
+    Sup and bowse from horn and can.
+
+      I have heard that on a day
+    Mine host's sign-board flew away
+    Nobody knew whither, till
+    An astrologer's old quill
+    To a sheepskin gave the story,
+    Said he saw you in your glory,
+    Underneath a new-old sign
+    Sipping beverage divine,
+    And pledging with contented smack
+    The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
+
+      Souls of Poets dead and gone,
+    What Elysium have ye known,
+    Happy field or mossy cavern,
+    Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCLXXIII
+
+_THE PRIDE OF YOUTH_
+
+    Proud Maisie is in the wood,
+      Walking so early;
+    Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
+      Singing so rarely.
+
+    'Tell me, thou bonny bird,
+      When shall I marry me?'
+    --'When six braw gentlemen
+      Kirkward shall carry ye.'
+
+    'Who makes the bridal bed,
+      Birdie, say truly?'
+    --'The gray-headed sexton
+      That delves the grave duly
+
+    'The glowworm o'er grave and stone
+      Shall light thee steady;
+    The owl from the steeple sing
+      Welcome, proud lady.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXIV
+
+_THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS_
+
+    One more Unfortunate
+    Weary of breath
+    Rashly importunate,
+    Gone to her death!
+    Take her up tenderly,
+    Lift her with care;
+    Fashion'd so slenderly,
+    Young, and so fair!
+
+    Look at her garments
+    Clinging like cerements;
+    Whilst the wave constantly
+    Drips from her clothing;
+    Take her up instantly,
+    Loving, not loathing.
+
+    Touch her not scornfully;
+    Think of her mournfully,
+    Gently and humanly;
+    Not of the stains of her--
+    All that remains of her
+    Now is pure womanly.
+
+    Make no deep scrutiny
+    Into her mutiny
+    Rash and undutiful:
+    Past all dishonour,
+    Death has left on her
+    Only the beautiful.
+
+    Still, for all slips of hers,
+    One of Eve's family--
+    Wipe those poor lips of hers
+    Oozing so clammily.
+
+    Loop up her tresses
+    Escaped from the comb,
+    Her fair auburn tresses;
+    Whilst wonderment guesses
+    Where was her home?
+
+    Who was her father?
+    Who was her mother?
+    Had she a sister?
+    Had she a brother?
+    Or was there a dearer one
+    Still, and a nearer one
+    Yet, than all other?
+
+    Alas! for the rarity
+    Of Christian charity
+    Under the sun!
+    Oh! it was pitiful!
+    Near a whole city full,
+    Home she had none.
+
+    Sisterly, brotherly,
+    Fatherly, motherly
+    Feelings had changed:
+    Love, by harsh evidence,
+    Thrown from its eminence;
+    Even God's providence
+    Seeming estranged.
+
+    Where the lamps quiver
+    So far in the river,
+    With many a light
+    From window and casement,
+    From garret to basement,
+    She stood, with amazement,
+    Houseless by night.
+
+    The bleak wind of March
+    Made her tremble and shiver
+    But not the dark arch,
+    Or the black flowing river:
+    Mad from life's history,
+    Glad to death's mystery
+    Swift to be hurl'd--
+    Any where, any where
+    Out of the world!
+
+    In she plunged boldly,
+    No matter how coldly
+    The rough river ran,--
+    Over the brink of it,
+    Picture it--think of it,
+    Dissolute Man!
+    Lave in it, drink of it,
+    Then, if you can!
+
+    Take her up tenderly,
+    Lift her with care;
+    Fashion'd so slenderly,
+    Young, and so fair!
+
+    Ere her limbs frigidly
+    Stiffen too rigidly,
+    Decently, kindly,
+    Smooth and compose them,
+    And her eyes, close them,
+    Staring so blindly!
+
+    Dreadfully staring
+    Thro' muddy impurity,
+    As when with the daring
+    Last look of despairing
+    Fix'd on futurity.
+
+    Perishing gloomily,
+    Spurr'd by contumely,
+    Cold inhumanity,
+    Burning insanity,
+    Into her rest.
+    --Cross her hands humbly
+    As if praying dumbly,
+    Over her breast!
+
+    Owning her weakness,
+    Her evil behaviour,
+    And leaving, with meekness,
+    Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXXV
+
+_ELEGY_
+
+      Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+      On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
+      But on thy turf shall roses rear
+      Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
+    And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
+
+      And oft by yon blue gushing stream
+      Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
+      And feed deep thought with many a dream,
+      And lingering pause and lightly tread;
+    Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
+
+      Away! we know that tears are vain,
+      That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
+      Will this unteach us to complain?
+      Or make one mourner weep the less?
+      And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
+    Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLXXVI
+
+_HESTER_
+
+    When maidens such as Hester die
+    Their place ye may not well supply,
+    Though ye among a thousand try
+            With vain endeavour.
+    A month or more hath she been dead,
+    Yet cannot I by force be led
+    To think upon the wormy bed
+            And her together.
+
+    A springy motion in her gait,
+    A rising step, did indicate
+    Of pride and joy no common rate
+            That flush'd her spirit:
+    I know not by what name beside
+    I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
+    It was a joy to that allied
+            She did inherit.
+
+    Her parents held the Quaker rule,
+    Which doth the human feeling cool;
+    But she was train'd in Nature's school,
+            Nature had blest her.
+    A waking eye, a prying mind,
+    A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
+    A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
+            Ye could not Hester.
+
+    My sprightly neighbour! gone before
+    To that unknown and silent shore,
+    Shall we not meet, as heretofore
+            Some summer morning--
+    When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+    Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+    A bliss that would not go away,
+            A sweet fore-warning?
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXVII
+
+_TO MARY_
+
+    If I had thought thou couldst have died,
+        I might not weep for thee;
+    But I forgot, when by thy side,
+        That thou couldst mortal be:
+    It never through my mind had past
+        The time would e'er be o'er,
+    And I on thee should look my last,
+        And thou shouldst smile no more!
+
+    And still upon that face I look,
+        And think 'twill smile again;
+    And still the thought I will not brook
+        That I must look in vain!
+    But when I speak--thou dost not say
+        What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
+    And now I feel, as well I may,
+        Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
+
+    If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
+        All cold and all serene--
+    I still might press thy silent heart,
+        And where thy smiles have been.
+    While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
+        Thou seemest still mine own;
+    But there I lay thee in thy grave--
+        And I am now alone!
+
+    I do not think, where'er thou art,
+        Thou hast forgotten me;
+    And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
+        In thinking too of thee:
+    Yet there was round thee such a dawn
+        Of light ne'er seen before,
+    As fancy never could have drawn,
+        And never can restore!
+
+_C. Wolfe_
+
+
+CCLXXVIII
+
+_CORONACH_
+
+    He is gone on the mountain,
+      He is lost to the forest,
+    Like a summer-dried fountain,
+      When our need was the sorest.
+    The font reappearing
+      From the raindrops shall borrow,
+    But to us comes no cheering,
+      To Duncan no morrow!
+
+    The hand of the reaper
+      Takes the ears that are hoary,
+    But the voice of the weeper
+      Wails manhood in glory.
+    The autumn winds rushing
+      Waft the leaves that are searest,
+    But our flower was in flushing
+      When blighting was nearest.
+
+    Fleet foot on the correi,
+      Sage counsel in cumber,
+    Red hand in the foray,
+      How sound is thy slumber!
+    Like the dew on the mountain,
+      Like the foam on the river,
+    Like the bubble on the fountain,
+      Thou art gone; and for ever!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXIX
+
+_THE DEATH BED_
+
+    We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
+      Her breathing soft and low,
+    As in her breast the wave of life
+      Kept heaving to and fro.
+
+    So silently we seem'd to speak,
+      So slowly moved about,
+    As we had lent her half our powers
+      To eke her living out.
+
+    Our very hopes belied our fears,
+      Our fears our hopes belied--
+    We thought her dying when she slept,
+      And sleeping when she died.
+
+    For when the morn came dim and sad
+      And chill with early showers,
+    Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
+      Another morn than ours.
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXXX
+
+_AGNES_
+
+    I saw her in childhood--
+      A bright, gentle thing,
+    Like the dawn of the morn,
+      Or the dews of the spring:
+    The daisies and hare-bells
+      Her playmates all day;
+    Herself as light-hearted
+      And artless as they.
+
+    I saw her again--
+      A fair girl of eighteen,
+    Fresh glittering with graces
+      Of mind and of mien.
+    Her speech was all music;
+      Like moonlight she shone;
+    The envy of many,
+      The glory of one.
+
+    Years, years fleeted over--
+      I stood at her foot:
+    The bud had grown blossom,
+      The blossom was fruit.
+    A dignified mother,
+      Her infant she bore;
+    And look'd, I thought, fairer
+      Than ever before.
+
+    I saw her once more--
+      'Twas the day that she died;
+    Heaven's light was around her,
+      And God at her side;
+    No wants to distress her,
+      No fears to appal--
+    O then, I felt, then
+      She was fairest of all!
+
+_H. F. Lyte_
+
+
+CCLXXXI
+
+_ROSABELLE_
+
+    O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+      No haughty feat of arms I tell;
+    Soft is the note, and sad the lay
+      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
+
+    'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
+      And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
+    Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
+      Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
+
+    'The blackening wave is edged with white;
+      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
+    The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
+      Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
+
+    'Last night the gifted Seer did view
+      A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
+    Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
+      Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'
+
+    ''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
+      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
+    But that my ladye-mother there
+      Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
+
+    'Tis not because the ring they ride,
+      And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
+    But that my sire the wine will chide
+      If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'
+
+    --O'er Roslin all that dreary night
+      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
+    'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
+      And redder than the bright moonbeam.
+
+    It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
+      It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
+    'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
+      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
+
+    Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
+      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
+    Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
+      Sheathed in his iron panoply.
+
+    Seem'd all on fire within, around,
+      Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
+    Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
+      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
+
+    Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
+      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
+    So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
+      The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
+
+    There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold--
+      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
+    Each one the holy vault doth hold--
+      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
+
+    And each Saint Clair was buried there,
+      With candle, with book, and with knell;
+    But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
+      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXXII
+
+_ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN_
+
+    I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+    A curious frame of Nature's work;
+    A flow'ret crush�d in the bud,
+    A nameless piece of Babyhood,
+    Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+    Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+    So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
+    For darker closets of the tomb!
+    She did but ope an eye, and put
+    A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+    For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+    Through glasses of mortality.
+    Riddle of destiny, who can show
+    What thy short visit meant, or know
+    What thy errand here below?
+    Shall we say, that Nature blind
+    Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
+    Just when she had exactly wrought
+    A finish'd pattern without fault?
+    Could she flag, or could she tire,
+    Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+    (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+    That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+    Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+    Life of health, and days mature:
+    Woman's self in miniature!
+    Limbs so fair, they might supply
+    (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+    The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+    Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
+    That babe or mother, one must die;
+    So in mercy left the stock
+    And cut the branch; to save the shock
+    Of young years widow'd, and the pain
+    When Single State comes back again
+    To the lone man who, reft of wife,
+    Thenceforward drags a maim�d life?
+    The economy of Heaven is dark,
+    And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark
+    Why human buds, like this, should fall,
+    More brief than fly ephemeral
+    That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+    Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+    And crabb�d use the conscience sears
+    In sinners of an hundred years.
+    --Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+    Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
+    Rites, which custom does impose,
+    Silver bells, and baby clothes;
+    Coral redder than those lips
+    Which pale death did late eclipse;
+    Music framed for infants' glee,
+    Whistle never tuned for thee;
+    Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+    Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+    Let not one be missing; nurse,
+    See them laid upon the hearse
+    Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+    Why should kings and nobles have
+    Pictured trophies to their grave,
+    And we, churls, to thee deny
+    Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--
+    A more harmless vanity?
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXXIII
+
+_IN MEMORIAM_
+
+    A child's a plaything for an hour;
+      Its pretty tricks we try
+    For that or for a longer space,--
+      Then tire, and lay it by.
+
+    But I knew one that to itself
+      All seasons could control;
+    That would have mock'd the sense of pain
+      Out of a griev�d soul.
+
+    Thou straggler into loving arms,
+      Young climber up of knees,
+    When I forget thy thousand ways
+      Then life and all shall cease!
+
+_M. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXXIV
+
+_THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET_
+
+    Where art thou, my beloved Son,
+    Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
+    Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
+    Or if the grave be now thy bed,
+    Why am I ignorant of the same
+    That I may rest; and neither blame
+    Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
+
+    Seven years, alas! to have received
+    No tidings of an only child--
+    To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
+    And been for evermore beguiled,--
+    Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
+    I catch at them, and then I miss;
+    Was ever darkness like to this?
+
+    He was among the prime in worth,
+    An object beauteous to behold;
+    Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
+    Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
+    If things ensued that wanted grace
+    As hath been said, they were not base;
+    And never blush was on my face.
+
+    Ah! little doth the young-one dream
+    When full of play and childish cares,
+    What power is in his wildest scream
+    Heard by his mother unawares!
+    He knows it not, he cannot guess;
+    Years to a mother bring distress;
+    But do not make her love the less.
+
+    Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
+    From that ill thought; and being blind
+    Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:
+    Kind mother have I been, as kind
+    As ever breathed:' and that is true;
+    I've wet my path with tears like dew,
+    Weeping for him when no one knew.
+
+    My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
+    Hopeless of honour and of gain,
+    Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
+    Think not of me with grief and pain:
+    I now can see with better eyes;
+    And worldly grandeur I despise
+    And fortune with her gifts and lies.
+
+    Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
+    And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
+    They mount--how short a voyage brings
+    The wanderers back to their delight!
+    Chains tie us down by land and sea;
+    And wishes, vain as mine, may be
+    All that is left to comfort thee.
+
+    Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan
+    Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
+    Or thou upon a desert thrown
+    Inheritest the lion's den;
+    Or hast been summon'd to the deep
+    Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
+    An incommunicable sleep.
+
+    I look for ghosts: but none will force
+    Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
+    That there was ever intercourse
+    Between the living and the dead;
+    For surely then I should have sight
+    Of him I wait for day and night
+    With love and longings infinite.
+
+    My apprehensions come in crowds;
+    I dread the rustling of the grass;
+    The very shadows of the clouds
+    Have power to shake me as they pass:
+    I question things, and do not find
+    One that will answer to my mind;
+    And all the world appears unkind.
+
+    Beyond participation lie
+    My troubles, and beyond relief:
+    If any chance to heave a sigh
+    They pity me, and not my grief.
+    Then come to me, my Son, or send
+    Some tidings that my woes may end!
+    I have no other earthly friend.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXV
+
+_HUNTING SONG_
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    On the mountain dawns the day;
+    All the jolly chase is here
+    With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
+    Hounds are in their couples yelling,
+    Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
+    Merrily merrily mingle they,
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    The mist has left the mountain gray,
+    Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
+    Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
+    And foresters have busy been
+    To track the buck in thicket green;
+    Now we come to chant our lay
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    To the greenwood haste away;
+    We can show you where he lies,
+    Fleet of foot and tall of size;
+    We can show the marks he made
+    When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
+    You shall see him brought to bay;
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Louder, louder chant the lay
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay!
+    Tell them youth and mirth and glee
+    Run a course as well as we;
+    Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
+    Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;
+    Think of this, and rise with day,
+    Gentle lords and ladies gay!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXXVI
+
+_TO THE SKYLARK_
+
+    Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
+    Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
+    Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
+    Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
+    Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
+    Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
+
+    To the last point of vision, and beyond
+    Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain
+    --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--
+    Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
+    Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
+    All independent of the leafy Spring.
+
+    Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
+    A privacy of glorious light is thine,
+    Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
+    Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
+    Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam--
+    True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXVII
+
+_TO A SKYLARK_
+
+        Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+          Bird thou never wert,
+        That from heaven, or near it
+          Pourest thy full heart
+    In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
+
+        Higher still and higher
+          From the earth thou springest,
+        Like a cloud of fire,
+          The blue deep thou wingest,
+    And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
+
+        In the golden lightning
+          Of the sunken sun
+        O'er which clouds are brightening,
+          Thou dost float and run,
+    Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
+
+        The pale purple even
+          Melts around thy flight;
+        Like a star of heaven
+          In the broad daylight
+    Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
+
+        Keen as are the arrows
+          Of that silver sphere,
+        Whose intense lamp narrows
+          In the white dawn clear
+    Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
+
+        All the earth and air
+          With thy voice is loud,
+        As, when night is bare,
+          From one lonely cloud
+    The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
+
+        What thou art we know not;
+          What is most like thee?
+        From rainbow clouds there flow not
+          Drops so bright to see
+    As from thy presence showers a rain of melody;--
+
+        Like a poet hidden
+          In the light of thought,
+        Singing hymns unbidden,
+          Till the world is wrought
+    To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
+
+        Like a high-born maiden
+          In a palace tower,
+        Soothing her love-laden
+          Soul in secret hour
+    With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
+
+        Like a glow-worm golden
+          In a dell of dew,
+        Scattering unbeholden
+          Its aerial hue
+    Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
+
+        Like a rose embower'd
+          In its own green leaves,
+        By warm winds deflower'd,
+          Till the scent it gives
+    Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wing�d thieves.
+
+        Sound of vernal showers
+          On the twinkling grass,
+        Rain-awaken'd flowers,
+          All that ever was
+    Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
+
+        Teach us, sprite or bird,
+          What sweet thoughts are thine:
+        I have never heard
+          Praise of love or wine
+    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
+
+        Chorus hymeneal
+          Or triumphal chaunt
+        Match'd with thine, would be all
+          But an empty vaunt--
+    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
+
+        What objects are the fountains
+          Of thy happy strain?
+        What fields, or waves, or mountains?
+          What shapes of sky or plain?
+    What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
+
+        With thy clear keen joyance
+          Languor cannot be:
+        Shadow of annoyance
+          Never came near thee:
+    Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
+
+        Waking or asleep
+          Thou of death must deem
+        Things more true and deep
+          Than we mortals dream,
+    Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
+
+        We look before and after,
+          And pine for what is not:
+        Our sincerest laughter
+          With some pain is fraught;
+    Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
+
+        Yet if we could scorn
+          Hate, and pride, and fear;
+        If we were things born
+          Not to shed a tear,
+    I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
+
+        Better than all measures
+          Of delightful sound,
+        Better than all treasures
+          That in books are found,
+    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
+
+        Teach me half the gladness
+          That thy brain must know,
+        Such harmonious madness
+          From my lips would flow,
+    The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCLXXXVIII
+
+_THE GREEN LINNET_
+
+    Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+    Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
+    With brightest sunshine round me spread
+    Of Spring's unclouded weather,
+    In this sequester'd nook how sweet
+    To sit upon my orchard-seat!
+    And flowers and birds once more to greet,
+    My last year's friends together.
+
+    One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
+    In all this covert of the blest:
+    Hail to Thee, far above the rest
+    In joy of voice and pinion!
+    Thou, Linnet! in thy green array
+    Presiding Spirit here to-day
+    Dost lead the revels of the May;
+    And this is thy dominion.
+
+    While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
+    Make all one band of paramours,
+    Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
+    Art sole in thy employment;
+    A Life, a Presence like the air,
+    Scattering thy gladness without care,
+    Too blest with any one to pair;
+    Thyself thy own enjoyment.
+
+    Amid yon tuft of hazel trees
+    That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
+    Behold him perch'd in ecstasies
+    Yet seeming still to hover;
+    There! where the flutter of his wings
+    Upon his back and body flings
+    Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
+    That cover him all over.
+
+    My dazzled sight he oft deceives--
+    A brother of the dancing leaves;
+    Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
+    Pours forth his song in gushes;
+    As if by that exulting strain
+    He mock'd and treated with disdain
+    The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
+    While fluttering in the bushes.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXIX
+
+_TO THE CUCKOO_
+
+    O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
+    I hear thee and rejoice:
+    O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
+    Or but a wandering Voice?
+
+    While I am lying on the grass
+    Thy twofold shout I hear;
+    From hill to hill it seems to pass,
+    At once far off and near.
+
+    Though babbling only to the vale
+    Of sunshine and of flowers,
+    Thou bringest unto me a tale
+    Of visionary hours.
+
+    Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
+    Even yet thou art to me
+    No bird, but an invisible thing,
+    A voice, a mystery;
+
+    The same whom in my school-boy days
+    I listen'd to; that Cry
+    Which made me look a thousand ways
+    In bush, and tree, and sky.
+
+    To seek thee did I often rove
+    Through woods and on the green;
+    And thou wert still a hope, a love;
+    Still long'd for, never seen!
+
+    And I can listen to thee yet;
+    Can lie upon the plain
+    And listen, till I do beget
+    That golden time again.
+
+    O bless�d Bird! the earth we pace
+    Again appears to be
+    An unsubstantial, faery place,
+    That is fit home for Thee!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXC
+
+_ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE_
+
+    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
+    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
+      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
+    'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
+      But being too happy in thine happiness,--
+        That thou, light-wing�d Dryad of the trees,
+              In some melodious plot
+      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
+        Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
+
+    O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
+      Cool'd a long age in the deep-delv�d earth,
+    Tasting of Flora and the country green,
+      Dance, and Proven�al song, and sunburnt mirth!
+    O for a beaker full of the warm South,
+      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
+        With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
+              And purple-stain�d mouth;
+      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
+        And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
+
+    Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
+      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
+    The weariness, the fever, and the fret
+      Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
+    Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
+      Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies
+        Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
+              And leaden-eyed despairs;
+      Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
+        Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
+
+    Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
+      Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
+    But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
+      Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
+    Already with thee! tender is the night,
+      And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
+        Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
+              But here there is no light,
+      Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
+        Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
+
+    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
+      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
+    But, in embalm�d darkness, guess each sweet
+      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
+    The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
+      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
+        Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
+              And mid-May's eldest child,
+      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
+        The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
+
+    Darkling I listen; and for many a time
+      I have been half in love with easeful Death,
+    Call'd him soft names in many a mus�d rhyme,
+      To take into the air my quiet breath;
+    Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
+      To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
+        While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
+              In such an ecstasy!
+      Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
+        To thy high requiem become a sod.
+
+    Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
+      No hungry generations tread thee down;
+    The voice I hear this passing night was heard
+      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
+    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
+      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
+        She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
+              The same that oft-times hath
+      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
+        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
+
+    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
+      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
+    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
+      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
+    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
+      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
+        Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep
+              In the next valley-glades:
+      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
+        Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXCI
+
+_UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802_
+
+    Earth has not anything to show more fair:
+    Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
+    A sight so touching in its majesty:
+    This City now doth like a garment wear
+
+    The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
+    Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
+    Open unto the fields, and to the sky,--
+    All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
+
+    Never did sun more beautifully steep
+    In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
+    Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
+
+    The river glideth at his own sweet will:
+    Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
+    And all that mighty heart is lying still!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCII
+
+    To one who has been long in city pent,
+    'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
+    And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer
+    Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
+
+    Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
+    Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
+    Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
+    And gentle tale of love and languishment?
+
+    Returning home at evening, with an ear
+    Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye
+    Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
+
+    He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
+    E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
+    That falls through the clear ether silently.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXCIII
+
+_OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT_
+
+    I met a traveller from an antique land
+    Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
+    Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
+    Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
+    And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
+    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
+    Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
+    The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
+    And on the pedestal these words appear:
+    'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
+    Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
+    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
+    Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
+    The lone and level sands stretch far away.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXCIV
+
+_COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY, 1803_
+
+    Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!
+    Whom mere despite of heart could so far please
+    And love of havoc, (for with such disease
+    Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
+
+    To level with the dust a noble horde,
+    A brotherhood of venerable trees,
+    Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
+    Beggar'd and outraged!--Many hearts deplored
+
+    The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
+    The traveller at this day will stop and gaze
+    On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
+
+    For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
+    And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
+    And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCV
+
+_THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION_
+
+    O leave this barren spot to me!
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+    Though bush or floweret never grow
+    My dark unwarming shade below;
+    Nor summer bud perfume the dew
+    Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
+    Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
+    My green and glossy leaves adorn;
+    Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
+    Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
+    Yet leave this barren spot to me:
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+
+        Thrice twenty summers I have seen
+    The sky grow bright, the forest green;
+    And many a wintry wind have stood
+    In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
+    Since childhood in my pleasant bower
+    First spent its sweet and sportive hour;
+    Since youthful lovers in my shade
+    Their vows of truth and rapture made,
+    And on my trunk's surviving frame
+    Carved many a long-forgotten name.
+    Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
+    First breathed upon this sacred ground;
+    By all that Love has whisper'd here,
+    Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
+    As Love's own altar honour me:
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXCVI
+
+_ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER_
+
+    Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+    --The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
+    Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
+    Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
+
+    But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh
+    As many do, repining while they look;
+    Intruders--who would tear from Nature's book
+    This precious leaf with harsh impiety.
+
+    --Think what the home must be if it were thine,
+    Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window,
+    door,
+    The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
+
+    The roses to the porch which they entwine:
+    Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
+    On which it should be touch'd, would melt away!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCVII
+
+_TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE_
+
+    Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+    Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
+    Twice seven consenting years have shed
+    Their utmost bounty on thy head:
+    And these gray rocks, that household lawn,
+    Those trees--a veil just half withdrawn,
+    This fall of water that doth make
+    A murmur near the silent lake,
+    This little bay, a quiet road
+    That holds in shelter thy abode;
+    In truth together ye do seem
+    Like something fashion'd in a dream;
+    Such forms as from their covert peep
+    When earthly cares are laid asleep!
+    But O fair Creature! in the light
+    Of common day, so heavenly bright,
+    I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
+    I bless thee with a human heart:
+    God shield thee to thy latest years!
+    Thee neither know I nor thy peers:
+    And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
+
+    With earnest feeling I shall pray
+    For thee when I am far away;
+    For never saw I mien or face
+    In which more plainly I could trace
+    Benignity and home-bred sense
+    Ripening in perfect innocence.
+    Here scatter'd, like a random seed,
+    Remote from men, Thou dost not need
+    The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
+    And maidenly shamefac�dness:
+    Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
+    The freedom of a Mountaineer:
+    A face with gladness overspread;
+    Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
+    And seemliness complete, that sways
+    Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
+    With no restraint, but such as springs
+    From quick and eager visitings
+    Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
+    Of thy few words of English speech:
+    A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
+    That gives thy gestures grace and life!
+    So have I, not unmoved in mind,
+    Seen birds of tempest-loving kind--
+    Thus beating up against the wind.
+
+    What hand but would a garland cull
+    For thee who art so beautiful?
+    O happy pleasure! here to dwell
+    Beside thee in some heathy dell;
+    Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
+    A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
+    But I could frame a wish for thee
+    More like a grave reality:
+    Thou art to me but as a wave
+    Of the wild sea: and I would have
+    Some claim upon thee, if I could,
+    Though but of common neighbourhood.
+    What joy to hear thee, and to see!
+    Thy elder brother I would be,
+    Thy father--anything to thee.
+
+    Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
+    Hath led me to this lonely place:
+    Joy have I had; and going hence
+    I bear away my recompence.
+    In spots like these it is we prize
+    Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
+    Then why should I be loth to stir?
+    I feel this place was made for her;
+    To give new pleasure like the past,
+    Continued long as life shall last.
+    Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
+    Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
+    For I, methinks, till I grow old
+    As fair before me shall behold
+    As I do now, the cabin small,
+    The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
+    And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCVIII
+
+_THE REAPER_
+
+    Behold her, single in the field,
+    Yon solitary Highland Lass!
+    Reaping and singing by herself;
+    Stop here, or gently pass!
+    Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
+    And sings a melancholy strain;
+    O listen! for the vale profound
+    Is overflowing with the sound.
+
+    No nightingale did ever chaunt
+    More welcome notes to weary bands
+    Of travellers in some shady haunt,
+    Among Arabian sands:
+    A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
+    In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
+    Breaking the silence of the seas
+    Among the farthest Hebrides.
+
+    Will no one tell me what she sings?
+    Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
+    For old, unhappy, far-off things,
+    And battles long ago:
+    Or is it some more humble lay,
+    Familiar matter of to-day?
+    Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
+    That has been, and may be again!
+
+    Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
+    As if her song could have no ending;
+    I saw her singing at her work,
+    And o'er the sickle bending;--
+    I listen'd, motionless and still;
+    And, as I mounted up the hill,
+    The music in my heart I bore
+    Long after it was heard no more.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCIX
+
+_THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN_
+
+    At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
+    Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
+    Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
+    In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
+
+    'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
+    A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
+    Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
+    And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
+
+    Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
+    Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
+    And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
+    The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
+
+    She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
+    The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
+    The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
+    And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCC
+
+_TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR_
+
+    Ariel to Miranda:--Take
+    This slave of music, for the sake
+    Of him, who is the slave of thee;
+    And teach it all the harmony
+    In which thou canst, and only thou,
+    Make the delighted spirit glow,
+    Till joy denies itself again
+    And, too intense, is turn'd to pain.
+    For by permission and command
+    Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
+    Poor Ariel sends this silent token
+    Of more than ever can be spoken;
+    Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
+    From life to life must still pursue
+    Your happiness, for thus alone
+    Can Ariel ever find his own.
+    From Prospero's enchanted cell,
+    As the mighty verses tell,
+    To the throne of Naples he
+    Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
+    Flitting on, your prow before,
+    Like a living meteor.
+    When you die, the silent Moon
+    In her interlunar swoon
+    Is not sadder in her cell
+    Than deserted Ariel:--
+    When you live again on earth,
+    Like an unseen Star of birth
+    Ariel guides you o'er the sea
+    Of life from your nativity:--
+    Many changes have been run
+    Since Ferdinand and you begun
+    Your course of love, and Ariel still
+    Has track'd your steps and served your will.
+    Now in humbler, happier lot,
+    This is all remember'd not;
+    And now, alas! the poor Sprite is
+    Imprison'd for some fault of his
+    In a body like a grave--
+    From you he only dares to crave,
+    For his service and his sorrow
+    A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
+
+    The artist who this idol wrought
+    To echo all harmonious thought,
+    Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
+    The woods were in their winter sleep,
+    Rock'd in that repose divine
+    On the wind-swept Apennine;
+    And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
+    And some of Spring approaching fast,
+    And some of April buds and showers,
+    And some of songs in July bowers,
+    And all of love: And so this tree,--
+    Oh that such our death may be!--
+    Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
+    To live in happier form again:
+    From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,
+    The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
+    And taught it justly to reply
+    To all who question skilfully
+    In language gentle as thine own;
+    Whispering in enamour'd tone
+    Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
+    And summer winds in sylvan cells:
+    --For it had learnt all harmonies
+    Of the plains and of the skies,
+    Of the forests and the mountains,
+    And the many-voic�d fountains;
+    The clearest echoes of the hills,
+    The softest notes of falling rills,
+    The melodies of birds and bees,
+    The murmuring of summer seas,
+    And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
+    And airs of evening; and it knew
+    That seldom-heard mysterious sound
+    Which, driven on its diurnal round,
+    As it floats through boundless day,
+    Our world enkindles on its way:
+    --All this it knows, but will not tell
+    To those who cannot question well
+    The Spirit that inhabits it;
+    It talks according to the wit
+    Of its companions; and no more
+    Is heard than has been felt before
+    By those who tempt it to betray
+    These secrets of an elder day.
+    But, sweetly as its answers will
+    Flatter hands of perfect skill,
+    It keeps its highest holiest tone
+    For our beloved Friend alone.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCI
+
+_THE DAFFODILS_
+
+    I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
+    When all at once I saw a crowd,
+    A host of golden daffodils,
+    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
+    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
+
+    Continuous as the stars that shine
+    And twinkle on the milky way,
+    They stretch'd in never-ending line
+    Along the margin of a bay:
+    Ten thousand saw I at a glance
+    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
+
+    The waves beside them danced, but they
+    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
+    A Poet could not but be gay
+    In such a jocund company!
+    I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
+    What wealth the show to me had brought;
+
+    For oft, when on my couch I lie
+    In vacant or in pensive mood,
+    They flash upon that inward eye
+    Which is the bliss of solitude;
+    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
+    And dances with the daffodils.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCII
+
+_TO THE DAISY_
+
+    With little here to do or see
+    Of things that in the great world be,
+    Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
+          For thou art worthy,
+    Thou unassuming Common-place
+    Of Nature, with that homely face,
+    And yet with something of a grace
+          Which Love makes for thee!
+
+    Oft on the dappled turf at ease
+    I sit and play with similes,
+    Loose types of things through all degrees,
+          Thoughts of thy raising;
+    And many a fond and idle name
+    I give to thee, for praise or blame
+    As is the humour of the game,
+          While I am gazing.
+
+    A nun demure, of lowly port;
+    Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
+    In thy simplicity the sport
+          Of all temptations;
+    A queen in crown of rubies drest;
+    A starveling in a scanty vest;
+    Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
+          Thy appellations.
+
+    A little Cyclops, with one eye
+    Staring to threaten and defy,
+    That thought comes next--and instantly
+          The freak is over,
+    The shape will vanish, and behold!
+    A silver shield with boss of gold
+    That spreads itself, some faery bold
+          In fight to cover.
+
+    I see thee glittering from afar--
+    And then thou art a pretty star,
+    Not quite so fair as many are
+          In heaven above thee!
+    Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
+    Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
+    May peace come never to his nest
+          Who shall reprove thee!
+
+    Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
+    When all my reveries are past
+    I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
+          Sweet silent Creature!
+    That breath'st with me in sun and air,
+    Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
+    My heart with gladness, and a share
+          Of thy meek nature!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCIII
+
+_ODE TO AUTUMN_
+
+    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
+    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
+    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
+    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
+    To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
+    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
+    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
+    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
+    And still more, later flowers for the bees,
+    Until they think warm days will never cease;
+    For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
+
+    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
+    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
+    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
+    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
+    Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
+    Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
+    Spares the next swath and all its twin�d flowers:
+    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
+    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
+    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
+    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
+
+    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
+    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
+    While barr�d clouds bloom the soft-dying day
+    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
+    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
+    Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
+    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
+    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
+    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
+    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
+    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCIV
+
+_ODE TO WINTER_
+
+_Germany, December, 1800_
+
+    When first the fiery-mantled Sun
+    His heavenly race began to run,
+    Round the earth and ocean blue
+    His children four the Seasons flew.
+      First, in green apparel dancing,
+    The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
+      Rosy Summer next advancing,
+    Rush'd into her sire's embrace--
+    Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
+      For ever nearest to his smiles,
+    On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
+      Or India's citron-cover'd isles:
+    More remote, and buxom-brown,
+      The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
+    A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
+      A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
+
+    But howling Winter fled afar
+    To hills that prop the polar star;
+    And loves on deer-borne car to ride
+    With barren darkness by his side,
+    Round the shore where loud Lofoden
+      Whirls to death the roaring whale;
+    Round the hall where Runic Odin
+      Howls his war-song to the gale;
+    Save when adown the ravaged globe
+      He travels on his native storm,
+    Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
+      And trampling on her faded form:--
+    Till light's returning Lord assume
+      The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
+    Of power to pierce his raven plume
+      And crystal-cover'd shield.
+
+    Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
+    The Lapland drum delights to hear,
+    When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
+    Implores thy dreadful deity--
+    Archangel! Power of desolation!
+      Fast descending as thou art,
+    Say, hath mortal invocation
+      Spells to touch thy stony heart?
+    Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
+    And gently rule the ruin'd year;
+    Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
+    Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
+    To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
+      Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
+    And gently on the orphan head
+      Of Innocence descend.
+
+    But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
+    The sailor on his airy shrouds,
+    When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
+    And spectres walk along the deep.
+    Milder yet thy snowy breezes
+      Pour on yonder tented shores,
+    Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
+      Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
+    Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there
+      To many a deep and dying groan?
+    Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
+      At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
+    Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath
+      May spare the victim fallen low;
+    But Man will ask no truce to death,--
+      No bounds to human woe.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCV
+
+_YARROW UNVISITED_
+
+_1803_
+
+    From Stirling Castle we had seen
+    The mazy Forth unravell'd,
+    Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
+    And with the Tweed had travell'd;
+    And when we came to Clovenford,
+    Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
+    'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
+    And see the Braes of Yarrow.'
+
+    'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
+    Who have been buying, selling,
+    Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
+    Each maiden to her dwelling!
+    On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
+    Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;
+    But we will downward with the Tweed,
+    Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
+
+    'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,
+    Both lying right before us;
+    And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
+    The lintwhites sing in chorus;
+    There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
+    Made blithe with plough and harrow:
+    Why throw away a needful day
+    To go in search of Yarrow?
+
+    'What's Yarrow but a river bare
+    That glides the dark hills under?
+    There are a thousand such elsewhere
+    As worthy of your wonder.'
+    --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
+    My True-love sigh'd for sorrow,
+    And look'd me in the face, to think
+    I thus could speak of Yarrow!
+
+    'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,
+    And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
+    Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
+    But we will leave it growing.
+    O'er hilly path and open strath
+    We'll wander Scotland thorough;
+    But, though so near, we will not turn
+    Into the dale of Yarrow.
+
+    'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
+    The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
+    The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
+    Float double, swan and shadow!
+    We will not see them; will not go
+    To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
+    Enough if in our hearts we know
+    There's such a place as Yarrow.
+
+    'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
+    It must, or we shall rue it:
+    We have a vision of our own,
+    Ah! why should we undo it?
+    The treasured dreams of times long past,
+    We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
+    For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
+    'Twill be another Yarrow!
+
+    'If Care with freezing years should come
+    And wandering seem but folly,--
+    Should we be loth to stir from home,
+    And yet be melancholy;
+    Should life be dull, and spirits low,
+    'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
+    That earth has something yet to show,
+    The bonny holms of Yarrow!'
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCVI
+
+_YARROW VISITED_
+
+_September, 1814_
+
+    And is this--Yarrow?--This the stream
+    Of which my fancy cherish'd
+    So faithfully, a waking dream,
+    An image that hath perish'd?
+    O that some minstrel's harp were near
+    To utter notes of gladness
+    And chase this silence from the air,
+    That fills my heart with sadness!
+
+    Yet why?--a silvery current flows
+    With uncontroll'd meanderings;
+    Nor have these eyes by greener hills
+    Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
+    And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
+    Is visibly delighted;
+    For not a feature of those hills
+    Is in the mirror slighted.
+
+    A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
+    Save where that pearly whiteness
+    Is round the rising sun diffused,
+    A tender hazy brightness;
+    Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
+    All profitless dejection;
+    Though not unwilling here to admit
+    A pensive recollection.
+
+    Where was it that the famous Flower
+    Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
+    His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
+    On which the herd is feeding:
+    And haply from this crystal pool,
+    Now peaceful as the morning,
+    The Water-wraith ascended thrice,
+    And gave his doleful warning.
+
+    Delicious is the lay that sings
+    The haunts of happy lovers,
+    The path that leads them to the grove,
+    The leafy grove that covers:
+    And pity sanctifies the verse
+    That paints, by strength of sorrow,
+    The unconquerable strength of love;
+    Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
+
+    But thou that didst appear so fair
+    To fond imagination,
+    Dost rival in the light of day
+    Her delicate creation:
+    Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
+    A softness still and holy:
+    The grace of forest charms decay'd,
+    And pastoral melancholy.
+
+    That region left, the vale unfolds
+    Rich groves of lofty stature,
+    With Yarrow winding through the pomp
+    Of cultivated nature;
+    And rising from those lofty groves
+    Behold a ruin hoary,
+    The shatter'd front of Newark's towers,
+    Renown'd in Border story.
+
+    Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
+    For sportive youth to stray in,
+    For manhood to enjoy his strength,
+    And age to wear away in!
+    Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
+    A covert for protection
+    Of tender thoughts that nestle there--
+    The brood of chaste affection.
+
+    How sweet on this autumnal day
+    The wild-wood fruits to gather,
+    And on my True-love's forehead plant
+    A crest of blooming heather!
+    And what if I enwreathed my own?
+    'Twere no offence to reason;
+    The sober hills thus deck their brows
+    To meet the wintry season.
+
+    I see--but not by sight alone,
+    Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
+    A ray of Fancy still survives--
+    Her sunshine plays upon thee!
+    Thy ever-youthful waters keep
+    A course of lively pleasure;
+    And gladsome notes my lips can breathe
+    Accordant to the measure.
+
+    The vapours linger round the heights,
+    They melt, and soon must vanish;
+    One hour is theirs, nor more is mine--
+    Sad thought! which I would banish,
+    But that I know, where'er I go,
+    Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
+    Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,
+    And cheer my mind in sorrow.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCVII
+
+_THE INVITATION_
+
+    Best and brightest, come away,--
+    Fairer far than this fair Day,
+    Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
+    Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
+    To the rough year just awake
+    In its cradle on the brake.
+    The brightest hour of unborn Spring
+    Through the winter wandering,
+    Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
+    To hoar February born;
+    Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,
+    It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,
+    And smiled upon the silent sea,
+    And bade the frozen streams be free,
+    And waked to music all their fountains,
+    And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
+    And like a prophetess of May
+    Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
+    Making the wintry world appear
+    Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
+
+      Away, away, from men and towns,
+    To the wild wood and the downs--
+    To the silent wilderness
+    Where the soul need not repress
+    Its music, lest it should not find
+    An echo in another's mind,
+    While the touch of Nature's art
+    Harmonizes heart to heart.
+
+      Radiant Sister of the Day
+    Awake! arise! and come away!
+    To the wild woods and the plains,
+    To the pools where winter rains
+    Image all their roof of leaves,
+    Where the pine its garland weaves
+    Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
+    Round stems that never kiss the sun;
+    Where the lawns and pastures be
+    And the sandhills of the sea;
+    Where the melting hoar-frost wets
+    The daisy-star that never sets,
+    And wind-flowers and violets
+    Which yet join not scent to hue
+    Crown the pale year weak and new;
+    When the night is left behind
+    In the deep east, dim and blind,
+    And the blue noon is over us,
+    And the multitudinous
+    Billows murmur at our feet,
+    Where the earth and ocean meet,
+    And all things seem only one
+    In the universal Sun.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCVIII
+
+_THE RECOLLECTION_
+
+    Now the last day of many days
+    All beautiful and bright as thou,
+    The loveliest and the last, is dead:
+    Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
+    Up--to thy wonted work! come, trace
+    The epitaph of glory fled,
+    For now the earth has changed its face,
+    A frown is on the heaven's brow.
+
+    We wander'd to the Pine Forest
+      That skirts the Ocean's foam;
+    The lightest wind was in its nest,
+      The tempest in its home.
+    The whispering waves were half asleep,
+      The clouds were gone to play,
+    And on the bosom of the deep
+      The smile of heaven lay;
+    It seem'd as if the hour were one
+      Sent from beyond the skies
+    Which scatter'd from above the sun
+      A light of Paradise!
+
+    We paused amid the pines that stood
+      The giants of the waste,
+    Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
+      As serpents interlaced,--
+    And soothed by every azure breath
+      That under heaven is blown,
+    To harmonies and hues beneath,
+      As tender as its own:
+    Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
+      Like green waves on the sea,
+    As still as in the silent deep
+      The ocean-woods may be.
+
+    How calm it was!--The silence there
+      By such a chain was bound,
+    That even the busy woodpecker
+      Made stiller with her sound
+    The inviolable quietness;
+      The breath of peace we drew
+    With its soft motion made not less
+      The calm that round us grew.
+    There seem'd, from the remotest seat
+      Of the white mountain waste
+    To the soft flower beneath our feet,
+      A magic circle traced,--
+    A spirit interfused around,
+      A thrilling silent life;
+    To momentary peace it bound
+      Our mortal nature's strife;--
+    And still I felt the centre of
+      The magic circle there
+    Was one fair form that fill'd with love
+      The lifeless atmosphere.
+
+    We paused beside the pools that lie
+      Under the forest bough;
+    Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky
+      Gulf'd in a world below;
+    A firmament of purple light
+      Which in the dark earth lay,
+    More boundless than the depth of night
+      And purer than the day--
+    In which the lovely forests grew
+      As in the upper air,
+    More perfect both in shape and hue
+      Than any spreading there.
+    There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
+      And through the dark-green wood
+    The white sun twinkling like the dawn
+      Out of a speckled cloud.
+    Sweet views which in our world above
+      Can never well be seen
+    Were imaged in the water's love
+      Of that fair forest green:
+    And all was interfused beneath
+      With an Elysian glow,
+    An atmosphere without a breath,
+      A softer day below.
+    Like one beloved, the scene had lent
+      To the dark water's breast
+    Its every leaf and lineament
+      With more than truth exprest;
+    Until an envious wind crept by,
+      Like an unwelcome thought
+    Which from the mind's too faithful eye
+      Blots one dear image out.
+    --Though thou art ever fair and kind,
+      The forests ever green,
+    Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind
+      Than calm in waters seen!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCIX
+
+_BY THE SEA_
+
+    It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
+    The holy time is quiet as a Nun
+    Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
+    Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
+
+    The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
+    Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
+    And doth with his eternal motion make
+    A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
+
+    Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
+    If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
+    Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
+
+    Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
+    And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
+    God being with thee when we know it not.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCX
+
+_SONG TO THE EVENING STAR_
+
+    Star that bringest home the bee,
+    And sett'st the weary labourer free!
+    If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
+      That send'st it from above,
+    Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
+      Are sweet as hers we love.
+
+    Come to the luxuriant skies,
+    Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
+    Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
+      And songs when toil is done,
+    From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
+      Curls yellow in the sun.
+
+    Star of love's soft interviews,
+    Parted lovers on thee muse;
+    Their remembrancer in Heaven
+      Of thrilling vows thou art,
+    Too delicious to be riven
+      By absence from the heart.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXI
+
+_DATUR HORA QUIETI_
+
+    The sun upon the lake is low,
+      The wild birds hush their song,
+    The hills have evening's deepest glow,
+      Yet Leonard tarries long.
+    Now all whom varied toil and care
+      From home and love divide,
+    In the calm sunset may repair
+      Each to the loved one's side.
+
+    The noble dame, on turret high,
+      Who waits her gallant knight,
+    Looks to the western beam to spy
+      The flash of armour bright.
+    The village maid, with hand on brow
+      The level ray to shade,
+    Upon the footpath watches now
+      For Colin's darkening plaid.
+
+    Now to their mates the wild swans row,
+      By day they swam apart,
+    And to the thicket wanders slow
+      The hind beside the hart.
+    The woodlark at his partner's side
+      Twitters his closing song--
+    All meet whom day and care divide,
+      But Leonard tarries long!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCCXII
+
+_TO THE MOON_
+
+        Art thou pale for weariness
+      Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
+        Wandering companionless
+      Among the stars that have a different birth,--
+    And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
+    That finds no object worth its constancy?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXIII
+
+_TO SLEEP_
+
+    A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+    One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
+    Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
+    Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:
+
+    I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
+    Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
+    Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
+    And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
+
+    Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
+    And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
+    So do not let me wear to-night away:
+
+    Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
+    Come, bless�d barrier between day and day,
+    Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXIV
+
+_THE SOLDIER'S DREAM_
+
+    Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
+      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
+    And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
+      The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
+
+    When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
+      By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
+    At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
+      And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
+
+    Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
+      Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:
+    'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way
+      To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
+
+    I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
+      In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
+    I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
+      And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
+
+    Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
+      From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
+    My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
+      And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
+
+    'Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!'--
+      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;--
+    But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
+      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXV
+
+_A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN_
+
+    I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way
+      Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
+    And gentle odours led my steps astray,
+      Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
+    Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
+      Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
+    Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
+    But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.
+
+    There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
+      Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
+    The constellated flower that never sets;
+      Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
+    The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
+    Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
+    When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
+
+    And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
+      Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,
+    And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
+      Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;
+    And wild roses, and ivy serpentine
+      With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
+    And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,
+    Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
+
+    And nearer to the river's trembling edge
+      There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,
+    And starry river-buds among the sedge,
+      And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
+    Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
+      With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
+    And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
+    As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
+
+    Methought that of these visionary flowers
+      I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
+    That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
+      Were mingled or opposed, the like array
+    Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
+      Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay,
+    I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come
+    That I might there present it--O! to Whom?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXVI
+
+_KUBLA KHAN_
+
+    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
+    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
+    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
+    Through caverns measureless to man
+      Down to a sunless sea.
+    So twice five miles of fertile ground
+    With walls and towers were girdled round:
+    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
+    Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;
+    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
+    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
+
+      But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
+    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
+    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
+    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
+    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
+    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
+    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
+    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
+    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
+    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail.
+    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
+    And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
+    It flung up momently the sacred river.
+    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
+    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
+    Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
+    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
+    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
+    Ancestral voices prophesying war!
+
+        The shadow of the dome of pleasure
+      Floated midway on the waves;
+      Where was heard the mingled measure
+      From the fountain and the caves.
+    It was a miracle of rare device,
+    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
+      A damsel with a dulcimer
+      In a vision once I saw:
+      It was an Abyssinian maid,
+      And on her dulcimer she play'd,
+      Singing of Mount Abora.
+      Could I revive within me
+      Her symphony and song,
+    To such a deep delight 'twould win me
+    That with music loud and long,
+    I would build that dome in air,
+    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
+    And all who heard should see them there,
+    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
+    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
+    Weave a circle round him thrice,
+    And close your eyes with holy dread,
+    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
+    And drunk the milk of Paradise.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCCXVII
+
+_THE INNER VISION_
+
+    Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+    To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
+    While a fair region round the traveller lies
+    Which he forbears again to look upon;
+
+    Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
+    The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
+    Of meditation, slipping in between
+    The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
+
+    --If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
+    Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
+    With Thought and Love companions of our way--
+
+    Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,--
+    The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
+    Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXVIII
+
+_THE REALM OF FANCY_
+
+    Ever let the Fancy roam;
+    Pleasure never is at home:
+    At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
+    Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
+    Then let wing�d Fancy wander
+    Through the thought still spread beyond her:
+    Open wide the mind's cage-door,
+    She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
+    O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+    Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
+    And the enjoying of the Spring
+    Fades as does its blossoming;
+    Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
+    Blushing through the mist and dew,
+    Cloys with tasting: What do then?
+    Sit thee by the ingle, when
+    The sear faggot blazes bright,
+    Spirit of a winter's night;
+    When the soundless earth is muffled,
+    And the cak�d snow is shuffled
+    From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
+    When the Night doth meet the Noon
+    In a dark conspiracy
+    To banish Even from her sky.
+    Sit thee there, and send abroad,
+    With a mind self-overaw'd,
+    Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!
+    She has vassals to attend her:
+    She will bring, in spite of frost,
+    Beauties that the earth hath lost;
+    She will bring thee, all together,
+    All delights of summer weather;
+    All the buds and bells of May,
+    From dewy sward or thorny spray;
+    All the heap�d Autumn's wealth,
+    With a still, mysterious stealth:
+    She will mix these pleasures up
+    Like three fit wines in a cup,
+    And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear
+    Distant harvest-carols clear;
+    Rustle of the reap�d corn;
+    Sweet birds antheming the morn:
+    And, in the same moment--hark!
+    'Tis the early April lark,
+    Or the rooks, with busy caw,
+    Foraging for sticks and straw.
+    Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
+    The daisy and the marigold;
+    White-plumed lilies, and the first
+    Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
+    Shaded hyacinth, alway
+    Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
+    And every leaf, and every flower
+    Pearl�d with the self-same shower.
+    Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
+    Meagre from its cell�d sleep;
+    And the snake all winter-thin
+    Cast on sunny bank its skin;
+    Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
+    Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
+    When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
+    Quiet on her mossy nest;
+    Then the hurry and alarm
+    When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
+    Acorns ripe down-pattering,
+    While the autumn breezes sing.
+
+      Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+    Everything is spoilt by use:
+    Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
+    Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
+    Whose lip mature is ever new?
+    Where's the eye, however blue,
+    Doth not weary? Where's the face
+    One would meet in every place?
+    Where's the voice, however soft,
+    One would hear so very oft?
+    At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
+    Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
+    Let then wing�d Fancy find
+    Thee a mistress to thy mind:
+    Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
+    Ere the God of Torment taught her
+    How to frown and how to chide;
+    With a waist and with a side
+    White as Hebe's, when her zone
+    Slipt its golden clasp, and down
+    Fell her kirtle to her feet,
+    While she held the goblet sweet,
+    And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh
+    Of the Fancy's silken leash;
+    Quickly break her prison-string,
+    And such joys as these she'll bring.
+    --Let the wing�d Fancy roam,
+    Pleasure never is at home.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXIX
+
+_WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING_
+
+    I heard a thousand blended notes
+    While in a grove I sate reclined,
+    In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
+    Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
+
+    To her fair works did Nature link
+    The human soul that through me ran;
+    And much it grieved my heart to think
+    What Man has made of Man.
+
+    Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
+    The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
+    And 'tis my faith that every flower
+    Enjoys the air it breathes.
+
+    The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
+    Their thoughts I cannot measure,--
+    But the least motion which they made
+    It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
+
+    The budding twigs spread out their fan
+    To catch the breezy air;
+    And I must think, do all I can,
+    That there was pleasure there.
+
+    If this belief from heaven be sent,
+    If such be Nature's holy plan,
+    Have I not reason to lament
+    What Man has made of Man?
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXX
+
+_RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE_
+
+    When Ruth was left half desolate
+    Her father took another mate;
+    And Ruth, not seven years old,
+    A slighted child, at her own will
+    Went wandering over dale and hill,
+    In thoughtless freedom, bold.
+
+    And she had made a pipe of straw,
+    And music from that pipe could draw
+    Like sounds of winds and floods;
+    Had built a bower upon the green,
+    As if she from her birth had been
+    An infant of the woods.
+
+    Beneath her father's roof, alone
+    She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;
+    Herself her own delight:
+    Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay;
+    And passing thus the live-long day,
+    She grew to woman's height.
+
+    There came a youth from Georgia's shore--
+    A military casque he wore
+    With splendid feathers drest;
+    He brought them from the Cherokees;
+    The feathers nodded in the breeze
+    And made a gallant crest.
+
+    From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
+    But no! he spake the English tongue
+    And bore a soldier's name;
+    And, when America was free
+    From battle and from jeopardy,
+    He 'cross the ocean came.
+
+    With hues of genius on his cheek,
+    In finest tones the youth could speak:
+    --While he was yet a boy
+    The moon, the glory of the sun,
+    And streams that murmur as they run
+    Had been his dearest joy.
+
+    He was a lovely youth! I guess
+    The panther in the wilderness
+    Was not so fair as he;
+    And when he chose to sport and play,
+    No dolphin ever was so gay
+    Upon the tropic sea.
+
+    Among the Indians he had fought;
+    And with him many tales he brought
+    Of pleasure and of fear;
+    Such tales as, told to any maid
+    By such a youth, in the green shade,
+    Were perilous to hear.
+
+    He told of girls, a happy rout!
+    Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
+    Their pleasant Indian town,
+    To gather strawberries all day long;
+    Returning with a choral song
+    When daylight is gone down.
+
+    He spake of plants that hourly change
+    Their blossoms, through a boundless range
+    Of intermingling hues;
+    With budding, fading, faded flowers,
+    They stand the wonder of the bowers
+    From morn to evening dews.
+
+    He told of the magnolia, spread
+    High as a cloud, high over head!
+    The cypress and her spire;
+    --Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
+    Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
+    To set the hills on fire.
+
+    The youth of green savannahs spake,
+    And many an endless, endless lake
+    With all its fairy crowds
+    Of islands, that together lie
+    As quietly as spots of sky
+    Among the evening clouds.
+
+    'How pleasant,' then he said, 'it were
+    A fisher or a hunter there,
+    In sunshine or in shade
+    To wander with an easy mind,
+    And build a household fire, and find
+    A home in every glade!
+
+    'What days and what bright years! Ah me!
+    Our life were life indeed, with thee
+    So pass'd in quiet bliss;
+    And all the while,' said he, 'to know
+    That we were in a world of woe,
+    On such an earth as this!'
+
+    And then he sometimes interwove
+    Fond thoughts about a father's love,
+    'For there,' said he, 'are spun
+    Around the heart such tender ties,
+    That our own children to our eyes
+    Are dearer than the sun.
+
+    'Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
+    My helpmate in the woods to be,
+    Our shed at night to rear;
+    Or run, my own adopted bride,
+    A sylvan huntress at my side,
+    And drive the flying deer!
+
+    'Beloved Ruth!'--No more he said,
+    The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
+    A solitary tear:
+    She thought again--and did agree
+    With him to sail across the sea,
+    And drive the flying deer.
+
+    'And now, as fitting is and right,
+    We in the church our faith will plight,
+    A husband and a wife.'
+    Even so they did; and I may say
+    That to sweet Ruth that happy day
+    Was more than human life.
+
+    Through dream and vision did she sink,
+    Delighted all the while to think
+    That, on those lonesome floods
+    And green savannahs, she should share
+    His board with lawful joy, and bear
+    His name in the wild woods.
+
+    But, as you have before been told,
+    This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
+    And with his dancing crest
+    So beautiful, through savage lands
+    Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands
+    Of Indians in the West.
+
+    The wind, the tempest roaring high,
+    The tumult of a tropic sky
+    Might well be dangerous food
+    For him, a youth to whom was given
+    So much of earth--so much of heaven,
+    And such impetuous blood.
+
+    Whatever in those climes he found
+    Irregular in sight or sound
+    Did to his mind impart
+    A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
+    To his own powers, and justified
+    The workings of his heart.
+
+    Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
+    The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,--
+    Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
+    The breezes their own languor lent;
+    The stars had feelings, which they sent
+    Into those favour'd bowers.
+
+    Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
+    That sometimes there did intervene
+    Pure hopes of high intent:
+    For passions link'd to forms so fair
+    And stately, needs must have their share
+    Of noble sentiment.
+
+    But ill he lived, much evil saw,
+    With men to whom no better law
+    Nor better life was known;
+    Deliberately and undeceived
+    Those wild men's vices he received,
+    And gave them back his own.
+
+    His genius and his moral frame
+    Were thus impair'd, and he became
+    The slave of low desires:
+    A man who without self-control
+    Would seek what the degraded soul
+    Unworthily admires.
+
+    And yet he with no feign'd delight
+    Had woo'd the maiden, day and night
+    Had loved her, night and morn:
+    What could he less than love a maid
+    Whose heart with so much nature play'd--
+    So kind and so forlorn?
+
+    Sometimes most earnestly he said,
+    'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
+    False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
+    Encompass'd me on every side
+    When I, in confidence and pride,
+    Had cross'd the Atlantic main.
+
+    'Before me shone a glorious world
+    Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd
+    To music suddenly:
+    I look'd upon those hills and plains,
+    And seem'd as if let loose from chains
+    To live at liberty!
+
+    'No more of this--for now, by thee,
+    Dear Ruth! more happily set free,
+    With nobler zeal I burn;
+    My soul from darkness is released
+    Like the whole sky when to the east
+    The morning doth return.'
+
+    Full soon that better mind was gone;
+    No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,--
+    They stirr'd him now no more;
+    New objects did new pleasure give,
+    And once again he wish'd to live
+    As lawless as before.
+
+    Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
+    They for the voyage were prepared,
+    And went to the sea-shore:
+    But, when they thither came, the youth
+    Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
+    Could never find him more.
+
+    God help thee, Ruth!--Such pains she had
+    That she in half a year was mad
+    And in a prison housed;
+    And there, with many a doleful song
+    Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
+    She fearfully caroused.
+
+    Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
+    Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
+    Nor pastimes of the May,
+    --They all were with her in her cell;
+    And a clear brook with cheerful knell
+    Did o'er the pebbles play.
+
+    When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
+    There came a respite to her pain;
+    She from her prison fled;
+    But of the Vagrant none took thought;
+    And where it liked her best she sought
+    Her shelter and her bread.
+
+    Among the fields she breathed again:
+    The master-current of her brain
+    Ran permanent and free;
+    And, coming to the banks of Tone,
+    There did she rest; and dwell alone
+    Under the greenwood tree.
+
+    The engines of her pain, the tools
+    That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
+    And airs that gently stir
+    The vernal leaves--she loved them still,
+    Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
+    Which had been done to her.
+
+    A barn her Winter bed supplies;
+    But, till the warmth of Summer skies
+    And Summer days is gone,
+    (And all do in this tale agree)
+    She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
+    And other home hath none.
+
+    An innocent life, yet far astray!
+    And Ruth will, long before her day,
+    Be broken down and old.
+    Sore aches she needs must have! but less
+    Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
+    From damp, and rain, and cold.
+
+    If she is prest by want of food
+    She from her dwelling in the wood
+    Repairs to a road-side;
+    And there she begs at one steep place,
+    Where up and down with easy pace
+    The horsemen-travellers ride.
+
+    That oaten pipe of hers is mute
+    Or thrown away: but with a flute
+    Her loneliness she cheers;
+    This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
+    At evening in his homeward walk
+    The Quantock woodman hears.
+
+    I, too, have pass'd her on the hills
+    Setting her little water-mills
+    By spouts and fountains wild--
+    Such small machinery as she turn'd
+    Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,--
+    A young and happy child!
+
+    Farewell! and when thy days are told,
+    Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould
+    Thy corpse shall buried be;
+    For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
+    And all the congregation sing
+    A Christian psalm for thee.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXI
+
+_WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS_
+
+    Many a green isle needs must be
+    In the deep wide sea of Misery,
+    Or the mariner, worn and wan,
+    Never thus could voyage on
+    Day and night, and night and day,
+    Drifting on his dreary way,
+    With the solid darkness black
+    Closing round his vessel's track;
+    Whilst above, the sunless sky
+    Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
+    And behind the tempest fleet
+    Hurries on with lightning feet,
+    Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
+    Till the ship has almost drank
+    Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
+    And sinks down, down, like that sleep
+    When the dreamer seems to be
+    Weltering through eternity;
+    And the dim low line before
+    Of a dark and distant shore
+    Still recedes, as ever still
+    Longing with divided will,
+    But no power to seek or shun,
+    He is ever drifted on
+    O'er the unreposing wave,
+    To the haven of the grave.
+
+      Ah, many flowering islands lie
+    In the waters of wide Agony:
+    To such a one this morn was led
+    My bark, by soft winds piloted.
+    --'Mid the mountains Euganean
+    I stood listening to the paean
+    With which the legion'd rooks did hail
+    The Sun's uprise majestical:
+    Gathering round with wings all hoar,
+    Through the dewy mist they soar
+    Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
+    Bursts; and then,--as clouds of even
+    Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
+    In the unfathomable sky,--
+    So their plumes of purple grain
+    Starr'd with drops of golden rain
+    Gleam above the sunlight woods,
+    As in silent multitudes
+    On the morning's fitful gale
+    Through the broken mist they sail;
+    And the vapours cloven and gleaming
+    Follow down the dark steep streaming,
+    Till all is bright, and clear, and still
+    Round the solitary hill.
+
+      Beneath is spread like a green sea
+    The waveless plain of Lombardy,
+    Bounded by the vaporous air,
+    Islanded by cities fair;
+    Underneath Day's azure eyes,
+    Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,--
+    A peopled labyrinth of walls,
+    Amphitrite's destined halls,
+    Which her hoary sire now paves
+    With his blue and beaming waves.
+    Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
+    Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
+    On the level quivering line
+    Of the waters crystalline;
+    And before that chasm of light,
+    As within a furnace bright,
+    Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
+    Shine like obelisks of fire,
+    Pointing with inconstant motion
+    From the altar of dark ocean
+    To the sapphire-tinted skies;
+    As the flames of sacrifice
+    From the marble shrines did rise
+    As to pierce the dome of gold
+    Where Apollo spoke of old.
+
+      Sun-girt City! thou hast been
+    Ocean's child, and then his queen;
+    Now is come a darker day,
+    And thou soon must be his prey,
+    If the power that raised thee here
+    Hallow so thy watery bier.
+    A less drear ruin then than now,
+    With thy conquest-branded brow
+    Stooping to the slave of slaves
+    From thy throne among the waves
+    Wilt thou be,--when the sea-mew
+    Flies, as once before if flew,
+    O'er thine isles depopulate,
+    And all is in its ancient state,
+    Save where many a palace-gate
+    With green sea-flowers overgrown
+    Like a rock of ocean's own,
+    Topples o'er the abandon'd sea
+    As the tides change sullenly.
+    The fisher on his watery way
+    Wandering at the close of day,
+    Will spread his sail and seize his oar
+    Till he pass the gloomy shore,
+    Lest thy dead should, from their sleep,
+    Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
+    Lead a rapid masque of death
+    O'er the waters of his path.
+
+      Noon descends around me now:
+    'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
+    When a soft and purple mist
+    Like a vaporous amethyst,
+    Or an air-dissolv�d star
+    Mingling light and fragrance, far
+    From the curved horizon's bound
+    To the point of heaven's profound,
+    Fills the overflowing sky;
+    And the plains that silent lie
+    Underneath; the leaves unsodden
+    Where the infant Frost has trodden
+    With his morning-wing�d feet
+    Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
+    And the red and golden vines
+    Piercing with their trellised lines
+    The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
+    The dun and bladed grass no less,
+    Pointing from this hoary tower
+    In the windless air; the flower
+    Glimmering at my feet; the line
+    Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine
+    In the south dimly islanded;
+    And the Alps, whose snows are spread
+    High between the clouds and sun;
+    And of living things each one;
+    And my spirit, which so long
+    Darken'd this swift stream of song,--
+    Interpenetrated lie
+    By the glory of the sky;
+    Be it love, light, harmony,
+    Odour, or the soul of all
+    Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
+    Or the mind which feeds this verse,
+    Peopling the lone universe.
+
+      Noon descends, and after noon
+    Autumn's evening meets me soon,
+    Leading the infantine moon
+    And that one star, which to her
+    Almost seems to minister
+    Half the crimson light she brings
+    From the sunset's radiant springs:
+    And the soft dreams of the morn
+    (Which like wing�d winds had borne
+    To that silent isle, which lies
+    'Mid remember'd agonies,
+    The frail bark of this lone being),
+    Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
+    And its ancient pilot, Pain,
+    Sits beside the helm again.
+
+      Other flowering isles must be
+    In the sea of Life and Agony:
+    Other spirits float and flee
+    O'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps,
+    On some rock the wild wave wraps,
+    With folded wings they waiting sit
+    For my bark, to pilot it
+    To some calm and blooming cove;
+    Where for me, and those I love,
+    May a windless bower be built,
+    Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
+    In a dell 'mid lawny hills
+    Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
+    And soft sunshine, and the sound
+    Of old forests echoing round,
+    And the light and smell divine
+    Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
+    --We may live so happy there,
+    That the Spirits of the Air
+    Envying us, may ev'n entice
+    To our healing paradise
+    The polluting multitude:
+    But their rage would be subdued
+    By that clime divine and calm,
+    And the winds whose wings rain balm
+    On the uplifted soul, and leaves
+    Under which the bright sea heaves;
+    While each breathless interval
+    In their whisperings musical
+    The inspired soul supplies
+    With its own deep melodies;
+    And the Love which heals all strife
+    Circling, like the breath of life,
+    All things in that sweet abode
+    With its own mild brotherhood:--
+    They, not it, would change; and soon
+    Every sprite beneath the moon
+    Would repent its envy vain,
+    And the Earth grow young again.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXII
+
+_ODE TO THE WEST WIND_
+
+    O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
+    Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
+    Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
+    Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
+    Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
+    Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
+    The wing�d seeds, where they lie cold and low,
+    Each like a corpse within its grave, until
+    Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
+    Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
+    (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
+    With living hues and odours plain and hill:
+    Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
+    Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!
+
+      Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
+    Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
+    Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
+    Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
+    On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
+    Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
+    Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
+    Of the horizon to the zenith's height--
+    The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
+    Of the dying year, to which this closing night
+    Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
+    Vaulted with all thy congregated might
+    Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
+    Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!
+
+      Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
+    The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
+    Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
+    Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
+    And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
+    Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
+    All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
+    So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
+    For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
+    Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
+    The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
+    The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
+    Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
+    And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!
+
+      If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
+    If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
+    A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
+    The impulse of thy strength, only less free
+    Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even
+    I were as in my boyhood, and could be
+    The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
+    As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
+    Scarce seem'd a vision,--I would ne'er have striven
+    As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
+    Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
+    I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
+    A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
+    One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud.
+
+      Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
+    What if my leaves are falling like its own!
+    The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
+    Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
+    Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
+    My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
+    Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
+    Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
+    And, by the incantation of this verse,
+    Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
+    Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
+    Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
+    The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
+    If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXIII
+
+_NATURE AND THE POET_
+
+_Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir
+George Beaumont_
+
+    I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+    Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
+    I saw thee every day; and all the while
+    Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
+
+    So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
+    So like, so very like, was day to day!
+    Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
+    It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
+
+    How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
+    No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
+    I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
+    Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
+
+    Ah! then--if mine had been the painter's hand
+    To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
+    The light that never was on sea or land,
+    The consecration, and the Poet's dream,--
+
+    I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,
+    Amid a world how different from this!
+    Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
+    On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
+
+    Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine
+    Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;--
+    Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
+    The very sweetest had to thee been given.
+
+    A picture had it been of lasting ease,
+    Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
+    No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;
+    Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
+
+    Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
+    Such picture would I at that time have made;
+    And seen the soul of truth in every part,
+    A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.
+
+    So once it would have been,--'tis so no more;
+    I have submitted to a new control:
+    A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
+    A deep distress hath humanized my soul.
+
+    Not for a moment could I now behold
+    A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
+    The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
+    This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
+
+    Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend
+    If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
+    This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
+    This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
+
+    O 'tis a passionate work!--yet wise and well,
+    Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
+    That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
+    This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
+
+    And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
+    I love to see the look with which it braves,
+    --Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time--
+    The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
+
+    --Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
+    Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
+    Such happiness, wherever it be known,
+    Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
+
+    But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
+    And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
+    Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:--
+    Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXIV
+
+_THE POET'S DREAM_
+
+    On a Poet's lips I slept
+    Dreaming like a love-adept
+    In the sound his breathing kept;
+    Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
+    But feeds on the a�rial kisses
+    Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.
+    He will watch from dawn to gloom
+    The lake-reflected sun illume
+    The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
+      Nor heed nor see what things they be--
+    But from these create he can
+    Forms more real than living Man,
+      Nurslings of Immortality!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXV
+
+_GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN_
+
+    In this still place, remote from men,
+    Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;
+    In this still place, where murmurs on
+    But one meek streamlet, only one:
+    He sang of battles, and the breath
+    Of stormy war, and violent death;
+    And should, methinks, when all was past,
+    Have rightfully been laid at last
+    Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent
+    As by a spirit turbulent;
+    Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
+    And everything unreconciled;
+    In some complaining, dim retreat,
+    For fear and melancholy meet;
+    But this is calm; there cannot be
+    A more entire tranquillity.
+
+      Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
+    Or is it but a groundless creed?
+    What matters it?--I blame them not
+    Whose fancy in this lonely spot
+    Was moved; and in such way express'd
+    Their notion of its perfect rest.
+    A convent, even a hermit's cell,
+    Would break the silence of this Dell:
+    It is not quiet, is not ease;
+    But something deeper far than these;
+    The separation that is here
+    Is of the grave; and of austere
+    Yet happy feelings of the dead:
+    And, therefore, was it rightly said
+    That Ossian, last of all his race!
+    Lies buried in this lonely place.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVI
+
+    The World is too much with us; late and soon,
+    Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
+    Little we see in Nature that is ours;
+    We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
+
+    This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
+    The winds that will be howling at all hours
+    And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
+    For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
+
+    It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
+    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,--
+    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
+
+    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
+    Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
+    Or hear old Triton blow his wreath�d horn.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVII
+
+_WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE_
+
+    Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
+    With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
+    (Albeit labouring for a scanty band
+    Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense
+
+    And glorious work of fine intelligence!
+    --Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
+    Of nicely-calculated less or more:--
+    So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
+
+    These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
+    Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
+    Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
+
+    Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die;
+    Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
+    That they were born for immortality.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVIII
+
+_ODE ON A GRECIAN URN_
+
+    Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
+      Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
+    Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
+      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
+    What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
+      Of deities or mortals, or of both,
+        In Temp� or the dales of Arcady?
+    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
+      What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
+        What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
+
+    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
+      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
+    Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
+      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
+    Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
+      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
+        Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
+    Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
+      She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
+        For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
+
+    Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
+      Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
+    And, happy melodist, unweari�d,
+      For ever piping songs for ever new;
+    More happy love! more happy, happy love!
+      For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
+        For ever panting, and for ever young;
+    All breathing human passion far above,
+      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
+        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
+
+    Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
+      To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
+    Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
+      And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
+    What little town by river or sea shore,
+      Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
+        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
+    And, little town, thy streets for evermore
+      Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
+        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
+
+    O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
+      Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
+    With forest branches and the trodden weed;
+      Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
+    As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
+      When old age shall this generation waste,
+        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
+    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
+      'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'--that is all
+        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXXIX
+
+_YOUTH AND AGE_
+
+    Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
+    Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee--
+    Both were mine! Life went a-maying
+          With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
+                When I was young!
+    When I was young?--Ah, woful when!
+    Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
+    This breathing house not built with hands,
+    This body that does me grievous wrong,
+    O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
+    How lightly then it flash'd along:
+    Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
+    On winding lakes and rivers wide,
+    That ask no aid of sail or oar,
+    That fear no spite of wind or tide!
+    Nought cared this body for wind or weather
+    When Youth and I lived in't together.
+
+      Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
+    Friendship is a sheltering tree;
+    O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
+    Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
+                Ere I was old!
+    Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
+    Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
+    O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
+    'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
+    I'll think it but a a fond conceit--
+    It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
+    Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:--
+    And thou wert aye a masker bold!
+    What strange disguise hast now put on
+    To make believe that Thou art gone?
+    I see these locks in silvery slips,
+    This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
+    But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
+    And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
+    Life is but Thought: so think I will
+    That Youth and I are house-mates still.
+
+      Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
+    But the tears of mournful eve!
+    Where no hope is, life's a warning
+    That only serves to make us grieve
+                When we are old:
+    --That only serves to make us grieve
+    With oft and tedious taking-leave,
+    Like some poor nigh-related guest
+    That may not rudely be dismist,
+    Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
+    And tells the jest without the smile.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCCXXX
+
+_THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS_
+
+    We walked along, while bright and red
+    Uprose the morning sun;
+    And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said
+    'The will of God be done!'
+
+    A village schoolmaster was he,
+    With hair of glittering gray;
+    As blithe a man as you could see
+    On a spring holiday.
+
+    And on that morning, through the grass
+    And by the steaming rills
+    We travell'd merrily, to pass
+    A day among the hills.
+
+    'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun;
+    Then, from thy breast what thought,
+    Beneath so beautiful a sun,
+    So sad a sigh has brought?'
+
+    A second time did Matthew stop;
+    And fixing still his eye
+    Upon the eastern mountain-top,
+    To me he made reply:
+
+    'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
+    Brings fresh into my mind
+    A day like this, which I have left
+    Full thirty years behind.
+
+    'And just above yon slope of corn
+    Such colours, and no other,
+    Were in the sky that April morn,
+    Of this the very brother.
+
+    'With rod and line I sued the sport
+    Which that sweet season gave,
+    And to the church-yard come, stopp'd short
+    Beside my daughter's grave.
+
+    'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
+    The pride of all the vale;
+    And then she sang,--she would have been
+    A very nightingale.
+
+    'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
+    And yet I loved her more--
+    For so it seem'd,--than till that day
+    I e'er had loved before.
+
+    'And turning from her grave, I met,
+    Beside the churchyard yew,
+    A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
+    With points of morning dew.
+
+    'A basket on her head she bare;
+    Her brow was smooth and white:
+    To see a child so very fair,
+    It was a pure delight!
+
+    'No fountain from its rocky cave
+    E'er tripp'd with foot so free;
+    She seem'd as happy as a wave
+    That dances on the sea.
+
+    'There came from me a sigh of pain
+    Which I could ill confine;
+    I look'd at her, and look'd again:
+    And did not wish her mine!'
+
+    --Matthew is in his grave, yet now
+    Methinks I see him stand
+    As at that moment, with a bough
+    Of wilding in his hand.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXI
+
+_THE FOUNTAIN_
+
+_A Conversation_
+
+    We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+    Affectionate and true,
+    A pair of friends, though I was young,
+    And Matthew seventy-two.
+
+    We lay beneath a spreading oak,
+    Beside a mossy seat;
+    And from the turf a fountain broke
+    And gurgled at our feet.
+
+    'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us match
+    This water's pleasant tune
+    With some old border-song, or catch
+    That suits a summer's noon;
+
+    'Or of the church-clock and the chimes
+    Sing here beneath the shade
+    That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
+    Which you last April made!'
+
+    In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
+    The spring beneath the tree;
+    And thus the dear old man replied,
+    The gray-hair'd man of glee:
+
+    'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
+    How merrily it goes!
+    'Twill murmur on a thousand years
+    And flow as now it flows.
+
+    'And here, on this delightful day,
+    I cannot choose but think
+    How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
+    Beside this fountain's brink.
+
+    'My eyes are dim with childish tears,
+    My heart is idly stirr'd,
+    For the same sound is in my ears
+    Which in those days I heard.
+
+    'Thus fares it still in our decay:
+    And yet the wiser mind
+    Mourns less for what Age takes away,
+    Than what it leaves behind.
+
+    'The blackbird amid leafy trees,
+    The lark above the hill,
+    Let loose their carols when they please,
+    Are quiet when they will.
+
+    'With Nature never do they wage
+    A foolish strife; they see
+    A happy youth, and their old age
+    Is beautiful and free:
+
+    'But we are press'd by heavy laws;
+    And often, glad no more,
+    We wear a face of joy, because
+    We have been glad of yore.
+
+    'If there be one who need bemoan
+    His kindred laid in earth,
+    The household hearts that were his own,--
+    It is the man of mirth.
+
+    'My days, my friend, are almost gone,
+    My life has been approved,
+    And many love me; but by none
+    Am I enough beloved.'
+
+    'Now both himself and me he wrongs,
+    The man who thus complains!
+    I live and sing my idle songs
+    Upon these happy plains:
+
+    'And Matthew, for thy children dead
+    I'll be a son to thee!'
+    At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
+    'Alas! that cannot be.'
+
+    --We rose up from the fountain-side;
+    And down the smooth descent
+    Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
+    And through the wood we went;
+
+    And ere we came to Leonard's rock
+    He sang those witty rhymes
+    About the crazy old church-clock,
+    And the bewilder'd chimes.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXII
+
+_THE RIVER OF LIFE_
+
+    The more we live, more brief appear
+      Our life's succeeding stages:
+    A day to childhood seems a year,
+      And years like passing ages.
+
+    The gladsome current of our youth,
+      Ere passion yet disorders,
+    Steals lingering like a river smooth
+      Along its grassy borders.
+
+    But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
+      And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
+    Ye Stars, that measure life to man,
+      Why seem your courses quicker?
+
+    When joys have lost their bloom and breath
+      And life itself is vapid,
+    Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
+      Feel we its tide more rapid?
+
+    It may be strange--yet who would change
+      Time's course to slower speeding,
+    When one by one our friends have gone
+      And left our bosoms bleeding?
+
+    Heaven gives our years of fading strength
+      Indemnifying fleetness;
+    And those of youth, a seeming length,
+      Proportion'd to their sweetness.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXXXIII
+
+_THE HUMAN SEASONS_
+
+    Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
+    There are four seasons in the mind of man:
+    He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
+    Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
+
+    He has his Summer, when luxuriously
+    Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
+    To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
+    Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
+
+    His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
+    He furleth close; contented so to look
+    On mists in idleness--to let fair things
+    Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
+
+    He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
+    Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXXXIV
+
+_A DIRGE_
+
+    Rough wind, that meanest loud
+      Grief too sad for song;
+    Wild wind, when sullen cloud
+      Knells all the night long;
+    Sad storm whose tears are vain,
+    Bare woods whose branches stain,
+    Deep caves and dreary main,--
+      Wail for the world's wrong!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXXV
+
+_THRENOS_
+
+    O World! O Life! O Time!
+    On whose last steps I climb,
+      Trembling at that where I had stood before;
+    When will return the glory of your prime?
+        No more--Oh, never more!
+
+    Out of the day and night
+    A joy has taken flight:
+      Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
+    Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
+        No more--Oh, never more!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXXVI
+
+_THE TROSACHS_
+
+    There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
+    But were an apt confessional for One
+    Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
+    That Life is but a tale of morning grass
+
+    Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
+    That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
+    Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
+    Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
+
+    Untouch'd, unbreathed upon:--Thrice happy quest,
+    If from a golden perch of aspen spray
+    (October's workmanship to rival May),
+
+    The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
+    That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
+    Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXVII
+
+    My heart leaps up when I behold
+      A rainbow in the sky:
+    So was it when my life began,
+    So is it now I am a man,
+    So be it when I shall grow old
+        Or let me die!
+    The Child is father of the Man:
+    And I could wish my days to be
+    Bound each to each by natural piety.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXVIII
+
+_ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY
+CHILDHOOD_
+
+    There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
+    The earth, and every common sight
+                To me did seem
+            Apparell'd in celestial light,
+    The glory and the freshness of a dream.
+    It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
+            Turn wheresoe'er I may,
+                By night or day,
+    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
+
+            The rainbow comes and goes,
+            And lovely is the rose;
+            The moon doth with delight
+        Look round her when the heavens are bare;
+            Waters on a starry night
+            Are beautiful and fair;
+        The sunshine is a glorious birth;
+        But yet I know, where'er I go,
+    That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
+
+    Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
+        And while the young lambs bound
+            As to the tabor's sound,
+    To me alone there came a thought of grief:
+    A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
+            And I again am strong.
+    The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;--
+    No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
+    I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
+    The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
+            And all the earth is gay;
+                Land and sea
+        Give themselves up to jollity.
+            And with the heart of May
+        Doth every beast keep holiday;--
+                Thou child of joy
+    Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
+
+    Ye bless�d Creatures, I have heard the call
+        Ye to each other make; I see
+    The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
+        My heart is at your festival,
+          My head hath its coronal,
+    The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
+            Oh evil day! if I were sullen
+            While Earth herself is adorning
+                This sweet May-morning;
+            And the children are culling
+                On every side
+            In a thousand valleys far and wide,
+            Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm
+    And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:--
+            I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
+            --But there's a tree, of many, one,
+    A single field which I have look'd upon,
+    Both of them speak of something that is gone:
+                The pansy at my feet
+                Doth the same tale repeat:
+    Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
+    Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
+
+    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
+    The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
+            Hath had elsewhere its setting
+                And cometh from afar;
+            Not in entire forgetfulness,
+            And not in utter nakedness,
+    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
+                From God, who is our home:
+    Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
+    Shades of the prison-house begin to close
+                Upon the growing Boy,
+    But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
+                He sees it in his joy;
+    The Youth, who daily farther from the east
+        Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
+            And by the vision splendid
+            Is on his way attended;
+    At length the Man perceives it die away,
+    And fade into the light of common day.
+
+    Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
+    Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
+    And, even with something of a mother's mind
+                And no unworthy aim,
+            The homely nurse doth all she can
+    To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
+                Forget the glories he hath known,
+    And that imperial palace whence he came.
+
+    Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
+    A six years' darling of a pigmy size:
+    See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
+    Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
+    With light upon him from his father's eyes!
+    See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
+    Some fragment from his dream of human life,
+    Shaped by himself with newly-learn�d art;
+            A wedding or a festival,
+            A mourning or a funeral;
+                And this hath now his heart,
+            And unto this he frames his song:
+                Then will he fit his tongue
+    To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
+            But it will not be long
+            Ere this be thrown aside,
+            And with new joy and pride
+    The little actor cons another part;
+    Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
+    With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
+    That life brings with her in her equipage;
+            As if his whole vocation
+            Were endless imitation.
+
+    Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
+            Thy soul's immensity;
+    Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
+    Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
+    That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
+    Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,--
+            Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
+            On whom those truths do rest
+    Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
+    In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave:
+    Thou, over whom thy Immortality
+    Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
+    A Presence which is not to be put by;
+    Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
+    Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
+    Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
+    The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
+    Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
+    Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
+    And custom lie upon thee with a weight
+    Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
+
+            O joy! that in our embers
+            Is something that doth live,
+            That Nature yet remembers
+            What was so fugitive!
+    The thought of our past years in me doth breed
+    Perpetual benediction: not indeed
+    For that which is most worthy to be blest,
+    Delight and liberty, the simple creed
+    Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
+    With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
+            --Not for these I raise
+            The song of thanks and praise;
+        But for those obstinate questionings
+        Of sense and outward things,
+        Fallings from us, vanishings;
+        Blank misgivings of a creature
+    Moving about in worlds not realized,
+    High instincts, before which our mortal nature
+    Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized:
+        But for those first affections,
+        Those shadowy recollections,
+            Which, be they what they may,
+    Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
+    Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
+        Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
+    Our noisy years seem moments in the being
+    Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
+                To perish never;
+    Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
+                Nor man nor boy
+    Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
+    Can utterly abolish or destroy!
+        Hence, in a season of calm weather
+            Though inland far we be,
+    Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
+                Which brought us hither;
+            Can in a moment travel thither--
+    And see the children sport upon the shore,
+    And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
+
+    Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
+            And let the young lambs bound
+            As to the tabor's sound!
+        We, in thought, will join your throng
+            Ye that pipe and ye that play,
+            Ye that through your hearts to-day
+            Feel the gladness of the May!
+    What though the radiance which was once so bright
+    Be now for ever taken from my sight,
+        Though nothing can bring back the hour
+    Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
+            We will grieve not, rather find
+            Strength in what remains behind;
+            In the primal sympathy
+            Which having been must ever be;
+            In the soothing thoughts that spring
+            Out of human suffering;
+            In the faith that looks through death,
+    In years that bring the philosophic mind.
+
+    And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
+    Forbode not any severing of our loves!
+    Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
+    I only have relinquish'd one delight
+    To live beneath your more habitual sway:
+    I love the brooks which down their channels fret
+    Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
+    The innocent brightness of a new-born day
+                Is lovely yet;
+    The clouds that gather round the setting sun
+    Do take a sober colouring from an eye
+    That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
+    Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
+    Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
+    Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
+    To me the meanest flower that blows can give
+    Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXIX
+
+    Music, when soft voices die,
+    Vibrates in the memory--
+    Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
+    Live within the sense they quicken.
+
+    Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
+    Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
+    And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
+    Love itself shall slumber on.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+End of the Golden Treasury
+
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS
+
+AND
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES
+
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+(1861--1891)
+
+_Summary of Book First_
+
+
+The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the
+substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry
+VIII to Shakespeare midway through the reign of James I, and Drummond
+who carried on the early manner to a still later period. There is here
+a wide range of style;--from simplicity expressed in a language hardly
+yet broken-in to verse,--through the pastoral fancies and Italian
+conceits of the strictly Elizabethan time,--to the passionate reality
+of Shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few readers
+can fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the
+single-hearted straightforwardness of the thoughts:--nor less, the
+limitation of subject to the many phases of one passion, which then
+characterized our lyrical poetry,--unless when, as in especial with
+Shakespeare, the 'purple light of Love' is tempered by a spirit of
+sterner reflection. For the didactic verse of the century, although
+lyrical in form, yet very rarely rises to the pervading emotion, the
+golden cadence, proper to the lyric.
+
+It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in
+the main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its
+restriction to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative or historical
+Anthology has not been aimed at. Great excellence, in human art as in
+human character, has from the beginning of things been even more
+uniform than mediocrity, by virtue of the closeness of its approach to
+Nature:--and so far as the standard of Excellence kept in view has
+been attained in this volume, a comparative absence of extreme or
+temporary phases in style, a similarity of tone and manner, will be
+found throughout:--something neither modern nor ancient, but true and
+speaking to the heart of man alike throughout all ages.
+
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+2 3 _whist_: hushed, quieted.
+
+-- 4 _Rouse Memnon's mother_: Awaken the Dawn from the dark Earth and
+the clouds where she is resting. This is one of that limited class of
+early mythes which may be reasonably interpreted as representations of
+natural phenomena. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of Memnon
+(the East), and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and Sky
+during the last hours of Night). She leaves him every morning in
+renewed youth, to prepare the way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst
+Tithonus remains in perpetual old age and grayness.
+
+3 -- l. 23 _by Peneus' stream_: Phoebus loved the Nymph Daphne whom he
+met by the river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. L. 27 _Amphion's lyre_:
+He was said to have built the walls of Thebes to the sound of his
+music. L. 35 _Night like a drunkard reels_: Compare Romeo and Juliet,
+Act II, Scene 3: 'The grey-eyed morn smiles,' &c.--It should be added
+that three lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been
+omitted in this Poem.
+
+4 6 _Time's chest_: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up
+past treasures. So in Troilus, Act III, Scene 3, 'Time hath a wallet
+at his back' &c. In the _Arcadia_, _chest_ is used to signify _tomb_.
+
+5 7 A fine example of the high wrought and conventional Elizabethan
+Pastoralism, which it would be unreasonable to criticize on the ground
+of the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested.
+Stanza 6 was perhaps inserted by Izaak Walton.
+
+6 8 This beautiful lyric is one of several recovered from the very
+rare Elizabethan Song-books, for the publication of which our thanks
+are due to Mr. A. H. Bullen (1887, 1888).
+
+8 12 One stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with the
+principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in a few
+other poems. The more serious abbreviation by which it has been
+attempted to bring Crashaw's 'Wishes' and Shelley's 'Euganean Hills,'
+with one or two more, within the scheme of this selection, is
+commended with much diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted
+with the original pieces.
+
+9 13 Sidney's poetry is singularly unequal; his short life, his
+frequent absorption in public employment, hindered doubtless the
+development of his genius. His great contemporary fame, second only,
+it appears, to Spenser's, has been hence obscured. At times he is
+heavy and even prosaic; his simplicity is rude and bare; his verse
+unmelodious. These, however, are the 'defects of his merits.' In a
+certain depth and chivalry of feeling,--in the rare and noble quality
+of disinterestedness (to put it in one word),--he has no superior,
+hardly perhaps an equal, amongst our Poets; and after or beside
+Shakespeare's Sonnets, his _Astrophel and Stella_, in the Editor's
+judgment, offers the most intense and powerful picture of the passion
+of love in the whole range of our poetry.--_Hundreds of years_: 'The
+very rapture of love,' says Mr. Ruskin; 'A lover like this does not
+believe his mistress can grow old or die.'
+
+12 19 Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more than one
+picture by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure in
+its Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to 'the
+Islands of Terceras and the Canaries;' and he seems to have caught, in
+those southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked
+the almost contemporary Art of Venice,--the glory and the glow of
+Veronese, Titian, or Tintoret.--From the same romance is No. 71: a
+charming picture in the purest style of the later Italian Renaissance.
+
+_The clear_ (l. 1) is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old
+cosmography. _For a fair there's fairer none_: If you desire a Beauty,
+there is none more beautiful than Rosaline.
+
+14 22 Another gracious lyric from an Elizabethan Song-book, first
+reprinted (it is believed) in Mr. W. J. Linton's 'Rare Poems,' in
+1883.
+
+15 23 _that fair thou owest_: that beauty thou ownest.
+
+16 25 From one of the three Song-books of T. Campion, who appears to
+have been author of the words which he set to music. His merit as a
+lyrical poet (recognized in his own time, but since then forgotten)
+has been again brought to light by Mr. Bullen's taste and
+research:--_swerving_ (st. 2) is his conjecture for _changing_ in the
+text of 1601.
+
+20 31 _the star Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken_:
+apparently, Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his
+angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon
+used by astrologers has been determined.
+
+20 32 This lovely song appears, as here given, in Puttenham's 'Arte of
+English Poesie,' 1589. A longer and inferior form was published in the
+'Arcadia' of 1590: but Puttenham's prefatory words clearly assign his
+version to Sidney's own authorship.
+
+23 37 _keel_: keep cooler by stirring round.
+
+24 39 _expense_: loss.
+
+-- 40 _prease_: press.
+
+25 41 _Nativity, once in the main of light_: when a star has risen and
+entered on the full stream of light;--another of the astrological
+phrases no longer familiar.
+
+_Crooked_ eclipses: as coming athwart the Sun's apparent course.
+
+Wordsworth, thinking probably of the 'Venus' and the 'Lucrece,' said
+finely of Shakespeare: 'Shakespeare _could_ not have written an Epic;
+he would have died of plethora of thought.' This prodigality of nature
+is exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The copious selection here
+given (which from the wealth of the material, required greater
+consideration than any other portion of the Editor's task),--contains
+many that will not be fully felt and understood without some
+earnestness of thought on the reader's part. But he is not likely to
+regret the labour.
+
+26 42 _upon misprision growing_: either, granted in error, or, on the
+growth of contempt.
+
+-- 43 With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's 'Give me that man
+That is not passion's slave' &c. Shakespeare's writings show the
+deepest sensitiveness to passion:--hence the attraction he felt in the
+contrasting effects of apathy.
+
+26 44 _grame_: sorrow. Renaissance influences long impeded the return
+of English poets to the charming realism of this and a few other poems
+by Wyat.
+
+28 45 Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela.
+
+29 47 In the old legend it is now Philomela, now Procne (the swallow)
+who suffers violence from Tereus. This song has a fascination in its
+calm intensity of passion; that 'sad earnestness and vivid exactness'
+which Cardinal Newman ascribes to the master-pieces of ancient poetry.
+
+31 50 _proved_: approved.
+
+-- 51 _censures_: judges.
+
+-- 52 Exquisite in its equably-balanced metrical flow.
+
+32 53 Judging by its style, this beautiful example of old simplicity
+and feeling may, perhaps, be referred to the earlier years of
+Elizabeth. _Late_ forgot: lately.
+
+35 57 Printed in a little Anthology by Nicholas Breton, 1597. It is,
+however, a stronger and finer piece of work than any known to be
+his.--St. 1 _silly_: simple; _dole_: grief; _chief_: chiefly. St. 3
+_If there be_ ...: obscure: Perhaps, if there be any who speak harshly
+of thee, thy pain may plead for pity from Fate.
+
+This poem, with 60 and 143, are each graceful variations of a long
+popular theme.
+
+36 58 _That busy archer:_ Cupid. _Descries_: used actively; _points
+out_.--'The last line of this poem is a little obscured by
+transposition. He means, _Do they call ungratefulness there a
+virtue?_' (C. Lamb).
+
+37 59 _White Iope_: suggested, Mr. Bullen notes, by a passage in
+Propertius (iii, 20) describing Spirits in the lower world:
+
+    Vobiscum est Iope, vobiscum candida Tyro.
+
+38 62 _cypres_ or cyprus,--used by the old writers for _crape_:
+whether from the French _crespe_ or from the Island whence it was
+imported. Its accidental similarity in spelling to _cypress_ has, here
+and in Milton's Penseroso, probably confused readers.
+
+39 63 _ramage_: confused noise.
+
+41 66 'I never saw anything like this funeral dirge,' says Charles
+Lamb, 'except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father
+in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the
+earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to
+resolve itself into the element which it contemplates.'
+
+43 70 Paraphrased from an Italian madrigal
+
+    ... Non so conoscer poi
+    Se voi le rose, o sian le rose in voi.
+
+44 72 _crystal_: fairness.
+
+45 73 _stare_: starling.
+
+-- 74 This 'Spousal Verse' was written in honour of the Ladies
+Elizabeth and Katherine Somerset. Nowhere has Spenser more
+emphatically displayed himself as the very poet of Beauty: The
+Renaissance impulse in England is here seen at its highest and purest.
+
+The genius of Spenser, like Chaucer's, does itself justice only in
+poems of some length. Hence it is impossible to represent it in this
+volume by other pieces of equal merit, but of impracticable
+dimensions. And the same applies to such poems as the _Lover's Lament_
+or the _Ancient Mariner_.
+
+46 -- _entrailed_: twisted. Feateously: elegantly.
+
+48 -- _shend_: shame.
+
+49 -- _a noble peer_: Robert Devereux, second Lord Essex, then at the
+height of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz: hence the allusion
+following to the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient
+legend.
+
+-- -- _Elisa_: Elizabeth.
+
+50 -- _twins of Jove_: the stars Castor and Pollux: _baldric_, belt;
+the zodiac.
+
+52 79 This lyric may with very high probability be assigned to
+Campion, in whose first Book of Airs it appeared (1601). The evidence
+sometimes quoted ascribing it to Lord Bacon appears to be valueless.
+
+
+_Summary of Book Second._
+
+This division, embracing generally the latter eighty years of the
+Seventeenth century, contains the close of our Early poetical style
+and the commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master
+of the new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in
+the former book,--the crown and consummation of the early period.
+Their splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts,
+Spenser's excepted: they exhibit that wider and grander range which
+years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on
+Poetry. Our Muses now give expression to political feeling, to
+religious thought, to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such
+as Marvell, Herbert, and Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again,
+we find noble attempts, hitherto rare in our literature, at pure
+description of nature, destined in our own age to be continued and
+equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although before 1660
+often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought, and
+afterwards by levity and an artificial tone,--produced in Herrick and
+Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan:
+until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself,
+and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of
+Wither and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.--That the change
+from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of
+nature and simplicity is undeniable; yet the bolder and wider scope
+which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts
+then made to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results
+have been no slight compensation.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+58 85 l. 8 _whist_: hushed.
+
+-- -- l. 32 _than_: obsolete for _then_: _Pan_: used here for the Lord
+of all.
+
+59 -- l. 38 _consort_: Milton's spelling of this word, here and
+elsewhere, has been followed, as it is uncertain whether he used it in
+the sense of _accompanying_, or simply for _concert_.
+
+61 -- l. 21 _Lars and Lemures_: household gods and spirits of
+relations dead. _Flamens_ (l. 24) Roman priests. _That twice-batter'd
+god_ (l. 29) Dagon.
+
+62 -- l. 6 _Osiris_, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, perhaps by
+confusion with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by Typho and
+embalmed after death in a sacred chest. This mythe, reproduced in Syria
+and Greece in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, may
+have originally signified the annual death of the Sun or the Year under
+the influences of the winter darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the
+New Year, in his turn overcomes Typho. L. 8 _unshower'd_ grass: as watered
+by the Nile only. L. 33 _youngest-teemed_: last-born. _Bright-harness'd_
+(l. 37) armoured.
+
+64 87 _The Late Massacre_: the Vaudois persecution, carried on in 1655
+by the Duke of Savoy. No more mighty Sonnet than this 'collect in
+verse,' as it has been justly named, probably can be found in any
+language. Readers should observe that it is constructed on the
+original Italian or Proven�al model. This form, in a language such as
+ours, not affluent in rhyme, presents great difficulties; the rhymes
+are apt to be forced, or the substance commonplace. But, when
+successfully handled, it has a unity and a beauty of effect which
+place the strict Sonnet above the less compact and less lyrical
+systems adopted by Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and other Elizabethan
+poets.
+
+65 88 Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650, and Marvell probably
+wrote his lines soon after, whilst living at Nunappleton in the
+Fairfax household. It is hence not surprising that (st. 21-24) he
+should have been deceived by Cromwell's professed submissiveness to
+the Parliament which, when it declined to register his decrees, he
+expelled by armed violence:--one despotism, by natural law, replacing
+another. The poet's insight has, however, truly prophesied that result
+in his last two lines.
+
+This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in
+Milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is
+occasionally obscure from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The
+meaning of st. 5 is 'rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty
+spirit, and limitation more hateful than opposition.' The allusion in
+st. 11 is to the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a
+vacuum and the impenetrability of matter:--in st. 17 to the omen
+traditionally connected with the foundation of the Capitol at
+Rome:--_forced_, fated. The ancient belief that certain years in life
+complete natural periods and are hence peculiarly exposed to death, is
+introduced in st. 26 by the word _climacteric_.
+
+68 89 _Lycidas_: The person here lamented is Milton's college
+contemporary, Edward King, drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from
+Chester to Ireland.
+
+Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian
+Greeks settled in Sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited
+more magnificently in _Lycidas_ than in any other pastoral, is
+apparently of Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom of a
+great artist, has here united ancient mythology, with what may be
+called the modern mythology of Camus and Saint Peter,--to direct
+Christian images. Yet the poem, if it gains in historical interest,
+suffers in poetry by the harsh intrusion of the writer's narrow and
+violent theological politics.--The metrical structure of this glorious
+elegy is partly derived from Italian models.
+
+69 -- l. 11 _Sisters of the sacred well_: the Muses, said to frequent
+the Pierian Spring at the foot of Mount Olympus.
+
+70 -- l. 10 _Mona_: Anglesea, called by the Welsh poets, the Dark
+Island, from its dense forests. _Deva_ (l. 11) the Dee: a river which
+may have derived its magical character from Celtic traditions: it was
+long the boundary of Briton and English.--These places are introduced,
+as being near the scene of the shipwreck. _Orpheus_ (l. 14) was torn
+to pieces by Thracian women. _Amaryllis_ and _Neaera_ (l. 24, 25)
+names used here for the love-idols of poets: as _Damoetas_ previously
+for a shepherd. L. 31 _the blind Fury_: Atropos, fabled to cut the
+thread of life.
+
+71 89 _Arethuse_ (l. 1) and _Mincius_: Sicilian and Italian waters
+here alluded to as representing the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and
+Vergil. L. 4 _oat_: pipe, used here like Collins' _oaten stop_ l. 1,
+No. 186, for _Song_. L. 12 _Hippotades_: Aeolus, god of the Winds.
+_Panope_ (l. 15) a Nereid. Certain names of local deities in the
+Hellenic mythology render some feature in the natural landscape, which
+the Greeks studied and analysed with their usual unequalled insight
+and feeling. _Panope_ seems to express the boundlessness of the
+ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared with the limited
+sky-line of the land in hilly countries such as Greece or Asia Minor.
+_Camus_ (l. 19) the Cam: put for King's University. _The sanguine
+flower_ (l. 22) the Hyacinth of the ancients: probably our Iris. _The
+Pilot_ (l. 25) Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the
+Church on earth, to foretell 'the ruin of our corrupted clergy,' as
+Milton regarded them, 'then in their heighth' under Laud's primacy.
+
+72 -- l. 1 _scrannel_: screeching; apparently Milton's coinage
+(Masson). L. 5 _the wolf_: the Puritans of the time were excited to
+alarm and persecution by a few conversions to Roman Catholicism which
+had recently occurred. _Alpheus_ (l. 9) a stream in Southern Greece,
+supposed to flow underseas to join the Arethuse. _Swart star_ (l. 15)
+the Dog-star, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in ancient
+times occurred soon after midsummer: l. 19 _rathe_: early. L. 36
+_moist vows_: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea.
+_Bellerus_ (l. 37) a giant, apparently created here by Milton to
+personify Belerium, the ancient title of the Land's End. _The great
+Vision_:--the story was that the Archangel Michael had appeared on the
+rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name. Milton calls on
+him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to pity Lycidas, if
+his body has drifted into the troubled waters off the Land's End.
+Finisterre being the land due south of Marazion, two places in that
+district (then through our trade with Corunna probably less unfamiliar
+to English ears), are named,--_Namancos_ now Mujio in Galicia,
+_Bayona_ north of the Minho, or perhaps a fortified rock (one of the
+_Cies_ Islands) not unlike Saint Michael's Mount, at the entrance of
+Vigo Bay.
+
+73 89 l. 6 _ore_: rays of golden light. _Doric_ lay (l. 25) Sicilian,
+pastoral.
+
+75 93 _The assault_ was an attack on London expected in 1642, when the
+troops of Charles I reached Brentford. 'Written on his door' was in
+the original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in
+Aldersgate Street.
+
+_The Emathian Conqueror_: When Thebes was destroyed (B.C. 335) and the
+citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar
+to be spared.
+
+7 -- l. 2, _the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet_: Plutarch has a
+tale that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took Athens, a
+proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect produced on
+the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the _Electra_ of
+Euripides sung at a feast. There is however no apparent congruity
+between the lines quoted (167, 168 Ed. Dindorf) and the result
+ascribed to them.
+
+-- 95 A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry;--that written by
+thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Jeremy Taylor,
+Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay, have left similar
+specimens.
+
+78 98 These beautiful verses should be compared with Wordsworth's
+great Ode on _Immortality_: and a copy of Vaughan's very rare little
+volume appears in the list of Wordsworth's library.--In imaginative
+intensity, Vaughan stands beside his contemporary Marvell.
+
+79 99 _Favonius_: the spring wind.
+
+80 100 _Themis_: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grandson by his
+mother to Sir E. Coke:--hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley,
+Milton's allusion to the _bench_. L. 8: Sweden was then at war with
+Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands.
+
+82 103 l. 28 _Sidneian showers_: either in allusion to the
+conversations in the 'Arcadia,' or to Sidney himself as a model of
+'gentleness' in spirit and demeanour.
+
+85 105 Delicate humour, delightfully united to thought, at once simple
+and subtle. It is full of conceit and paradox, but these are
+imaginative, not as with most of our Seventeenth Century poets,
+intellectual only.
+
+88 110 _Elizabeth of Bohemia_: Daughter to James I, and ancestor of
+Sophia of Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant and
+courtly compliment.
+
+89 111 Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards Earl of
+Marlborough, who died March, 1629, coincidently with the dissolution
+of the third Parliament of Charles' reign. Hence Milton poetically
+compares his death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after
+Philip's victory in 328 B.C.
+
+93 118 A masterpiece of humour, grace, and gentle feeling, all, with
+Herrick's unfailing art, kept precisely within the peculiar key which
+he chose,--or Nature for him,--in his Pastorals. L. 2 _the god
+unshorn_: Imberbis Apollo. St. 2 _beads_: prayers.
+
+96 123 With better taste, and less diffuseness, Quarles might (one
+would think) have retained more of that high place which he held in
+popular estimate among his contemporaries.
+
+99 127 _From Prison_: to which his active support of Charles I twice
+brought the high-spirited writer. L. 7 _Gods_: thus in the original;
+Lovelace, in his fanciful way, making here a mythological allusion.
+_Birds_, commonly substituted, is without authority. St. 3, l. 1
+_committed_: to prison.
+
+100 128 St. 2 l. 4 _blue-god_: Neptune.
+
+104 133 _Waly waly_: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the
+pronunciation of which are preserved in the word _caterwaul_. _Brae_,
+hillside: _burn_, brook: _busk_, adorn. _Saint Anton's Well_: below
+Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh. _Cramasie_, crimson.
+
+105 134 This beautiful example of early simplicity is found in a
+Song-book of 1620.
+
+106 135 _burd_, maiden.
+
+107 136 _corbies_, crows: _fail_, turf: _hause_, neck: _theek_,
+thatch.--If not in their origin, in their present form this, with the
+preceding poem and 133, appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and
+have therefore been placed in Book II.
+
+108 137 The poetical and the prosaic, after Cowley's fashion, blend
+curiously in this deeply-felt elegy.
+
+112 141 Perhaps no poem in this collection is more delicately fancied,
+more exquisitely finished. By placing his description of the Fawn in a
+young girl's mouth, Marvell has, as it were, legitimated that
+abundance of 'imaginative hyperbole' to which he is always partial: he
+makes us feel it natural that a maiden's favourite should be whiter
+than milk, sweeter than sugar--'lilies without, roses within,' The
+poet's imagination is justified in its seeming extravagance by the
+intensity and unity with which it invests his picture.
+
+113 142 The remark quoted in the note to No. 65 applies equally to
+these truly wonderful verses. Marvell here throws himself into the
+very soul of the _Garden_ with the imaginative intensity of Shelley in
+his _West Wind_.--This poem appears also as a translation in Marvell's
+works. The most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is
+rare, answer more or less to stanzas 2 and 6:--
+
+    Alma Quies, teneo te! et te, germana Quietis,
+    Simplicitas! vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes
+    Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra:
+    Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe
+    Celarunt plantae virides, et concolor umbra.
+
+115 143 St. 3 _tutties_: nosegays. St. 4 _silly_: simple.
+
+_L'All�gro_ and _Il Penseroso_. It is a striking proof of Milton's
+astonishing power, that these, the earliest great Lyrics of the
+Landscape in our language, should still remain supreme in their style
+for range, variety, and melodious beauty. The Bright and the
+Thoughtful aspects of Nature and of Life are their subjects: but each
+is preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixed Classical and
+Italian manner.--With that of _L'All�gro_ may be compared a similar
+mythe in the first Section of the first Book of S. Marmion's graceful
+_Cupid and Psyche_, 1637.
+
+116 144 _The mountain-nymph_; compare Wordsworth's Sonnet, No. 254. L.
+38 is in _apposition_ to the preceding, by a syntactical license not
+uncommon with Milton.
+
+118 -- l. 14 _Cynosure_; the Pole Star. _Corydon_, _Thyrsis_, &c.:
+Shepherd names from the old Idylls. _Rebeck_ (l. 28) an elementary
+form of violin.
+
+119 -- l. 24 _Jonson's learned sock_: His comedies are deeply coloured
+by classical study. L. 28 _Lydian airs_: used here to express a light
+and festive style of ancient music. The 'Lydian Mode,' one of the
+seven original Greek Scales, is nearly identical with our 'Major.'
+
+120 145 l. 3 _bestead_: avail. L. 10 _starr'd Ethiop queen_:
+Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and thence translated
+amongst the constellations.
+
+121 -- _Cynthia_: the Moon: Milton seems here to have transferred to
+her chariot the dragons anciently assigned to Demeter and to Medea.
+
+122 -- _Hermes_, called Trismegistus, a mystical writer of the
+Neo-Platonist school. L. 27 _Thebes_, &c.: subjects of Athenian
+Tragedy. _Buskin'd_ (l. 30) tragic, in opposition to sock above. L. 32
+_Musaeus_: a poet in Mythology. L. 37 _him that left half-told_:
+Chaucer in his incomplete 'Squire's Tale.'
+
+123 -- _great bards_: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are here presumably
+intended. L. 9 _frounced_: curled. _The Attic Boy_ (l. 10) Cephalus.
+
+124 146 Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by the
+government of Charles I.
+
+125 -- l. 9, 10. _But apples_, &c. A fine example of Marvell's
+imaginative hyperbole.
+
+-- 147 l. 6 _concent_: harmony.
+
+128 149 A lyric of a strange, fanciful, yet solemn beauty:--Cowley's
+style intensified by the mysticism of Henry More.--St. 2 _monument_:
+the World.
+
+129 151 Entitled 'A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day: 1697.'
+
+
+_Summary of Book Third_
+
+It is more difficult to characterize 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 absolute contrasts as distinguish 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 conventional and of common language, 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 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 many
+complex causes which made the Eighteenth century the turning-time in
+modern European civilization are also more or less reflected 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.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+134 153 We have no poet more marked by rapture, by the ecstasy which
+Plato held the note of genuine inspiration, than Collins. Yet but
+twice or thrice do his lyrics reach that simplicity, that _sinceram
+sermonis Attici gratiam_ to which this ode testifies his enthusiastic
+devotion. His style, as his friend Dr. Johnson truly remarks, was
+obscure; his diction often harsh and unskilfully laboured; he
+struggles nobly against the narrow, artificial manner of his age, but
+his too scanty years did not allow him to reach perfect mastery. St.
+3 _Hybla_: near Syracuse. _Her whose ... woe_: the nightingale, 'for
+which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness';
+Collins here refers to the famous chorus in the _Oedipus at Colonus_.
+St. 4 _Cephisus_: the stream encircling Athens on the north and west,
+passing Colonus. St. 6 _stay'd to sing_: stayed her song when Imperial
+tyranny was established at Rome. St. 7 refers to the Italian amourist
+poetry of the Renaissance: In Collins' day, Dante was almost unknown
+in England. St. 8 _meeting soul_: which moves sympathetically towards
+Simplicity as she comes to inspire the poet. St. 9 _Of these_: Taste
+and Genius.
+
+_The Bard._ In 1757, when this splendid ode was completed, so very
+little had been printed, whether in Wales or in England, in regard to
+Welsh poetry, that it is hard to discover whence Gray drew his Cymric
+allusions. The fabled massacre of the Bards (shown to be wholly
+groundless in Stephens' _Literature of the Kymry_) appears first in
+the family history of Sir John Wynn of Gwydir (cir. 1600), not
+published till 1773; but the story seems to have passed in MS. to
+Carte's History, whence it may have been taken by Gray. The references
+to _high-born Hoel_ and _soft Llewellyn_; to _Cadwallo_ and _Urien_;
+may, similarly, have been derived from the 'Specimens' of early Welsh
+poetry, by the Rev. E. Evans:--as, although not published till 1764,
+the MS., we learn from a letter to Dr. Wharton, was in Gray's hands by
+July 1760, and may have reached him by 1757. It is, however, doubtful
+whether Gray (of whose acquaintance with Welsh we have no evidence)
+must not have been also aided by some Welsh scholar. He is one of the
+poets least likely to scatter epithets at random: 'soft' or gentle is
+the epithet emphatically and specially given to Llewelyn in
+contemporary Welsh poetry, and is hence here used with particular
+propriety. Yet, without such assistance as we have suggested, Gray
+could hardly have selected the epithet, although applied to the King
+(p. 141-3) among a crowd of others, in Llygad Gwr's Ode, printed by
+Evans.--After lamenting his comrades (st. 2, 3) the Bard prophesies
+the fate of Edward II, and the conquests of Edward III (4): his death
+and that of the Black Prince (5): of Richard II, with the wars of York
+and Lancaster, the murder of Henry VI (_the meek usurper_), and of
+Edward V and his brother (6). He turns to the glory and prosperity
+following the accession of the Tudors (7), through Elizabeth's reign
+(8): and concludes with a vision of the poetry of Shakespeare and
+Milton.
+
+140 159 l. 13 _Glo'ster_: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward.
+_Mortimer_, one of the Lords Marchers of Wales.
+
+141 159 _High-born Hoel, soft Llewellyn_ (l. 15); the _Dissertatio de
+Bardis_ of Evans names the first as son to the King Owain Gwynedd:
+Llewelyn, last King of North Wales, was murdered 1282. L. 16
+_Cadwallo_: Cadwallon (died 631) and Urien Rheged (early kings of
+Gwynedd and Cumbria respectively) are mentioned by Evans (p. 78) as
+bards none of whose poetry is extant. L. 20 _Modred_: Evans supplies
+no _data_ for this name, which Gray (it has been supposed) uses for
+Merlin (Myrddin Wyllt), held prophet as well as poet.--The Italicized
+lines mark where the Bard's song is joined by that of his predecessors
+departed. L. 22 _Arvon_: the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite
+Anglesey. Whether intentionally or through ignorance of the real
+dates, Gray here seems to represent the _Bard_ as speaking of these
+poets, all of earlier days, Llewelyn excepted, as his own
+contemporaries at the close of the thirteenth century.
+
+Gray, whose penetrating and powerful genius rendered him in many ways
+an initiator in advance of his age, is probably the first of our poets
+who made some acquaintance with the rich and admirable poetry in which
+Wales from the Sixth Century has been fertile,--before and since his
+time so barbarously neglected, not in England only. Hence it has been
+thought worth while here to enter into a little detail upon his Cymric
+allusions.
+
+142 -- l. 5 _She-wolf_: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward
+II.--L. 35 _Towers of Julius_: the Tower of London, built in part,
+according to tradition, by Julius Caesar.
+
+143 -- l. 2 _bristled boar_: the badge of Richard III. L. 7 _Half of
+thy heart_: Queen Eleanor died soon after the conquest of Wales. L. 18
+_Arthur_: Henry VII named his eldest son thus, in deference to native
+feeling and story.
+
+144 161 The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Drumossie.
+
+145 162 _lilting_, singing blithely: _loaning_, broad lane: _bughts_,
+pens: _scorning_, rallying: _dowie_, dreary: _daffin'_ and _gabbin'_,
+joking and chatting: _leglin_, milkpail: _shearing_, reaping:
+_bandsters_, sheaf-binders: _lyart_, grizzled: _runkled_, wrinkled:
+_fleeching_, coaxing: _gloaming_, twilight: _bogle_, ghost: _dool_,
+sorrow.
+
+147 164 The Editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, to
+his mind superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. Part
+is probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a
+more modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan's poem
+(163) exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old
+verses,--_Hecht_, promised; the obsolete _hight_: _mavis_, thrush:
+_ilka_, every: _lav'rock_, lark: _haughs_, valley-meadows: _twined_,
+parted from: _marrow_, mate: _syne_, then.
+
+148 165 The Royal George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial
+careening at Spithead, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The
+total loss was believed to be nearly 1000 souls.--This little poem
+might be called one of our trial-pieces, in regard to taste. The
+reader who feels the vigour of description and the force of pathos
+underlying Cowper's bare and truly Greek simplicity of phrase, may
+assure himself _se valde profecisse_ in poetry.
+
+151 167 A little masterpiece in a very difficult style: Catullus
+himself could hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness,
+simplicity, and humour, it is worthy of the Ancients: and even more
+so, from the completeness and unity of the picture presented.
+
+155 172 Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the
+poetic nature has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet this
+song, with 'Rule Britannia' and a few others, must make us regret that
+he did not more seriously apply himself to lyrical writing.
+
+156 174 With what insight and tenderness, yet in how few words, has
+this painter-poet here himself told _Love's Secret!_
+
+157 177 l. 1 _Aeolian lyre_: the Greeks ascribed the origin of their
+Lyrical Poetry to the Colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor.
+
+158 -- _Thracia's hills_ (l. 9) supposed a favourite resort of Mars.
+_Feather'd king_ (l. 13) the Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by
+Pindar in a passage here imitated by Gray. _Idalia_ (l. 19) in Cyprus,
+where _Cytherea_ (Venus) was especially worshipped.
+
+159 -- l. 6 _Hyperion_: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets of the
+Islands and Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England.
+
+160 -- l. 27 _Theban Eagle_: Pindar.
+
+163 178 l. 5 _chaste-eyed Queen_: Diana.
+
+164 179 From that wild rhapsody of mingled grandeur, tenderness, and
+obscurity, that 'medley between inspiration and possession,' which
+poor Smart is believed to have written whilst in confinement for
+madness.
+
+165 181 _the dreadful light_: of life and experience.
+
+166 182 _Attic warbler_: the nightingale.
+
+168 184 _sleekit_, sleek: _bickering brattle_, flittering flight: _laith_,
+loth: _pattle_, ploughstaff: _whyles_, at times: _a daimenicker_, a
+corn-ear now and then: _thrave_, shock: _lave_, rest: _foggage_,
+after-grass: _snell_, biting: _but hald_, without dwelling-place: _thole_,
+bear: _cranreuch_, hoar-frost: _thy lane_, alone: _a-gley_, off the right
+line, awry.
+
+175 188 _stoure_, dust-storm; _braw_, smart.
+
+176 189 _scaith_, hurt: _tent_, guard: _steer_, molest.
+
+177 191 _drumlie_, muddy: _birk_, birch.
+
+178 192 _greet_, cry: _daurna_, dare not.--There can hardly exist a
+poem more truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, perhaps,
+Sappho excepted, has any Poetess equalled it.
+
+180 193 _fou_, merry with drink: _coost_, carried: _unco skeigh_, very
+proud: _gart_, forced: _abeigh_, aside: _Ailsa craig_, a rock in the Firth
+of Clyde: _grat his een bleert_, cried till his eyes were bleared:
+_lowpin_, leaping: _linn_, waterfall: _sair_, sore: _smoor'd_, smothered:
+_crouse_ and _canty_, blithe and gay.
+
+181 194 Burns justly named this 'one of the most beautiful songs in
+the Scots or any other language.' One stanza, interpolated by Beattie,
+is here omitted:--it contains two good lines, but is out of harmony
+with the original poem. _Bigonet_, little cap: probably altered from
+_b�guinette_: _thraw_, twist: _caller_, fresh.
+
+182 195 Burns himself, despite two attempts, failed to improve this
+little absolute masterpiece of music, tenderness, and simplicity: this
+'Romance of a life' in eight lines.--_Eerie_: strictly, scared:
+uneasy.
+
+183 196 _airts_, quarters: _row_, roll: _shaw_, small wood in a
+hollow, spinney: _knowes_, knolls. The last two stanzas are not by
+Burns.
+
+184 197 _jo_, sweetheart: _brent_, smooth: _pow_, head.
+
+-- 198 _leal_, faithful. St. 3 _fain_, happy.
+
+185 199 Henry VI founded Eton.
+
+188 200 Written in 1773, towards the beginning of Cowper's second
+attack of melancholy madness--a time when he altogether gave up
+prayer, saying, 'For him to implore mercy would only anger God the
+more.' Yet had he given it up when sane, it would have been 'maior
+insania.'
+
+191 203 The Editor would venture to class in the very first rank this
+Sonnet, which, with 204, records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose
+affectionate care for many years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to
+a life radically wretched. Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal
+grace and a more perfect finish; Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's
+stand supreme in stateliness; Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But
+Cowper's unites with an exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the
+ancients would have called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness
+peculiar to his loving and ingenuous nature.--There is much mannerism,
+much that is unimportant or of now exhausted interest in his poems:
+but where he is great, it is with that elementary greatness which
+rests on the most universal human feelings. Cowper is our highest
+master in simple pathos.
+
+193 205 Cowper's last original poem, founded upon a story told in
+Anson's 'Voyages.' It was written March 1799; he died in next year's
+April.
+
+195 206 Very little except his name appears recoverable with regard
+to the author of this truly noble poem, which appeared in the
+'Scripscrapologia, or Collins' Doggerel Dish of All Sorts,' with three
+or four other pieces of merit, Birmingham, 1804.--_Everlasting_; used
+with side-allusion to a cloth so named, at the time when Collins
+wrote.
+
+
+_Summary of Book Fourth_
+
+It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry,
+that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard
+of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few
+exceptions composed during the first thirty years of the Nineteenth
+century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely
+sudden appearance of individual genius: that, however, which assigns
+the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry to an impulse
+from the France of the first Republic and Empire is inadequate. The
+first French Revolution was rather one result,--the most conspicuous,
+indeed, yet itself in great measure essentially retrogressive,--of
+that wider and more potent spirit which through enquiry and attempt,
+through strength and weakness, sweeps mankind round the circles (not,
+as some too confidently argue, of Advance, but) of gradual
+Transformation: and it is to this that we must trace the literature of
+Modern Europe. But, without attempting discussion on the motive causes
+of Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley, and others, we may observe that these
+Poets carried to further perfection the later tendencies of the
+Century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human
+Passion and Character in every sphere, and love of Nature for
+herself:--that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art
+made since the Restoration, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and
+depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan writers:--that,
+lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in language
+and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a tenderness
+and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the Soul
+and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger sense of
+Humanity,--hitherto scarcely attained, and perhaps unattainable even
+by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the
+Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, may fairly claim that
+during six centuries it has proved itself the most richly gifted of
+all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
+and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to
+itself--hence the many phases of thought and style they present:--to
+sympathize with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and
+without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of
+the soul. For purity in taste is absolutely proportionate to
+strength--and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to
+delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most
+wisely.
+
+But the gallery which this Book offers to the reader will aid him more
+than any preface. It is a royal Palace of Poetry which he is invited
+to enter:
+
+    Adparet domus intus, et atria longa patescunt--
+
+though it is, indeed, to the sympathetic eye only that its treasures
+will be visible.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+197 208 This beautiful lyric, printed in 1783, seems to anticipate in
+its imaginative music that return to our great early age of song,
+which in Blake's own lifetime was to prove,--how gloriously! that the
+English Muses had resumed their 'ancient melody':--Keats, Shelley,
+Byron,--he overlived them all.
+
+199 210 _stout Cortez_: History would here suggest _Balb�a_: (A.T.) It
+may be noticed, that to find in Chapman's Homer the 'pure serene' of
+the original, the reader must bring with him the imagination of the
+youthful poet;--he must be 'a Greek himself,' as Shelley finely said
+of Keats.
+
+202 212 The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems.
+
+203 213 This poem exemplifies the peculiar skill with which Scott
+employs proper names:--a rarely misleading sign of true poetical
+genius.
+
+213 226 Simple as _Lucy Gray_ seems, a mere narrative of what 'has
+been, and may be again,' yet every touch in the child's picture is
+marked by the deepest and purest ideal character. Hence, pathetic as
+the situation is, this is not strictly a pathetic poem, such as
+Wordsworth gives us in 221, Lamb in 264, and Scott in his _Maid of
+Neidpath_,--'almost more pathetic,' as Tennyson once remarked, 'than a
+man has the right to be.' And Lyte's lovely stanzas (224) suggest,
+perhaps, the same remark.
+
+222 235 In this and in other instances the addition (or the change) of
+a Title has been risked, in hope that the aim of the piece following
+may be grasped more clearly and immediately.
+
+228 242 This beautiful Sonnet was the last word of a youth, in whom,
+if the fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise,
+England lost one of the most rarely gifted in the long roll of her
+poets. Shakespeare and Milton, had their lives been closed at
+twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less
+excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the
+London surgery, passed at once to a place with them of 'high
+collateral glory.'
+
+230 245 It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so
+little in this sweet and genuinely national style.
+
+231 246 A masterly example of Byron's command of strong thought and
+close reasoning in verse:--as the next is equally characteristic of
+Shelley's wayward intensity.
+
+240 253 Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in
+Chillon on the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of his
+country against the tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during
+the first half of the Seventeenth century.--This noble Sonnet is
+worthy to stand near Milton's on the Vaudois massacre.
+
+241 254 Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon in 1800:
+Venice in 1797 (255).
+
+243 259 This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians
+under Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near
+Munich. _Hohen Linden_ means _High Limetrees_.
+
+247 262 After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. Moore
+retreated before Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst
+covering the embarkation of his troops.
+
+257 272 The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and
+other choice spirits of that age.
+
+258 273 _Maisie_: Mary.--Scott has given us nothing more complete and
+lovely than this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic
+power to a wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn,
+far less any conscious analysis of feeling attempted:--the pathetic
+meaning is left to be suggested by the mere presentment of the
+situation. A narrow criticism has often named this, which maybe called
+the Homeric manner, superficial, from its apparent simple facility;
+but first-rate excellence in it is in truth one of the least common
+triumphs of Poetry.--This style should be compared with what is not
+less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner feeling, the
+expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart of Nature
+and of the Soul within the Soul,--the analytical method, in
+short,--most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shelley.
+
+263 277 Wolfe resembled Keats, not only in his early death by
+consumption and the fluent freshness of his poetical style, but in
+beauty of character:--brave, tender, energetic, unselfish, modest. Is
+it fanciful to find some reflex of these qualities in the _Burial_ and
+_Mary_? Out of the abundance of the _heart_ ...
+
+264 278 _correi_: covert on a hillside. _Cumber_: trouble.
+
+265 250 This book has not a few poems of greater power and more
+perfect execution than _Agnes_ and the extract which we have ventured
+to make from the deep-hearted author's _Sad Thoughts_ (No. 224). But
+none are more emphatically marked by the note of exquisiteness.
+
+266 281 st. 3 _inch_: island.
+
+270 283 From _Poetry for Children_ (1809), by Charles and
+Mary Lamb. This tender and original little piece seems clearly to
+reveal the work of that noble-minded and afflicted sister, who was at
+once the happiness, the misery, and the life-long blessing of her
+equally noble-minded brother.
+
+278 289 This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an
+exquisiteness of expression, which place it in the highest rank among
+the many masterpieces of its illustrious Author.
+
+289 300 _interlunar swoon_: interval of the moon's invisibility.
+
+294 304 _Calpe_: Gibraltar. _Lofoden_: the Maelstrom whirlpool off the
+N.W. coast of Norway.
+
+295 305 This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by Hamilton
+on the subject better treated in 163 and 164.
+
+307 315 _Arcturi_: seemingly used for _northern stars_. _And wild
+roses, &c._ Our language has perhaps no line modulated with more
+subtle sweetness.
+
+308 316 Coleridge describes this poem as the fragment of a
+dream-vision,--perhaps, an opium-dream?--which composed itself in his
+mind when fallen asleep after reading a few lines about 'the Khan
+Kubla' in Purchas' _Pilgrimage_.
+
+312 318 _Ceres' daughter_: Proserpine. _God of Torment_: Pluto.
+
+320 321 The leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's
+landscape in Italy appears to be--On the voyage of life are many
+moments of pleasure, given by the sight of Nature, who has power to
+heal even the worldliness and the uncharity of man.
+
+321 -- l. 23 Amphitrite was daughter to Ocean.
+
+325 322 l. 21 _Maenad_: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on Dionysos in the
+Greek mythology. May we not call this the most vivid, sustained, and
+impassioned amongst all Shelley's magical personifications of Nature?
+
+326 -- l. 5 Plants under water sympathize with the seasons of the
+land, and hence with the winds which affect them.
+
+327 323 Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's
+brother John. This poem may be profitably compared with Shelley's
+following it. Each is the most complete expression of the innermost
+spirit of his art given by these great Poets:--of that Idea which, as
+in the case of the true Painter, (to quote the words of Reynolds,)
+'subsists only in the mind: The sight never beheld it, nor has the
+hand expressed it: it is an idea residing in the breast of the artist,
+which he is always labouring to impart, and which he dies at last
+without imparting.'
+
+328 -- _the Kind_: the human race.
+
+331 327 _the Royal Saint_: Henry VI.
+
+331 328 st. 4 _this_ folk: _its_ has been here plausibly but, perhaps,
+unnecessarily, conjectured.--Every one knows the general story of the
+Italian Renaissance, of the Revival of Letters.--From Petrarch's day
+to our own, that ancient world has renewed its youth: Poets and
+artists, students and thinkers, have yielded themselves wholly to its
+fascination, and deeply penetrated its spirit. Yet perhaps no one more
+truly has vivified, whilst idealizing, the picture of Greek country
+life in the fancied Golden Age, than Keats in these lovely (if
+somewhat unequally executed) stanzas:--his quick imagination, by a
+kind of 'natural magic,' more than supplying the scholarship which his
+youth had no opportunity of gaining.
+
+105 134 These stanzas are by Richard Verstegan (--c. 1635), a poet and
+antiquarian, published in his rare Odes (1601), under the title _Our
+Blessed Ladies Lullaby_, and reprinted by Mr. Orby Shipley in his
+beautiful _Carmina Mariana_ (1893). The four stanzas here given form
+the opening of a hymn of twenty-four.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS
+
+WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH
+
+
+ALEXANDER, William (1580-1640)           29
+
+BARBAULD, Anna Laetitia (1743-1825)     207
+BARNEFIELD, Richard (16th Century)       45
+BEAUMONT, Francis (1586-1616)            90
+BLAKE, William (1757-1827)              174, 180, 181, 208
+BURNS, Robert (1759-1796)               161, 168, 176, 184, 188, 189, 190,
+                                        191, 193, 196, 197
+BYRON, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824)   212, 214, 216, 234, 246,
+                                        253, 266, 275
+
+CAMPBELL, Thomas (1777-1844)            225, 231, 241, 250, 251, 259, 295,
+                                        304, 310, 314, 332
+CAMPION, Thomas (c. 1567-1620)           25, 26, 50, 52, 55, 59, 76, 79,
+                                        101, 143
+CAREW, Thomas (1589-1639)               112
+CAREY, Henry (---- -1743)               167
+CIBBER, Colley (1671-1757)              155
+COLERIDGE, Hartley (1796-1849)          218
+COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834)    211, 316, 329
+COLLINS, John (18th Century)            206
+COLLINS, William (1720-1756)            153, 160, 178, 186
+COWLEY, Abraham (1618-1667)             130, 137
+COWPER, William (1731-1800)             165, 170, 183, 200, 202, 203, 204,
+                                        205
+CRASHAW, Richard (1615?-1652)           103
+CUNNINGHAM, Allan (1784-1842)           249
+
+DANIEL, Samuel (1562-1619)               46
+DEKKER, Thomas (---- -1638?)             75
+DEVEREUX, Robert (1567-1601)             83
+DONNE, John (1573-1631)                  12
+DRAYTON, Michael (1563-1631)             49
+DRUMMOND, William (1585-1649)             4, 61, 63, 77, 80, 81, 84
+DRYDEN, John (1631-1700)                 86, 151
+
+ELLIOTT, Jane (18th Century)            162
+
+FLETCHER, John (1576-1625)              132
+
+GAY, John (1685-1732)                   166
+GOLDSMITH, Oliver (1728-1774)           175
+GRAHAM, Robert (1735-1797)              169
+GRAY, Thomas (1716-1771)                152, 156, 159, 177, 182, 187, 199,
+                                        201
+GREENE, Robert (1561?-1592)              60
+
+HABINGTON, William (1605-1645)          148
+HERBERT, George (1593-1632)              97
+HERRICK, Robert (1591-1674?)            108, 113, 118, 119, 120, 124, 139,
+                                        140
+HEYWOOD, Thomas (---- -1649?)            73
+HOOD, Thomas (1798-1845)                268, 274, 279
+
+JONSON, Ben (1574-1637)                  96, 102, 116
+
+KEATS, John (1795-1821)                 209, 210, 235, 237, 242, 243,
+                                        272, 290, 292, 303, 318, 328, 333
+
+LAMB, Charles (1775-1835)               264, 276, 282
+LAMB, Mary (1764-1847)                  283
+LINDSAY, Anne (1750-1825)               192
+LODGE, Thomas (1556-1625)                19, 71
+LOGAN, John (1748-1788)                 163
+LOVELACE, Richard (1618-1658)           109, 127, 128
+LYLYE, John (1554-1600)                  72
+LYTE, Henry Francis (1793-1847)         224, 280
+
+MARLOWE, Christopher (1562-1593)          7
+MARVELL, Andrew (1620-1678)              88, 105, 141, 142, 146
+MICKLE, William Julius (1734-1788)      194
+MILTON, John (1608-1674)                 85, 87, 89, 93, 94, 99, 100, 111,
+                                        144, 145, 147
+MOORE, Thomas (1780-1852)               229, 245, 261, 265, 269
+
+NAIRN, Carolina (1766-1845)             198
+NASH, Thomas (1567-1601?)                 1
+NORRIS, John (1657-1711)                149
+
+PHILIPS, Ambrose (1671-1749)            157
+POPE, Alexander (1688-1744)             154
+PRIOR, Matthew (1662-1721)              173
+
+QUARLES, Francis (1592-1644)            123
+
+ROGERS, Samuel (1762-1855)              171, 185
+
+SCOTT, Walter (1771-1832)               213, 227, 230, 236, 238, 240, 248,
+                                        273, 278, 281, 285, 311
+SEDLEY, Charles (1639-1701)             106, 126
+SHAKESPEARE, William (1564-1616)          2, 3, 5, 6, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15,
+                                         16, 17, 18, 23, 24, 27, 31, 35,
+                                         37, 38, 39, 41, 42, 43, 48, 51,
+                                         56, 62, 64, 65, 67, 68, 69, 78, 82
+SHELLEY, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)       215, 219, 228, 232, 239, 247, 270,
+                                        287, 293, 300, 307, 308, 312, 315,
+                                        321, 322, 324, 334, 335, 339
+SHIRLEY, James (1596-1666)               91, 92
+SIDNEY, Philip (1554-1586)               13, 32, 40, 47, 58
+SMART, Christopher (1722-1770)          179
+SOUTHEY, Robert (1774-1843)             260, 271
+SPENSER, Edmund (1553-1598-9)            74
+SUCKLING, John (1608-9-1641)            129
+SYLVESTER, Joshua (1563-1618)            34
+
+THOMSON, James (1700-1748)              158, 172
+
+VAUGHAN, Henry (1621-1695)               98, 138, 150
+
+WALLER, Edmund (1605-1687)              115, 122
+WEBSTER, John (---- -1638?)              66
+WILMOT, John (1647-1680)                107
+WITHER, George (1588-1667)              131
+WOLFE, Charles (1791-1823)              262, 277
+WORDSWORTH, William (1770-1850)         217, 220, 221, 222, 223, 226, 233,
+                                        244, 252, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258,
+                                        263, 267, 284, 286, 288, 289, 291,
+                                        294, 296, 297, 298, 299, 301, 302,
+                                        305, 306, 309, 313, 317, 319, 320,
+                                        323, 325, 326, 327, 330, 331, 336,
+                                        337, 338
+WOTTON, Henry (1568-1639)                95, 110
+WYAT, Thomas (1503-1542)                 28, 44
+
+ANONYMOUS,                                8, 20, 21, 22, 30, 33, 36, 53,
+                                         54, 57, 70, 104, 114, 117, 121,
+                                        125, 133, 135, 136, 164, 195
+
+134 is by Richard Verstegan (-c. 1635).
+
+
+
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES
+
+PAGE
+
+A Chieftain to the Highlands bound                          211
+A child's a plaything for an hour                           270
+A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by                     305
+A slumber did my spirit seal                                210
+A sweet disorder in the dress                                95
+A weary lot is thine, fair maid                             225
+A wet sheet and a flowing sea                               235
+Absence, hear thou this protestation                          8
+Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit                             86
+Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh                            217
+All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd                       149
+All thoughts, all passions, all delights                    199
+And are ye sure the news is true                            181
+And is this--Yarrow?--This the Stream                       297
+And thou art dead, as young and fair                        231
+And wilt thou leave me thus                                  26
+Ariel to Miranda:--Take                                     288
+Art thou pale for weariness                                 305
+Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers                 50
+As it fell upon a day                                        27
+As I was walking all alane                                  107
+As slow our ship her foamy track                            251
+At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears         288
+At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly     230
+Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones          64
+Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake                                  157
+Awake, awake, my Lyre                                       101
+
+Bards of Passion and of Mirth                               197
+Beauty sat bathing by a spring                               13
+Behold her, single in the field                             287
+Being your slave, what should I do but tend                   9
+Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed                   277
+Best and brightest, come away                               299
+Bid me to live, and I will live                              97
+Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy               125
+Blow, blow, thou winter wind                                 34
+Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art             228
+
+Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren                    41
+Calm was the day, and through the trembling air              45
+Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms                       75
+Care-charmer Sleep, son of the Sable Night                   28
+Come away, come away, Death                                  38
+Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me                    51
+Come little babe, come silly soul                            35
+Come live with me and be my Love                              5
+Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace              24
+Come unto these yellow sands                                  2
+Crabbed Age and Youth                                         6
+Cupid and my Campaspe play'd                                 44
+Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench                 80
+
+Daughter of Jove, relentless power                          188
+Daughter to that good Earl, once President                   89
+Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord                   283
+Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move              54
+Down in yon garden sweet and gay                            147
+Drink to me only with thine eyes                             92
+Duncan Gray cam here to woo                                 180
+
+Earl March look'd on his dying child                        228
+Earth has not anything to show more fair                    281
+E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks                    96
+Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind                        240
+Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky                       273
+Ever let the Fancy roam                                     310
+
+Fain would I change that note                                 6
+Fair Daffodils, we weep to see                              111
+Fair pledges of a fruitful tree                             110
+Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing                25
+Fear no more the heat o' the sun                             40
+Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new         22
+Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow                          30
+For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove                          155
+Forget not yet the tried intent                              18
+Four Seasons fill the measure of the year                   339
+From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony                          63
+From Stirling Castle we had seen                            295
+Full fathom five thy father lies                             40
+
+Gather ye rose-buds while ye may                             87
+Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even                            218
+Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn                  93
+Go fetch to me a pint o' wine                               152
+Go, lovely Rose                                              91
+
+Hail thou most sacred venerable thing                       128
+Hail to thee, blithe Spirit                                 274
+Happy the man, whose wish and care                          136
+Happy those early days, when I                               78
+Happy were he could finish forth his fate                    55
+He that loves a rosy cheek                                   90
+He is gone on the mountain                                  264
+Hence, all you vain delights                                103
+Hence, loath�d Melancholy                                   116
+Hence, vain deluding Joys                                   120
+He sang of God, the mighty source                           164
+High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be                     9
+How happy is he born and taught                              76
+How like a winter hath my absence been                       10
+How sleep the brave who sink to rest                        144
+How sweet the answer Echo makes                             217
+How vainly men themselves amaze                             113
+
+I am monarch of all I survey                                190
+I arise from dreams of Thee                                 205
+I cannot change, as others do                                87
+I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way                     307
+I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden                            208
+I have had playmates, I have had companions                 250
+I have no name                                              165
+I heard a thousand blended notes                            312
+I meet thy pensive, moonlight face                          211
+I met a traveller from an antique land                      282
+I remember, I remember                                      254
+I saw Eternity the other night                              129
+I saw her in childhood                                      265
+I saw my lady weep                                           19
+I saw where in the shroud did lurk                          268
+I travell'd among unknown men                               208
+I wander'd lonely as a cloud                                291
+I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile                  327
+I wish I were where Helen lies                              106
+If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song                     170
+If doughty deeds my lady please                             153
+If I had thought thou couldst have died                     263
+If Thou survive my well-contented day                        41
+If to be absent were to be                                  100
+I'm wearing awa', Jean                                      184
+In a drear-nighted December                                 222
+In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining          195
+In the sweet shire of Cardigan                              248
+In this still place, remote from men                        329
+In Xanadu did Kubla Khan                                    308
+It is a beauteous evening, calm and free                    303
+It is not growing like a tree                                77
+It was a dismal and a fearful night                         108
+It was a lover and his lass                                   8
+It was a summer evening                                     244
+I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking                  145
+
+Jack and Joan, they think no ill                            115
+John Anderson my jo, John                                   185
+
+Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting                      43
+Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son                    79
+Let me not to the marriage of true minds                     20
+Life! I know not what thou art                              196
+Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore             25
+Like to the clear in highest sphere                          12
+Love in my bosom, like a bee                                 43
+Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise                        90
+Love not me for comely grace                                 98
+Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours                            166
+
+Many a green isle needs must be                             320
+Mary! I want a lyre with other strings                      191
+Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour                242
+Mine be a cot beside the hill                               169
+Mortality, behold and fear                                   73
+Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes                       309
+Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold                 199
+Music, when soft voices die                                 346
+My days among the Dead are past                             257
+My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains                 279
+My heart leaps up when I behold                             341
+My Love in her attire doth shew her wit                      96
+My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow                39
+My thoughts hold mortal strife                               38
+My true-love hath my heart, and I have his                   20
+
+Never love unless you can                                    16
+Never seek to tell thy love                                 156
+No longer mourn for me when I am dead                        42
+Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note                    247
+Not, Celia, that I juster am                                 98
+Now the golden Morn aloft                                   133
+Now the last day of many days                               301
+
+O blithe new-comer! I have heard                            278
+O Brignall banks are wild and fair                          203
+O Friend! I know not which way I must look                  242
+O happy shades! to me unblest                               188
+O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm                 18
+O leave this barren spot to me                              283
+O listen, listen, ladies gay                                266
+O lovers' eyes are sharp to see                             227
+O Mary, at thy window be                                    175
+O me! what eyes hath love put in my head                     31
+O Mistress mine, where are you roaming                       22
+O my Luve's like a red, red rose                            177
+O never say that I was false of heart                        11
+O saw ye bonnie Lesley                                      176
+O say what is that thing call'd Light                       136
+O talk not to me of a name great in story                   202
+O Thou, by Nature taught                                    134
+O waly waly up the bank                                     104
+O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms                         224
+O wild West Wind, thou breath Of Autumn's being             325
+O World! O Life! O Time                                     340
+Obscurest night involved the sky                            193
+Of all the girls that are so smart                          151
+Of a' the airts the wind can blaw                           183
+Of Nelson and the North                                     237
+Of Neptune's empire let us sing                              80
+Of this fair volume which we World do name                   53
+Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray                                213
+Oft in the stilly night                                     255
+Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom                          262
+On a day, alack the day                                      17
+On a Poet's lips I slept                                    329
+Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee                  241
+One more Unfortunate                                        259
+One word is too often profaned                              233
+On Linden, when the sun was low                             243
+Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd      306
+Over the mountains      84
+
+Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day                          45
+Phoebus, arise                                                2
+Pibroch of Donuil Dhu                                       233
+Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth                     52
+Proud Maisie is in the wood                                 258
+
+Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair                          81
+
+Rough Wind, that moanest loud                               339
+Ruin seize thee, ruthless King                              140
+
+Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness                      293
+See with what simplicity                                     85
+Shall I compare thee to a summer's day                       15
+Shall I, wasting in despair                                 102
+She dwelt among the untrodden ways                          208
+She is not fair to outward view                             207
+She walks in beauty, like the night                         206
+She was a Phantom of delight                                206
+Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea          4
+Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part             30
+Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me                   31
+Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile                        154
+Sleep, sleep, beauty bright                                 165
+Souls of Poets dead and gone                                257
+Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king         1
+Star that bringest home the bee                             304
+Stern Daughter of the Voice of God                          239
+Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind                     230
+Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes                        90
+Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower                          285
+Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory              14
+Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade               154
+Swiftly walk over the western wave                          219
+
+Take, O take those lips away                                 29
+Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense                   331
+Tell me not, Sweet, I an unkind                              88
+Tell me where is Fancy bred                                  42
+That time of year thou may'st in me behold                   23
+That which her slender waist confined                        96
+The curfew tolls the knell of parting day                   172
+The forward youth that would appear                          65
+The fountains mingle with the river                         216
+The glories of our blood and state                           74
+The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King                55
+The lovely lass o' Inverness                                144
+The man of life upright                                      52
+The merchant, to secure his treasure                        155
+The more we live, more brief appear                         338
+The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth                   28
+The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade               167
+There be none of Beauty's daughters                         204
+There is a flower, the lesser Celandine                     253
+There is a garden in her face                                92
+There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 252
+There's not a nook within this solemn Pass                  340
+There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream             341
+The sea hath many thousand sands                             33
+The sun is warm, the sky is clear                           256
+The sun upon the lake is low                                304
+The twentieth year is well-nigh past                        192
+The world is too much with us; late and soon                330
+They are all gone into the world of light                   109
+They that have power to hurt, and will do none               26
+This is the month, and this the happy morn                   56
+This Life, which seems so fair                               51
+Though others may her brow adore                             21
+Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white                 34
+Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness                    331
+Three years she grew in sun and shower                      209
+Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream                         146
+Timely blossom, Infant fair                                 138
+Tired with all these, for restful death I cry                54
+Toll for the Brave                                          148
+To me, fair Friend, you never can be old                     11
+To one who has been long in city pent                       282
+Turn back, you wanton flyer                                  16
+'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won                     129
+'Twas on a lofty vase's side                                137
+Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea                     241
+
+Under the greenwood tree                                      7
+Upon my lap my sovereign sits                               105
+
+Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying                      333
+Victorious men of earth, no more                             74
+
+Waken, lords and ladies gay                                 272
+Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie                    168
+Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee                      37
+Weep you no more, sad fountains                              14
+Were I as base as is the lowly plain                         21
+We talk'd with open heart, and tongue                       336
+We walk'd along, while bright and red                       334
+We watch'd her breathing thro' the night                    265
+Whenas in silks my Julia goes                                95
+When Britain first at Heaven's command                      139
+When first the fiery-mantled Sun                            294
+When God at first made Man                                   78
+When he who adores thee has left but the name               246
+When icicles hang by the wall                                23
+When I consider how my light is spent                        76
+When I have borne in memory what has tamed                  243
+When I have fears that I may cease to be                    229
+When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced                  4
+When I survey the bright                                    126
+When I think on the happy days                              182
+When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes                 10
+When in the chronicle of wasted time                         15
+When lovely woman stoops to folly                           156
+When Love with unconfin�d wings                              99
+When maidens such as Hester die                             262
+When Music, heavenly maid, was young                        161
+When Ruth was left half desolate                            313
+When the lamp is shatter'd                                  226
+When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame        178
+When thou must home to shades of underground                 37
+When to the sessions of sweet silent thought                 24
+When we two parted                                          221
+Where art thou, my beloved Son                              270
+Where shall the lover rest                                  222
+Where the bee sucks, there suck I                             2
+Where the remote Bermudas ride                              124
+Whether on Ida's shady brow                                 197
+While that the sun with his beams hot                        32
+Whoe'er she be                                               82
+Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant                    220
+Why so pale and wan, fond lover                             100
+Why weep ye by the tide, ladie                              215
+With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies          36
+With little here to do or see                               291
+With sweetest milk and sugar first                          112
+
+Ye banks and braes and streams around                       177
+Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon                           157
+Ye distant spires, ye antique towers                        185
+Ye Mariners of England                                      235
+Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye                    284
+Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more                   68
+You meaner beauties of the night                             88
+
+
+RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
+
+LONDON AND BUNGAY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
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+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.
+
+     Uniformly printed, with Vignette Titles by Sir J. E.
+     MILLAIS, Sir NOEL PATON, T. WOOLNER, W. HOLMAN HUNT, ARTHUR
+     HUGHES, &c., engraved on Steel. In uniform binding. Pott
+     8vo, 2s. 6d. net each.
+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL
+
+Poems in the English Language. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by
+Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE. The First and Second Series, separately, or 2
+Vols. in box, 5s. net.
+
+
+POET'S WALK. An Introduction to English Poetry, chosen and arranged by
+MOWBRAY MORRIS. New and Revised Edition.
+
+LYRIC LOVE: An Anthology. Edited by WILLIAM WATSON.
+
+THE CHILDREN'S GARLAND FROM THE BEST POETS. Selected by COVENTRY
+PATMORE.
+
+CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF LYRICAL POETRY. Arranged by F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+THE FAIRY BOOK. The Best Popular Fairy Stories. Selected by Mrs.
+CRAIK.
+
+THE JEST BOOK. The Choicest Anecdotes and Sayings. Arranged by MARK
+LEMON.
+
+A BOOK OF GOLDEN THOUGHTS. By HENRY ATTWELL.
+
+THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY FOR THE YOUNG. Selected by C. F. ALEXANDER.
+
+GOLDEN TREASURY PSALTER. The Student's Edition. Being an Edition with
+briefer Notes of "The Psalms Chronologically arranged by Four
+Friends."
+
+THE BOOK OF PRAISE. From the best English Hymn Writers. Selected by
+ROUNDELL, EARL OF SELBORNE.
+
+THEOLOGIA GERMANICA. Translated by S. WINKWORTH. Preface by C.
+KINGSLEY.
+
+THE BALLAD BOOK. A Selection of the Choicest British Ballads. Edited
+by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
+
+THE SONG BOOK. Words and Tunes selected and arranged by JOHN HULLAH.
+
+LA LYRE FRAN�AISE. Selected and arranged with Notes by G. MASSON.
+
+BALLADEN UND ROMANZEN. Being a Selection of the Best German Ballads
+and Romances. Edited with Introduction and Notes by Dr. BUCHHEIM.
+
+DEUTSCHE LYRIK. The Golden Treasury of the best German Lyrical Poems.
+Selected by Dr. BUCHHEIM.
+
+HEINRICH HEINE'S LIEDER UND GEDICHTE. Selected and arranged, with
+Notes and a Literary Introduction, by C. A. BUCHHEIM, Ph.D. With
+Portrait.
+
+THE ESSAYS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. Edited by J. R. GREEN.
+
+SELECTED POEMS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+BACON'S ESSAYS, AND COLOURS OF GOOD AND EVIL. With Notes and
+Glossarial Index by W. ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.
+
+SIR THOMAS BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI; LETTER TO A Friend, &c., and
+Christian Morals. Edited by W. A. GREENHILL, M.D.
+
+HYDRIOTAPHIA, AND THE GARDEN OF CYRUS. Edited by W. A. GREENHILL, M.D.
+
+THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT which is to come. By
+JOHN BUNYAN.
+
+POETRY OF BYRON. Chosen and arranged by MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+SELECTED POEMS OF A. H. CLOUGH.
+
+TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS. By AN OLD BOY.
+
+LETTERS OF WILLIAM COWPER. Edited, with Introduction, by Rev. W.
+BENHAM.
+
+SELECTIONS FROM COWPER'S POEMS. With an Introduction by Mrs. OLIPHANT.
+
+THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. Edited by J. W. CLARK, M.A.
+
+BALTHASAR GRACIAN. Art of Worldly Wisdom. Translated by J. JACOBS.
+
+CHRYSOMELA. A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick. By
+Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS. Edited by Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+KEBLE. The Christian Year. Edited by C. M. YONGE.
+
+LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. Edited by Rev. ALFRED AINGER, M.A.
+
+SELECTIONS FROM WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Edited by SIDNEY COLVIN.
+
+THE SPEECHES AND TABLE TALK OF THE PROPHET MOHAMMAD. Translated by
+STANLEY LANE-POOLE.
+
+THE CAVALIER AND HIS LADY. Selections from the Works of the first Duke
+and Duchess of Newcastle. With an Introductory Essay by EDWARD
+JENKINS.
+
+RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. The Astronomer-Poet of Persia. Rendered into
+English Verse.
+
+MISCELLANIES (including Euphranor, Polonius, etc.). By EDWARD
+FITZGERALD.
+
+TWO ESSAYS ON OLD AGE AND FRIENDSHIP. Translated from the Latin of
+Cicero, with Introduction, by E. S. SHUCKBURGH.
+
+MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS TO HIMSELF. An English Version of the Works
+of Marcus Aurelius. By Rev. Dr. G. H. RENDALL.
+
+THE HOUSE OF ATREUS: being the Agamemnon, Libation-Bearers, and Furies
+of �schylus. Translated into English verse by E. D. A. MORSHEAD, M.A.
+
+THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. Translated by J. LL. DAVIES, M.A., and D. J.
+VAUGHAN.
+
+THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. Being the Euthyphron, Apology, Crito,
+and Phaedo of Plato. Translated by F. J. CHURCH.
+
+PHAEDRUS, LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS OF PLATO. A New Translation by J.
+WRIGHT.
+
+SHAKESPEARE'S SONGS AND SONNETS. Edited with Notes, by F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+POEMS OF SHELLEY. Edited by S. A. BROOKE.
+
+SOUTHEY. POEMS. Chosen and arranged by E. DOWDEN.
+
+LYRICAL POEMS. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. Selected and Annotated by $1
+
+IN MEMORIAM. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
+
+THE PRINCESS. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
+
+THEOCRITUS, BION, AND MOSCHUS. Rendered into English Prose by ANDREW
+LANG.
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+POEMS, RELIGIOUS AND DEVOTIONAL. By J. G. WHITTIER.
+
+POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. Edited by MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS OF ALL TIMES AND ALL COUNTRIES. By C. M. YONGE.
+
+A BOOK OF WORTHIES. By C. M. YONGE.
+
+THE STORY OF THE CHRISTIANS AND MOORS IN SPAIN. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.
+
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+MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED, LONDON.
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+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
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diff --git a/old/32373.txt b/old/32373.txt
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Golden Treasury
+       Selected from the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the
+       English Language and arranged with Notes
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Francis T. Palgrave
+
+Release Date: May 14, 2010 [EBook #32373]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Juliet Sutherland, and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                         Transcriber's Note:
+
+    The source of the Greek quote and its meaning are from the
+    1914 edition.
+
+
+                                 THE
+
+                           GOLDEN TREASURY
+
+               SELECTED FROM THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL
+                    POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
+                       AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES
+
+
+                                  BY
+
+                         FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE
+
+         LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
+
+
+
+
+                        _REVISED AND ENLARGED_
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                                London
+
+                      MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
+
+                   NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+
+                                 1902
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+ALFRED TENNYSON
+
+POET LAUREATE
+
+
+This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with
+whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English
+Literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts
+of Nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the
+rarest,--just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been
+hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have
+endeavoured to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to
+Henry Hallam. But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love
+and reverence; and I desire therefore to place before it a name united
+with his by associations which, while Poetry retains her hold on the
+minds of Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.
+
+Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn
+Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your
+advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second
+reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet,
+and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common
+value.
+
+Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be
+found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a
+source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten
+solitude itself with best society,--with the companionship of the wise
+and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music
+only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of
+delight to Labour and to Poverty,--if it teaches those indifferent to
+the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the
+aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully
+accomplished.
+
+F.T.P.
+
+MAY: 1861
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the
+attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and
+Songs in our language (save a very few regretfully omitted on account
+of length), by writers not living,--and none beside the best. Many
+familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be
+familiar:--the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who
+love Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known
+and valued.
+
+The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of
+Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision
+increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work,
+whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here
+held essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single
+thought, feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative,
+descriptive, and didactic poems,--unless accompanied by rapidity of
+movement, brevity, and the colouring of human passion,--have been
+excluded. Humourous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances
+where a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly
+personal, occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to
+the idea of the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with
+all pieces markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is
+commonly understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical
+conditions in treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it
+possible, that all readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some
+poems, as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and Penseroso, Wordsworth's Ruth
+or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice
+for a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference
+especially to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he
+has taken his utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.
+
+This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to
+question;--what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That
+a poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,--that it shall reach a
+perfection commensurate with its aim,--that we should require finish
+in proportion to brevity,--that passion, colour, and originality
+cannot atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity or
+truth,--that a few good lines do not make a good poem, that popular
+estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,--above
+all, that excellence should be looked for rather in the whole than in
+the parts,--such and other such canons have been always steadily
+regarded. He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger
+number rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and
+that he has been aided throughout by two friends of independent and
+exercised judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the
+Dedication. It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been
+freed from that one-sidedness which must beset individual
+decisions:--but for the final choice the Editor is alone responsible.
+
+Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible
+poets not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different
+periods, have been twice systematically read through: and it is hence
+improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are due to
+oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a very few
+instances where a stanza or passage has been omitted. These omissions
+have been risked only when the piece could be thus brought to a closer
+lyrical unity: and, as essentially opposed to this unity, extracts,
+obviously such, are excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of
+the book has appeared to justify the choice of the most poetical
+version, wherever more than one exists; and much labour has been given
+to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to
+the greatest advantage.
+
+In the arrangement, the most poetically-effective order has been
+attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and
+cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of
+Poetry, that a rapid passage between old and new, like rapid
+alteration of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always
+be wearisome and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been
+therefore distributed into Books corresponding, I to the ninety years
+closing about 1616, II thence to 1700, III to 1800, IV to the half
+century just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give
+each portion its distinctive character, they might be called the Books
+of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this
+respect, so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately
+reflects the natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly
+chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at
+instruction than at pleasure, and the wisdom which comes through
+pleasure:--within each book the pieces have therefore been arranged in
+gradations of feeling or subject. And it is hoped that the contents of
+this Anthology will thus be found to present a certain unity, 'as
+episodes,' in the noble language of Shelley, 'to that great Poem which
+all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have
+built up since the beginning of the world.'
+
+As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without
+egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame
+more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism,
+would confine judgments on Poetry to 'the selected few of many
+generations.' Not many appear to have gained reputation without some
+gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses
+by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more
+thought than mastery of expression, are printed in this volume, it
+should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much
+hesitation and regret,--far less that they have been slighted.
+Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few
+have been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill
+in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or
+seriousness in reflection, which render their works, although never
+perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence here
+required,--better worth reading than much of what fills the scanty
+hours that most men spare for self-improvement, or for pleasure in any
+of its more elevated and permanent forms.--And if this be true of even
+mediocre poetry, for how much more are we indebted to the best! Like
+the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a more various power, the
+magic of this Art can confer on each period of life its appropriate
+blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity Calm, on age,
+Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures 'more golden than gold,' leading
+us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world, and
+interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for
+herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success,
+may be heard throughout the following pages:--wherever the Poets of
+England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is
+spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.
+
+1861
+
+Some poems, especially in Book I, have been added:--either on better
+acquaintance;--in deference to critical suggestions;--or unknown to
+the Editor when first gathering his harvest. For aid in these
+after-gleanings he is specially indebted to the excellent reprints of
+rare early verse given us by Dr. Hannah, Dr. Grosart, Mr. Arber, Mr.
+Bullen, and others,--and (in regard to the additions of 1883) to the
+advice of that distinguished Friend, by whom the final choice has been
+so largely guided. The text has also been carefully revised from
+authoritative sources. It has still seemed best, for many reasons, to
+retain the original limit by which the selection was confined to those
+then no longer living. But the editor hopes that, so far as in him
+lies, a complete and definitive collection of our best Lyrics, to the
+central year of this fast-closing century, is now offered.
+
+1883-1890-1891
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+DEDICATION
+
+PREFACE                   PAGE
+
+BOOK I.                     1
+
+BOOK II.                   56
+
+BOOK III.                 133
+
+BOOK IV.                  197
+
+NOTES                     349
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS          371
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES      375
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+       [Greek: Eis ton leimona kathisas,
+               edrepen heteron eph' hetero
+               airomenos agreum' antheon
+               hadomena psucha -- --]
+
+                            [Eurip. frag. 754.]
+
+         ['He sat in the meadow and plucked
+           with glad heart the spoil of the
+           flowers, gathering them one by one.']
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book First
+
+
+I
+
+_SPRING_
+
+
+    Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
+    Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
+    Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+    The palm and may make country houses gay,
+    Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
+    And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
+
+    The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
+    Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
+    In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
+      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+          Spring! the sweet Spring!
+
+_T. Nash._
+
+
+II
+
+_THE FAIRY LIFE_
+
+1
+
+    Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
+    In a cowslip's bell I lie;
+    There I couch, when owls do cry:
+    On the bat's back I do fly
+    After summer merrily.
+        Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
+        Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!
+
+
+III
+
+2
+
+    Come unto these yellow sands,
+        And then take hands:
+    Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd
+        The wild waves whist,
+    Foot it featly here and there;
+    And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.
+          Hark, hark!
+              Bow-bow.
+          The watch-dogs bark:
+              Bow-wow.
+          Hark, hark! I hear
+    The strain of strutting chanticleer
+          Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+IV
+
+_SUMMONS TO LOVE_
+
+    Phoebus, arise!
+    And paint the sable skies
+    With azure, white, and red:
+    Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
+    That she may thy career with roses spread:
+    The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
+    Make an eternal Spring!
+    Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
+    Spread forth thy golden hair
+    In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
+    And emperor-like decore
+    With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
+    Chase hence the ugly night
+    Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
+
+    --This is that happy morn,
+    That day, long-wished day
+    Of all my life so dark,
+    (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
+    And fates my hopes betray),
+    Which, purely white, deserves
+    An everlasting diamond should it mark.
+    This is the morn should bring unto this grove
+    My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
+    Fair King, who all preserves,
+    But show thy blushing beams,
+    And thou two sweeter eyes
+    Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams
+    Did once thy heart surprize.
+    Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
+    If that ye winds would hear
+    A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
+    Your furious chiding stay;
+    Let Zephyr only breathe,
+    And with her tresses play.
+    --The winds all silent are,
+    And Phoebus in his chair
+    Ensaffroning sea and air
+    Makes vanish every star:
+    Night like a drunkard reels
+    Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
+    The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
+    The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
+    Here is the pleasant place--
+    And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!
+
+_W. Drummond of Hawthornden_
+
+
+V
+
+_TIME AND LOVE_
+
+1
+
+    When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+    The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
+    When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
+    And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
+
+    When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
+    Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
+    And the firm soil win of the watery main,
+    Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
+
+    When I have seen such interchange of state,
+    Or state itself confounded to decay,
+    Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate--
+    That Time will come and take my Love away:
+
+    --This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
+    But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+VI
+
+2
+
+    Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
+    But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
+    How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
+    Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
+
+    O how shall summer's honey breath hold out
+    Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
+    When rocks impregnable are not so stout
+    Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
+
+    O fearful meditation! where, alack!
+    Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
+    Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
+    Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
+
+    O! none, unless this miracle have might,
+    That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
+
+_W. Shakespeare._
+
+
+VII
+
+_THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    Come live with me and be my Love,
+    And we will all the pleasures prove
+    That hills and valleys, dale and field,
+    And all the craggy mountains yield.
+
+    There will we sit upon the rocks
+    And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
+    By shallow rivers, to whose falls
+    Melodious birds sing madrigals.
+
+    There will I make thee beds of roses
+    And a thousand fragrant posies,
+    A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
+    Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
+
+    A gown made of the finest wool,
+    Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
+    Fair lined slippers for the cold,
+    With buckles of the purest gold.
+
+    A belt of straw and ivy buds
+    With coral clasps and amber studs:
+    And if these pleasures may thee move,
+    Come live with me and be my Love.
+
+    Thy silver dishes for thy meat
+    As precious as the gods do eat,
+    Shall on an ivory table be
+    Prepared each day for thee and me.
+
+    The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
+    For thy delight each May-morning:
+    If these delights thy mind may move,
+    Then live with me and be my Love.
+
+_C. Marlowe_
+
+
+VIII
+
+_OMNIA VINCIT_
+
+    Fain would I change that note
+    To which fond Love hath charm'd me
+    Long long to sing by rote,
+    Fancying that that harm'd me:
+    Yet when this thought doth come
+    'Love is the perfect sum
+        Of all delight,'
+    I have no other choice
+    Either for pen or voice
+        To sing or write.
+
+    O Love! they wrong thee much
+    That say thy sweet is bitter,
+    When thy rich fruit is such
+    As nothing can be sweeter.
+    Fair house of joy and bliss,
+    Where truest pleasure is,
+        I do adore thee:
+    I know thee what thou art,
+    I serve thee with my heart,
+        And fall before thee!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+IX
+
+_A MADRIGAL_
+
+    Crabbed Age and Youth
+    Cannot live together:
+    Youth is full of pleasance,
+    Age is full of care;
+    Youth like summer morn,
+    Age like winter weather,
+    Youth like summer brave,
+    Age like winter bare:
+    Youth is full of sport,
+    Age's breath is short,
+    Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
+    Youth is hot and bold,
+    Age is weak and cold,
+    Youth is wild, and Age is tame:--
+    Age, I do abhor thee,
+    Youth, I do adore thee;
+    O! my Love, my Love is young!
+    Age, I do defy thee--
+    O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
+    For methinks thou stay'st too long.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+X
+
+        Under the greenwood tree
+        Who loves to lie with me,
+        And turn his merry note
+        Unto the sweet bird's throat--
+    Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+            Here shall he see
+            No enemy
+    But winter and rough weather.
+
+        Who doth ambition shun
+        And loves to live i' the sun,
+        Seeking the food he eats
+        And pleased with what he gets--
+    Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+            Here shall he see
+            No enemy
+    But winter and rough weather.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XI
+
+    It was a lover and his lass
+      With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
+    That o'er the green corn-field did pass
+    In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+    When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+      Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+    Between the acres of the rye
+    These pretty country folks would lie:
+    This carol they began that hour,
+    How that life was but a flower:
+
+    And therefore take the present time
+      With a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!
+    For love is crowned with the prime
+    In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+    When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+      Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XII
+
+_PRESENT IN ABSENCE_
+
+    Absence, hear thou this protestation
+        Against thy strength,
+        Distance, and length;
+    Do what thou canst for alteration:
+      For hearts of truest mettle
+    Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.
+
+    Who loves a mistress of such quality,
+        His mind hath found
+        Affection's ground
+    Beyond time, place, and mortality.
+      To hearts that cannot vary
+    Absence is present, Time doth tarry.
+
+    By absence this good means I gain,
+        That I can catch her,
+        Where none can match her,
+    In some close corner of my brain:
+      There I embrace and kiss her;
+    And so I both enjoy and miss her.
+
+_J. Donne_
+
+
+XIII
+
+_VIA AMORIS_
+
+    High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,
+    And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
+    Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
+    More oft than to a chamber-melody,--
+
+    Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me
+    To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
+    My Muse and I must you of duty greet
+    With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;
+
+    Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;
+    By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;
+    Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
+    And that you know I envy you no lot
+
+    Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,--
+    Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XIV
+
+_ABSENCE_
+
+    Being your slave, what should I do but tend
+    Upon the hours and times of your desire?
+    I have no precious time at all to spend
+    Nor services to do, till you require:
+
+    Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour
+    Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
+    Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
+    When you have bid your servant once adieu:
+
+    Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
+    Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
+    But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
+    Save, where you are, how happy you make those;--
+
+    So true a fool is love, that in your will
+    Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XV
+
+    How like a winter hath my absence been
+    From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
+    What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
+    What old December's bareness every where!
+
+    And yet this time removed was summer's time:
+    The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
+    Bearing the wanton burden of the prime
+    Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
+
+    Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
+    But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
+    For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
+    And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
+
+    Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
+    That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVI
+
+_A CONSOLATION_
+
+    When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
+    I all alone beweep my outcast state,
+    And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
+    And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
+
+    Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+    Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
+    Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
+    With what I most enjoy contented least;
+
+    Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
+    Haply I think on Thee--and then my state,
+    Like to the lark at break of day arising
+    From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
+
+    For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings
+    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVII
+
+_THE UNCHANGEABLE_
+
+    O never say that I was false of heart,
+    Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
+    As easy might I from myself depart
+    As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;
+
+    That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
+    Like him that travels, I return again,
+    Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
+    So that myself bring water for my stain.
+
+    Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
+    All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
+    That it could so preposterously be stain'd
+    To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
+
+    For nothing this wide universe I call,
+    Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XVIII
+
+    To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
+    For as you were when first your eye I eyed
+    Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
+    Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
+
+    Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
+    In process of the seasons have I seen,
+    Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
+    Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
+
+    Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
+    Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
+    So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
+    Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
+
+    For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,--
+    Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XIX
+
+_ROSALINE_
+
+    Like to the clear in highest sphere
+    Where all imperial glory shines,
+    Of selfsame colour is her hair
+    Whether unfolded, or in twines:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
+    Resembling heaven by every wink;
+    The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
+    And I do tremble when I think
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
+    That beautifies Aurora's face,
+    Or like the silver crimson shroud
+    That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Her lips are like two budded roses
+    Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
+    Within which bounds she balm encloses
+    Apt to entice a deity:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Her neck is like a stately tower
+    Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
+    To watch for glances every hour
+    From her divine and sacred eyes:
+      Heigh ho, for Rosaline!
+    Her paps are centres of delight,
+    Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
+    Where Nature moulds the dew of light
+    To feed perfection with the same:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    With orient pearl, with ruby red,
+    With marble white, with sapphire blue
+    Her body every way is fed,
+    Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+    Nature herself her shape admires;
+    The Gods are wounded in her sight;
+    And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
+    And at her eyes his brand doth light:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+    Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
+    The absence of fair Rosaline,
+    Since for a fair there's fairer none,
+    Nor for her virtues so divine:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;
+Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
+
+_T. Lodge_
+
+
+XX
+
+_COLIN_
+
+    Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+      Where fairest shades did hide her;
+    The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
+      The cool streams ran beside her.
+    My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
+      To see what was forbidden:
+    But better memory said, fie!
+      So vain desire was chidden:--
+                  Hey nonny nonny O!
+                  Hey nonny nonny!
+
+    Into a slumber then I fell,
+      When fond imagination
+    Seemed to see, but could not tell
+      Her feature or her fashion.
+    But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
+      And sometimes fall a-weeping,
+    So I awaked, as wise this while
+      As when I fell a-sleeping:---
+                  Hey nonny nonny O!
+                  Hey nonny nonny!
+
+_The Shepherd Tonie_
+
+
+XXI
+
+_A PICTURE_
+
+    Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,
+    Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:
+        Out of thy golden quiver
+        Take thou thy strongest arrow
+        That will through bone and marrow,
+    And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:--
+    But come behind, for if she look upon thee,
+    Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXII
+
+_A SONG FOR MUSIC_
+
+    Weep you no more, sad fountains:--
+        What need you flow so fast?
+    Look how the snowy mountains
+        Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
+          But my Sun's heavenly eyes
+              View not your weeping,
+              That now lies sleeping
+        Softly, now softly lies,
+                  Sleeping.
+
+    Sleep is a reconciling,
+        A rest that peace begets:--
+    Doth not the sun rise smiling,
+        When fair at even he sets?
+            --Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!
+              Melt not in weeping!
+              While She lies sleeping
+          Softly, now softly lies,
+                  Sleeping!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXIII
+
+_TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
+    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
+    And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
+
+    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
+    And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
+    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
+    By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
+
+    But thy eternal summer shall not fade
+    Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
+    Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
+    When in eternal lines to time thou growest:--
+
+    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
+    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXIV
+
+_TO HIS LOVE_
+
+    When in the chronicle of wasted time
+    I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
+    And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
+    In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
+
+    Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
+    Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
+    I see their antique pen would have exprest
+    Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
+
+    So all their praises are but prophecies
+    Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;
+    And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
+    They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
+
+    For we, which now behold these present days,
+    Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXV
+
+_BASIA_
+
+        Turn back, you wanton flyer,
+        And answer my desire
+            With mutual greeting.
+        Yet bend a little nearer,--
+        True beauty still shines clearer
+            In closer meeting!
+        Hearts with hearts delighted
+        Should strive to be united,
+    Each other's arms with arms enchaining,--
+            Hearts with a thought,
+    Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.
+
+        What harvest half so sweet is
+        As still to reap the kisses
+            Grown ripe in sowing?
+        And straight to be receiver
+        Of that which thou art giver,
+            Rich in bestowing?
+        There is no strict observing
+        Of times' or seasons' swerving,
+    There is ever one fresh spring abiding;--
+        Then what we sow with our lips
+        Let us reap, love's gains dividing.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+XXVI
+
+_ADVICE TO A GIRL_
+
+    Never love unless you can
+    Bear with all the faults of man!
+    Men sometimes will jealous be
+    Though but little cause they see,
+    And hang the head as discontent,
+    And speak what straight they will repent.
+
+    Men, that but one Saint adore,
+    Make a show of love to more;
+    Beauty must be scorn'd in none,
+    Though but truly served in one:
+    For what is courtship but disguise?
+    True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
+
+    Men, when their affairs require,
+    Must awhile themselves retire;
+    Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
+    And not ever sit and talk:--
+    If these and such-like you can bear,
+    Then like, and love, and never fear!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+XXVII
+
+_LOVE'S PERJURIES_
+
+    On a day, alack the day!
+    Love, whose month is ever May,
+    Spied a blossom passing fair
+    Playing in the wanton air:
+    Through the velvet leaves the wind,
+    All unseen, 'gan passage find;
+    That the lover, sick to death,
+    Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
+    Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
+    Air, would I might triumph so!
+    But, alack, my hand is sworn
+    Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
+    Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
+    Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
+    Do not call it sin in me
+    That I am forsworn for thee:
+    Thou for whom Jove would swear
+    Juno but an Ethiope were,
+    And deny himself for Jove,
+    Turning mortal for thy love.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXVIII
+
+_A SUPPLICATION_
+
+    Forget not yet the tried intent
+    Of such a truth as I have meant;
+    My great travail so gladly spent,
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not yet when first began
+    The weary life ye know, since whan
+    The suit, the service none tell can;
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not yet the great assays,
+    The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
+    The painful patience in delays,
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not! O, forget not this,
+    How long ago hath been, and is
+    The mind that never meant amiss--
+                      Forget not yet!
+
+    Forget not then thine own approved
+    The which so long hath thee so loved,
+    Whose steadfast faith yet never moved--
+                      Forget not this!
+
+_Sir T. Wyat_
+
+
+XXIX
+
+_TO AURORA_
+
+    O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,
+    And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;
+    Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast
+    And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
+
+    O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
+    What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!
+    For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,
+    Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;
+
+    Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
+    And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan
+    Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;
+    No, I would have my share in what were thine:
+
+    And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
+    This happy harmony would make them none.
+
+_W. Alexander, Earl of Sterline_
+
+
+XXX
+
+_IN LACRIMAS_
+
+        I saw my Lady weep,
+    And Sorrow proud to be advanced so
+    In those fair eyes where all perfections keep,
+        Her face was full of woe,
+    But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
+    Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
+
+        Sorrow was there made fair,
+    And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;
+    Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:
+        She made her sighs to sing,
+    And all things with so sweet a sadness move
+    As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
+
+        O fairer than aught else
+    The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!
+    Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:
+        Tears kill the heart, believe.
+    O strive not to be excellent in woe,
+    Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXI
+
+_TRUE LOVE_
+
+    Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+    Admit impediments. Love is not love
+    Which alters when it alteration finds,
+    Or bends with the remover to remove:--
+
+    O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
+    That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
+    It is the star to every wandering bark,
+    Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
+
+    Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
+    Within his bending sickle's compass come;
+    Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
+    But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--
+
+    If this be error, and upon me proved,
+    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXII
+
+_A DITTY_
+
+    My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
+    By just exchange one for another given:
+    I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
+    There never was a better bargain driven:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+    His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
+    My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
+    He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
+    I cherish his because in me it bides:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XXXIII
+
+_LOVE'S INSIGHT_
+
+    Though others may Her brow adore
+    Yet more must I, that therein see far more
+    Than any other's eyes have power to see:
+          She is to me
+    More than to any others she can be!
+    I can discern more secret notes
+    That in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes,
+    Than any else besides have art to read:
+          No looks proceed
+    From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXIV
+
+_LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE_
+
+    Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
+    And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
+    Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
+    Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
+
+    Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
+    And you, my Love, as humble and as low
+    As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
+    Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
+
+    Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
+    My love should shine on you like to the sun,
+    And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
+    Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
+
+    Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
+    Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
+
+_J. Sylvester_
+
+
+XXXV
+
+_CARPE DIEM_
+
+    O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+    O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
+        That can sing both high and low;
+    Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
+    Journeys end in lovers meeting--
+        Every wise man's son doth know.
+
+    What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
+    Present mirth hath present laughter;
+        What's to come is still unsure:
+    In delay there lies no plenty,--
+    Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
+        Youth's a stuff will not endure.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXVI
+
+_AN HONEST AUTOLYCUS_
+
+    Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,
+      Good penny-worths,--but money cannot move:
+    I keep a fair but for the Fair to view;
+      A beggar may be liberal of love.
+    Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true--
+                              The heart is true.
+
+    Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
+      My trifles come as treasures from my mind;
+    It is a precious jewel to be plain;
+      Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:--
+    Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
+                              Of me a grain!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+XXXVII
+
+_WINTER_
+
+    When icicles hang by the wall
+      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
+    And Tom bears logs into the hall,
+      And milk comes frozen home in pail;
+    When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
+    Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                    Tu-whit!
+    Tu-who! A merry note!
+    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+    When all about the wind doth blow,
+      And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
+    And birds sit brooding in the snow,
+      And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
+    When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl--
+    Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                    Tu-whit!
+    Tu-who! A merry note!
+    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXVIII
+
+    That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+    When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
+    Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
+    Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:
+
+    In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
+    As after sunset fadeth in the west,
+    Which by and by black night doth take away,
+    Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:
+
+    In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
+    That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
+    As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
+    Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:
+
+    --This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
+    To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XXXIX
+
+_MEMORY_
+
+    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+    I summon up remembrance of things past,
+    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
+    And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste;
+
+    Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
+    For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
+    And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
+    And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
+
+    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
+    And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
+    The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
+    Which I new pay as if not paid before:
+
+    --But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend,
+    All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XL
+
+_SLEEP_
+
+    Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
+    The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
+    The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
+    Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
+
+    With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
+    Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
+    O make in me those civil wars to cease;
+    I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
+
+    Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
+    A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
+    A rosy garland and a weary head:
+    And if these things, as being thine in right,
+
+    Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
+    Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XLI
+
+_REVOLUTIONS_
+
+    Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+    So do our minutes hasten to their end;
+    Each changing place with that which goes before,
+    In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
+
+    Nativity, once in the main of light,
+    Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
+    Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
+    And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
+
+    Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
+    And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
+    Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
+    And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:--
+
+    And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
+    Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLII
+
+    Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
+    And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
+    The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
+    My bonds in thee are all determinate.
+
+    For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
+    And for that riches where is my deserving?
+    The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
+    And so my patent back again is swerving.
+
+    Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
+    Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
+    So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
+    Comes home again, on better judgment making.
+
+    Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;
+    In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIII
+
+_THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION_
+
+    They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
+    That do not do the thing they most do show,
+    Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
+    Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,--
+
+    They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
+    And husband nature's riches from expense;
+    They are the lords and owners of their faces,
+    Others, but stewards of their excellence.
+
+    The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
+    Though to itself it only live and die;
+    But if that flower with base infection meet,
+    The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
+
+    For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
+    Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIV
+
+_THE LOVER'S APPEAL_
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay! for shame,
+    To save thee from the blame
+    Of all my grief and grame.
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    That hath loved thee so long
+    In wealth and woe among:
+    And is thy heart so strong
+    As for to leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    That hath given thee my heart
+    Never for to depart
+    Neither for pain nor smart:
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+    And wilt thou leave me thus,
+    And have no more pity
+    Of him that loveth thee?
+    Alas! thy cruelty!
+    And wilt thou leave me thus?
+    Say nay! say nay!
+
+_Sir T. Wyat_
+
+
+XLV
+
+_THE NIGHTINGALE_
+
+    As it fell upon a day
+    In the merry month of May,
+    Sitting in a pleasant shade
+    Which a grove of myrtles made,
+    Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
+    Trees did grow and plants did spring;
+    Every thing did banish moan
+    Save the Nightingale alone.
+    She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
+    Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
+    And there sung the dolefull'st ditty
+    That to hear it was great pity.
+    Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
+    Teru, teru, by and by:
+    That to hear her so complain
+    Scarce I could from tears refrain;
+    For her griefs so lively shown
+    Made me think upon mine own.
+    --Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
+    None takes pity on thy pain:
+    Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
+    Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
+    King Pandion, he is dead,
+    All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
+    All thy fellow birds do sing
+    Careless of thy sorrowing:
+    Even so, poor bird, like thee
+    None alive will pity me.
+
+_R. Barnefield_
+
+
+XLVI
+
+    Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
+    Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
+    Relieve my languish, and restore the light;
+    With dark forgetting of my care return.
+
+    And let the day be time enough to mourn
+    The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:
+    Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
+    Without the torment of the night's untruth.
+
+    Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
+    To model forth the passions of the morrow;
+    Never let rising Sun approve you liars,
+    To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
+
+    Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
+    And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
+
+_S. Daniel_
+
+
+XLVII
+
+    The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
+      Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
+    While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
+      Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
+        And mournfully bewailing,
+        Her throat in tunes expresseth
+        What grief her breast oppresseth
+    For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
+
+    O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
+    That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
+          Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
+    Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
+
+    Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish
+      But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,
+    Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
+      Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
+        But I, who, daily craving,
+        Cannot have to content me,
+        Have more cause to lament me,
+    Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
+
+    O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
+    That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
+          Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
+    Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+XLVIII
+
+_FRUSTRA_
+
+    Take, O take those lips away
+    That so sweetly were forsworn,
+    And those eyes, the break of day,
+    Lights that do mislead the morn:
+    But my kisses bring again,
+              Bring again--
+    Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
+              Seal'd in vain!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+XLIX
+
+_LOVE'S FAREWELL_
+
+    Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,--
+    Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
+    And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
+    That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
+
+    Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
+    And when we meet at any time again,
+    Be it not seen in either of our brows
+    That we one jot of former love retain.
+
+    Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
+    When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
+    When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
+    And innocence is closing up his eyes,
+
+    --Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
+    From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
+
+_M. Drayton_
+
+
+L
+
+_IN IMAGINE PERTRANSIT HOMO_
+
+    Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
+      Though thou be black as night
+      And she made all of light,
+    Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
+
+    Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!
+      Though here thou liv'st disgraced,
+      And she in heaven is placed,
+    Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
+
+    Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,
+      That so have scorched thee
+      As thou still black must be
+    Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
+
+    Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!
+      There comes a luckless night
+      That will dim all her light;
+    --And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
+
+    Follow still, since so thy fates ordained!
+      The sun must have his shade,
+      Till both at once do fade,--
+    The sun still proved, the shadow still disdained.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LI
+
+_BLIND LOVE_
+
+    O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head
+    Which have no correspondence with true sight:
+    Or if they have, where is my judgment fled
+    That censures falsely what they see aright?
+
+    If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
+    What means the world to say it is not so?
+    If it be not, then love doth well denote
+    Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,
+
+    How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
+    That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
+    No marvel then though I mistake my view:
+    The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
+
+    O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
+    Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LII
+
+    Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!
+      For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?
+    It shall suffice me here to sit and see
+      Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke:
+    What sight can more content a lover's mind
+    Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?
+
+    My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps,
+      Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;
+    And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:
+      Dreams often more than waking passions move.
+    Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:
+    That she in peace may wake and pity me.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LIII
+
+_THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS_
+
+    While that the sun with his beams hot
+    Scorched the fruits in vale and mountain,
+    Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
+    Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
+      In shadow of a green oak tree
+      Upon his pipe this song play'd he:
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    So long as I was in your sight
+    I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
+    And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
+    Burning in flames beyond all measure:
+      --Three days endured your love to me,
+      And it was lost in other three!
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    Another Shepherd you did see
+    To whom your heart was soon enchained;
+    Full soon your love was leapt from me,
+    Full soon my place he had obtained.
+      Soon came a third, your love to win,
+      And we were out and he was in.
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+    Sure you have made me passing glad
+    That you your mind so soon removed,
+    Before that I the leisure had
+    To choose you for my best beloved:
+      For all your love was past and done
+      Two days before it was begun:--
+    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
+    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
+    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LIV
+
+_ADVICE TO A LOVER_
+
+    The sea hath many thousand sands,
+    The sun hath motes as many;
+    The sky is full of stars, and Love
+    As full of woes as any:
+    Believe me, that do know the elf,
+    And make no trial by thyself!
+
+    It is in truth a pretty toy
+    For babes to play withal:--
+    But O! the honeys of our youth
+    Are oft our age's gall!
+    Self-proof in time will make thee know
+    He was a prophet told thee so;
+
+    A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
+    Tells truth without belief;
+    For headstrong Youth will run his race,
+    Although his goal be grief:--
+    Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,
+    Proves Care's Confessor at the last.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LV
+
+_A RENUNCIATION_
+
+    Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,
+      For all those rosy ornaments in thee,--
+    Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,
+      Nor fair, nor sweet--unless thou pity me!
+    I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove
+    That beauty is no beauty without love.
+
+    --Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure
+      My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine:
+    Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,
+      I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine:
+    --Now show it, if thou be a woman right--
+    Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LVI
+
+            Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
+            Thou art not so unkind
+            As man's ingratitude;
+            Thy tooth is not so keen
+            Because thou art not seen,
+            Although thy breath be rude.
+    Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+            Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+            This life is most jolly.
+
+            Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
+            Thou dost not bite so nigh
+            As benefits forgot:
+            Though thou the waters warp,
+            Thy sting is not so sharp
+            As friend remember'd not.
+    Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+            Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+            This life is most jolly.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LVII
+
+_A SWEET LULLABY_
+
+    Come little babe, come silly soul,
+    Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
+    Born as I doubt to all our dole,
+    And to thy self unhappy chief:
+        Sing Lullaby and lap it warm,
+        Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
+
+    Thou little think'st and less dost know,
+    The cause of this thy mother's moan,
+    Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
+    And I myself am all alone:
+        Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
+        And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.
+
+    Come little wretch, ah silly heart,
+    Mine only joy, what can I more?
+    If there be any wrong thy smart
+    That may the destinies implore:
+        'Twas I, I say, against my will,
+        I wail the time, but be thou still.
+
+    And dost thou smile, oh thy sweet face!
+    Would God Himself He might thee see,
+    No doubt thou would'st soon purchase grace,
+    I know right well, for thee and me:
+        But come to mother, babe, and play,
+        For father false is fled away.
+
+    Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance,
+    Thy father home again to send,
+    If death do strike me with his lance,
+    Yet mayst thou me to him commend:
+        If any ask thy mother's name,
+        Tell how by love she purchased blame.
+
+    Then will his gentle heart soon yield,
+    I know him of a noble mind,
+    Although a Lion in the field,
+    A Lamb in town thou shalt him find:
+        Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,
+        His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
+
+    Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
+    Although in woe I seem to moan,
+    Thy father is no rascal lad,
+    A noble youth of blood and bone:
+        His glancing looks, if he once smile,
+        Right honest women may beguile.
+
+    Come, little boy, and rock asleep,
+    Sing lullaby and be thou still,
+    I that can do nought else but weep;
+    Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
+        God bless my babe, and lullaby
+        From this thy father's quality!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LVIII
+
+    With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
+    How silently, and with how wan a face!
+    What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place
+    That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
+
+    Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
+    Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
+    I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,
+    To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
+
+    Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
+    Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
+    Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
+    Do they above love to be loved, and yet
+
+    Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
+    Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?
+
+_Sir P. Sidney_
+
+
+LIX
+
+_O CRUDELIS AMOR_
+
+    When thou must home to shades of underground,
+    And there arrived, a new admired guest,
+    The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
+    White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
+    To hear the stories of thy finish'd love
+    From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
+
+    Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
+    Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
+    Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights,
+    And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
+    When thou hast told' these honours done to thee,
+    Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LX
+
+_SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD_
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
+        Mother's wag, pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy;
+        When thy father first did see
+        Such a boy by him and me,
+        He was glad, I was woe,
+        Fortune changed made him so,
+        When he left his pretty boy
+        Last his sorrow, first his joy.
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
+        Streaming tears that never stint,
+        Like pearl drops from a flint,
+        Fell by course from his eyes,
+        That one another's place supplies;
+        Thus he grieved in every part,
+        Tears of blood fell from his heart,
+        When he left his pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy.
+
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
+        The wanton smiled, father wept,
+        Mother cried, baby leapt;
+        More he crow'd, more we cried,
+        Nature could not sorrow hide:
+        He must go, he must kiss
+        Child and mother, baby bless,
+        For he left his pretty boy,
+        Father's sorrow, father's joy.
+    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
+    When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
+
+_R. Greene_
+
+
+LXI
+
+_A LAMENT_
+
+    My thoughts hold mortal strife;
+    I do detest my life,
+    And with lamenting cries
+    Peace to my soul to bring
+    Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:
+    --But he, grim grinning King,
+    Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,
+    Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
+    Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXII
+
+_DIRGE OF LOVE_
+
+      Come away, come away, Death,
+    And in sad cypres let me be laid;
+      Fly away, fly away, breath;
+    I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
+    My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
+          O prepare it!
+    My part of death, no one so true
+          Did share it.
+
+      Not a flower, not a flower sweet
+    On my black coffin let there be strown;
+      Not a friend, not a friend greet
+    My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
+    A thousand thousand sighs to save,
+          Lay me, O where
+    Sad true lover never find my grave,
+          To weep there.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXIII
+
+_TO HIS LUTE_
+
+    My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
+    With thy green mother in some shady grove,
+    When immelodious winds but made thee move,
+    And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
+
+    Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
+    Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
+    Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
+    What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
+
+    Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
+    But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
+    Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
+    For which be silent as in woods before:
+
+    Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
+    Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXIV
+
+_FIDELE_
+
+    Fear no more the heat o' the sun
+        Nor the furious winter's rages;
+    Thou thy worldly task hast done,
+        Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;
+    Golden lads and girls all must,
+    As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
+
+    Fear no more the frown o' the great,
+        Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
+    Care no more to clothe and eat;
+        To thee the reed is as the oak:
+    The sceptre, learning, physic, must
+    All follow this, and come to dust.
+
+    Fear no more the lightning-flash
+        Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
+    Fear not slander, censure rash;
+        Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
+    All lovers young, all lovers must
+    Consign to thee, and come to dust.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXV
+
+_A SEA DIRGE_
+
+    Full fathom five thy father lies:
+        Of his bones are coral made;
+    Those are pearls that were his eyes:
+        Nothing of him that doth fade,
+    But doth suffer a sea-change
+    Into something rich and strange.
+    Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
+      Hark! now I hear them,--
+          Ding, dong, bell.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXVI
+
+_A LAND DIRGE_
+
+    Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
+    Since o'er shady groves they hover
+    And with leaves and flowers do cover
+    The friendless bodies of unburied men.
+    Call unto his funeral dole
+    The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
+    To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
+    And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
+    But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
+    For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
+
+_J. Webster_
+
+
+LXVII
+
+_POST MORTEM_
+
+    If Thou survive my well-contented day
+    When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
+    And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
+    These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;
+
+    Compare them with the bettering of the time,
+    And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
+    Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
+    Exceeded by the height of happier men.
+
+    O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought--
+    'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
+    A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
+    To march in ranks of better equipage:
+
+    But since he died, and poets better prove,
+    Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXVIII
+
+_THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH_
+
+    No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+    Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
+    Give warning to the world, that I am fled
+    From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
+
+    Nay, if you read this line, remember not
+    The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
+    That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
+    If thinking on me then should make you woe.
+
+    O if, I say, you look upon this verse
+    When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
+    Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
+    But let your love even with my life decay;
+
+    Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
+    And mock you with me after I am gone.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXIX
+
+_YOUNG LOVE_
+
+    Tell me where is Fancy bred,
+    Or in the heart, or in the head?
+    How begot, how nourished?
+          Reply, reply.
+
+    It is engender'd in the eyes;
+    With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
+    In the cradle where it lies:
+    Let us all ring Fancy's knell;
+    I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
+          --Ding, dong, bell.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXX
+
+_A DILEMMA_
+
+      Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting
+        Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
+        And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,
+      My eyes present me with a double doubting:
+    For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes
+    Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+LXXI
+
+_ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL_
+
+    Love in my bosom, like a bee,
+                Doth suck his sweet;
+    Now with his wings he plays with me,
+                Now with his feet.
+        Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
+        His bed amidst my tender breast;
+        My kisses are his daily feast,
+        And yet he robs me of my rest:
+                Ah! wanton, will ye?
+
+    And if I sleep, then percheth he
+                With pretty flight,
+    And makes his pillow of my knee
+                The livelong night.
+        Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
+        He music plays if so I sing;
+        He lends me every lovely thing,
+        Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
+                Whist, wanton, will ye?
+
+    Else I with roses every day
+                Will whip you hence,
+    And bind you, when you long to play,
+                For your offence;
+        I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;
+        I'll make you fast it for your sin;
+        I'll count your power not worth a pin;
+        --Alas! what hereby shall I win,
+                If he gainsay me?
+
+    What if I beat the wanton boy
+                With many a rod?
+    He will repay me with annoy,
+                Because a god.
+        Then sit thou safely on my knee,
+        And let thy bower my bosom be;
+        Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
+        O Cupid! so thou pity me,
+                Spare not, but play thee!
+
+_T. Lodge_
+
+
+LXXII
+
+_CUPID AND CAMPASPE_
+
+    Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+    At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
+    He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
+    His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
+    Loses them too; then down he throws
+    The coral of his lip, the rose
+    Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
+    With these, the crystal of his brow,
+    And then the dimple on his chin;
+    All these did my Campaspe win:
+    And last he set her both his eyes--
+    She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
+        O Love! has she done this to thee?
+        What shall, alas! become of me?
+
+_J. Lylye_
+
+
+LXXIII
+
+    Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
+      With night we banish sorrow;
+    Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
+      To give my Love good-morrow!
+    Wings from the wind to please her mind
+      Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
+    Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
+      To give my Love good-morrow;
+          To give my Love good-morrow
+          Notes from them both I'll borrow.
+
+    Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,
+      Sing, birds, in every furrow;
+    And from each hill, let music shrill
+      Give my fair Love good-morrow!
+    Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
+      Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
+    You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
+      Sing my fair Love good-morrow;
+          To give my Love good-morrow
+          Sing, birds, in every furrow!
+
+_T. Heywood_
+
+
+LXXIV
+
+_PROTHALAMION_
+
+    Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+    Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play--
+    A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
+    Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
+    When I, (whom sullen care,
+    Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
+    In princes' court, and expectation vain
+    Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
+    Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
+    Walk'd forth to ease my pain
+    Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
+    Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
+    Was painted all with variable flowers,
+    And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
+    Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
+    And crown their paramours
+    Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    There in a meadow by the river's side
+    A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy,
+    All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
+    With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
+    As each had been a bride;
+    And each one had a little wicker basket
+    Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously.
+    In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
+    And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
+    The tender stalks on high.
+    Of every sort which in that meadow grew
+    They gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,
+    The little daisy that at evening closes,
+    The virgin lily and the primrose true,
+    With store of vermeil roses,
+    To deck their bridegrooms' posies
+    Against the bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    With that I saw two Swans of goodly hue
+    Come softly swimming down along the Lee;
+    Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
+    The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow
+    Did never whiter show,
+    Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
+    For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
+    Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
+    Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
+    So purely white they were
+    That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
+    Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare
+    To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
+    Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
+    And mar their beauties bright
+    That shone as Heaven's light
+    Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
+    Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
+    As they came floating on the crystal flood;
+    Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still
+    Their wondering eyes to fill;
+    Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair
+    Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem
+    Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
+    Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;
+    For sure they did not seem
+    To be begot of any earthly seed,
+    But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed;
+    Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,
+    In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
+    The earth did fresh array;
+    So fresh they seem'd as day,
+    Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
+    Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
+    That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
+    All which upon those goodly birds they threw
+    And all the waves did strew,
+    That like old Peneus' waters they did seem
+    When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore
+    Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
+    That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,
+    Like a bride's chamber-floor.
+    Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound
+    Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
+    The which presenting all in trim array,
+    Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd;
+    Whilst one did sing this lay
+    Prepared against that day,
+    Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.
+
+    'Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
+    And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
+    Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
+    Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content
+    Of your love's couplement;
+    And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
+    With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
+    Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
+    All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
+    For ever to assoil.
+    Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
+    And blessed plenty wait upon your board;
+    And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
+    That fruitful issue may to you afford
+    Which may your foes confound,
+    And make your joys redound
+    Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.'
+
+    So ended she; and all the rest around
+    To her redoubled that her undersong,
+    Which said their bridal day should not be long:
+    And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
+    Their accents did resound.
+    So forth those joyous birds did pass along
+    Adown the Lee that to them murmur'd low,
+    As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue;
+    Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
+    Making his stream run slow.
+    And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
+    'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
+    The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
+    The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,
+    Did on those two attend,
+    And their best service lend
+    Against their wedding day, which was not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    At length they all to merry London came,
+    To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
+    That to me gave this life's first native source,
+    Though from another place I take my name,
+    An house of ancient fame:
+    There when they came whereas those bricky towers
+    The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride,
+    Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
+    There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
+    Till they decay'd through pride;
+    Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
+    Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace
+    Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
+    Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;
+    But ah! here fits not well
+    Old woes, but joys to tell
+    Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
+    Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,
+    Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,
+    And Hercules' two pillars standing near
+    Did make to quake and fear:
+    Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!
+    That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame
+    Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
+    And endless happiness of thine own name
+    That promiseth the same;
+    That through thy prowess and victorious arms
+    Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
+    And great Elisa's glorious name may ring
+    Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,
+    Which some brave Muse may sing
+    To ages following:
+    Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+    From those high towers this noble lord issuing
+    Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
+    In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fair,
+    Descended to the river's open viewing
+    With a great train ensuing.
+    Above the rest were goodly to be seen
+    Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
+    Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
+    With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
+    Fit for so goodly stature,
+    That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight
+    Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
+    They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
+    Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
+    Which, at th' appointed tide,
+    Each one did make his bride
+    Against their bridal day, which is not long:
+      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+_E. Spenser_
+
+
+LXXV
+
+_THE HAPPY HEART_
+
+    Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+              O sweet content!
+    Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
+              O punishment!
+    Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd
+    To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
+    O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+      Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+      Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+    Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+    Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
+              O sweet content!
+    Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
+              O punishment!
+    Then he that patiently want's burden bears
+    No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
+    O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+      Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+      Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+    Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+_T. Dekker_
+
+
+LXXVI
+
+_SIC TRANSIT_
+
+    Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
+      For while thou view'st me with thy fading light
+    Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
+      And I still onward haste to my last night:
+    Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly--
+    So every day we live a day we die.
+
+    But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest,
+      How are my days deprived of life in you
+    When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,
+      By feigned death life sweetly to renew!
+    Part of my life, in that, you life deny:
+    So every day we live, a day we die.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LXXVII
+
+    This Life, which seems so fair,
+    Is like a bubble blown up in the air
+    By sporting children's breath,
+    Who chase it everywhere
+    And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
+    And though it sometimes seem of its own might
+    Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
+    And firm to hover in that empty height,
+    That only is because it is so light.
+    --But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
+    For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
+    Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXVIII
+
+_SOUL AND BODY_
+
+    Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
+    [Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,
+    Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
+    Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
+
+    Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
+    Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
+    Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
+    Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
+
+    Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
+    And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
+    Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
+    Within be fed, without be rich no more:--
+
+    So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
+    And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXXIX
+
+    The man of life upright,
+      Whose guiltless heart is free
+    From all dishonest deeds,
+      Or thought of vanity;
+
+    The man whose silent days
+      In harmless joys are spent,
+    Whom hopes cannot delude
+      Nor sorrow discontent:
+
+    That man needs neither towers
+      Nor armour for defence,
+    Nor secret vaults to fly
+      From thunder's violence:
+
+    He only can behold
+      With unaffrighted eyes
+    The horrors of the deep
+      And terrors of the skies.
+
+    Thus scorning all the cares
+      That fate or fortune brings,
+    He makes the heaven his book,
+      His wisdom heavenly things;
+
+    Good thoughts his only friends,
+      His wealth a well-spent age,
+    The earth his sober inn
+      And quiet pilgrimage.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+LXXX
+
+_THE LESSONS OF NATURE_
+
+    Of this fair volume which we World do name
+    If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
+    Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
+    We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
+
+    Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
+    His providence extending everywhere,
+    His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
+    In every page, no period of the same.
+
+    But silly we, like foolish children, rest
+    Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
+    Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
+    On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
+
+    Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
+    It is some picture on the margin wrought.
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXXI
+
+    Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+    Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
+    Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
+    Are these your influences, Powers above?
+
+    Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,
+    Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
+    And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,
+    Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.
+
+    Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all
+    Why should best minds groan under most distress?
+    Or why should pride humility make thrall,
+    And injuries the innocent oppress?
+
+    Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
+    When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+LXXXII
+
+_THE WORLD'S WAY_
+
+    Tired with all these, for restful death I cry--
+    As, to behold desert a beggar born,
+    And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
+    And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
+
+    And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
+    And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
+    And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
+    And strength by limping sway disabled,
+
+    And art made tongue-tied by authority,
+    And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
+    And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
+    And captive Good attending captain Ill:--
+
+    --Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
+    Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
+
+_W. Shakespeare_
+
+
+LXXXIII
+
+_A WISH_
+
+    Happy were he could finish forth his fate
+    In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure
+    From all society, from love and hate
+    Of worldly folk, there should he sleep secure;
+
+    Then wake again, and yield God ever praise;
+    Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry;
+    In contemplation passing still his days,
+    And change of holy thoughts to make him merry:
+
+    Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bush
+    Where harmless robin resteth with the thrush:
+              --Happy were he!
+
+_R. Devereux, Earl of Essex_
+
+
+LXXXIV
+
+_SAINT JOHN BAPTIST_
+
+    The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+    Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
+    Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
+    Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.
+
+    His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
+    With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
+    Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
+    Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
+
+    There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
+    On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
+    Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
+    --Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
+
+    Only the echoes, which he made relent,
+    Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
+
+_W. Drummond_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Second
+
+LXXXV
+
+_ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY_
+
+    This is the month, and this the happy morn
+    Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
+    Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
+    Our great redemption from above did bring;
+    For so the holy sages once did sing
+    That He our deadly forfeit should release,
+    And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
+
+    That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
+    And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
+    Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
+    To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
+    He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
+    Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
+    And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
+
+    Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
+    Afford a present to the Infant God?
+    Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain
+    To welcome Him to this His new abode,
+    Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
+    Hath took no print of the approaching light,
+    And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
+
+    See how from far, upon the eastern road,
+    The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
+    O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
+    And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;
+    Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
+    And join thy voice unto the Angel quire
+    From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
+
+
+_THE HYMN_
+
+    It was the winter wild
+    While the heaven-born Child
+    All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
+    Nature in awe to Him
+    Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
+    With her great Master so to sympathize:
+    It was no season then for her
+    To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
+
+    Only with speeches fair
+    She woos the gentle air
+    To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
+    And on her naked shame,
+    Pollute with sinful blame,
+    The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
+    Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
+    Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
+
+    But He, her fears to cease,
+    Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;
+    She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
+    Down through the turning sphere,
+    His ready harbinger,
+    With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
+    And waving wide her myrtle wand,
+    She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
+
+    No war, or battle's sound
+    Was heard the world around:
+    The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
+    The hooked chariot stood
+    Unstain'd with hostile blood;
+    The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
+    And kings sat still with awful eye,
+    As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
+
+    But peaceful was the night
+    Wherein the Prince of Light
+    His reign of peace upon the earth began:
+    The winds, with wonder whist,
+    Smoothly the waters kist
+    Whispering new joys to the mild ocean--
+    Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
+    While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
+
+    The stars, with deep amaze,
+    Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
+    Bending one way their precious influence;
+    And will not take their flight
+    For all the morning light,
+    Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
+    But in their glimmering orbs did glow
+    Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.
+
+    And though the shady gloom
+    Had given day her room,
+    The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
+    And hid his head for shame,
+    As his inferior flame
+    The new-enlighten'd world no more should need;
+    He saw a greater Sun appear
+    Than his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear.
+
+    The shepherds on the lawn
+    Or ere the point of dawn
+    Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
+    Full little thought they than
+    That the mighty Pan
+    Was kindly come to live with them below;
+    Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep
+    Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:--
+
+    When such music sweet
+    Their hearts and ears did greet
+    As never was by mortal finger strook--
+    Divinely-warbled voice
+    Answering the stringed noise,
+    As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
+    The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
+    With thousand echoes, still prolongs each heavenly close.
+
+    Nature, that heard such sound
+    Beneath the hollow round
+    Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling.
+    Now was almost won
+    To think her part was done,
+    And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
+    She knew such harmony alone
+    Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union,
+
+    At last surrounds their sight
+    A globe of circular light
+    That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
+    The helmed Cherubim
+    And sworded Seraphim
+    Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
+    Harping in loud and solemn quire
+    With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
+
+    Such music (as 'tis said)
+    Before was never made
+    But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
+    While the Creator great
+    His constellations set
+    And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;
+    And cast the dark foundations deep,
+    And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep,
+
+    Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
+    Once bless our human ears,
+    If ye have power to touch our senses so;
+    And let your silver chime
+    Move in melodious time;
+    And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;
+    And with your ninefold harmony
+    Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
+
+    For if such holy song
+    Enwrap our fancy long,
+    Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;
+    And speckled Vanity
+    Will sicken soon and die,
+    And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
+    And Hell itself will pass away,
+    And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
+
+    Yea, Truth and Justice then
+    Will down return to men,
+    Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
+    Mercy will sit between
+    Throned in celestial sheen,
+    With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
+    And Heaven, as at some festival,
+    Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.
+
+    But wisest Fate says No;
+    This must not yet be so;
+    The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
+    That on the bitter cross
+    Must redeem our loss;
+    So both Himself and us to glorify:
+    Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep
+    The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
+
+    With such a horrid clang
+    As on Mount Sinai rang
+    While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
+    The aged Earth aghast
+    With terror of that blast
+    Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
+    When, at the world's last session,
+    The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
+
+    And then at last our bliss
+    Full and perfect is,
+    But now begins; for from this happy day
+    The old Dragon under ground,
+    In straiter limits bound,
+    Not half so far casts his usurped sway;
+    And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
+    Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
+
+    The Oracles are dumb;
+    No voice or hideous hum
+    Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
+    Apollo from his shrine
+    Can no more divine,
+    With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:
+    No nightly trance or breathed spell
+    Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
+
+    The lonely mountains o'er
+    And the resounding shore
+    A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
+    From haunted spring and dale
+    Edged with poplar pale
+    The parting Genius is With sighing sent;
+    With flower-inwoven tresses torn
+    The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
+
+    In consecrated earth
+    And on the holy hearth
+    The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;
+    In urns, and altars round
+    A drear and dying sound
+    Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
+    And the chill marble seems to sweat,
+    While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.
+
+    Peor and Baalim
+    Forsake their temples dim,
+    With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;
+    And mooned Ashtaroth
+    Heaven's queen and mother both,
+    Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
+    The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:
+    In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
+
+    And sullen Moloch, fled,
+    Hath left in shadows dread
+    His burning idol all of blackest hue;
+    In vain with cymbals' ring
+    They call the grisly king,
+    In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
+    The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
+    Isis; and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
+
+    Nor is Osiris seen
+    In Memphian grove, or green,
+    Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
+    Nor can he be at rest
+    Within his sacred chest;
+    Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
+    In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
+    The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
+
+    He feels from Juda's land
+    The dreaded Infant's hand;
+    The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
+    Nor all the gods beside
+    Longer dare abide,
+    Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
+    Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,
+    Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.
+
+    So, when the sun in bed
+    Curtain'd with cloudy red
+    Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
+    The flocking shadows pale
+    Troop to the infernal jail,
+    Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
+    And the yellow-skirted fays
+    Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
+
+    But see! the Virgin blest
+    Hath laid her Babe to rest;
+    Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:
+    Heaven's youngest-teemed star
+    Hath fix'd her polish'd car,
+    Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
+    And all about the courtly stable
+    Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+LXXXVI
+
+_SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687_
+
+    From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+        This universal frame began:
+      When Nature underneath a heap
+        Of jarring atoms lay
+      And could not heave her head,
+    The tuneful voice was heard from high,
+        Arise, ye more than dead!
+    Then cold and hot and moist and dry
+    In order to their stations leap,
+        And Music's power obey.
+    From harmony, from heavenly harmony
+        This universal frame began:
+        From harmony to harmony
+    Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
+    The diapason closing full in Man.
+
+    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+        When Jubal struck the chorded shell
+      His listening brethren stood around,
+      And, wondering, on their faces fell
+      To worship that celestial sound.
+    Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
+        Within the hollow of that shell
+        That spoke so sweetly and so well.
+    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+
+    The trumpet's loud clangor
+      Excites us to arms,
+    With shrill notes of anger
+      And mortal alarms.
+    The double double double beat
+      Of the thundering drum
+      Cries 'Hark! the foes come;
+    Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'
+
+      The soft complaining flute
+        In dying notes discovers
+      The woes of hopeless lovers,
+    Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
+
+      Sharp violins proclaim
+    Their jealous pangs and desperation,
+    Fury, frantic indignation,
+    Depth of pains, and height of passion
+      For the fair disdainful dame.
+
+    But oh! what art can teach,
+    What human voice can reach
+      The sacred organ's praise?
+    Notes inspiring holy love,
+    Notes that wing their heavenly ways
+      To mend the choirs above.
+
+    Orpheus could lead the savage race,
+    And trees unrooted left their place
+      Sequacious of the lyre:
+    But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
+    When to her Organ vocal breath was given
+    An Angel heard, and straight appear'd--
+      Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
+
+_Grand Chorus_
+
+    As from the power of sacred lays
+      The spheres began to move,
+    And sung the great Creator's praise
+      To all the blest above;
+    So when the last and dreadful hour
+    This crumbling pageant shall devour,
+    The trumpet shall be heard on high,
+    The dead shall live, the living die,
+    And Music shall untune the sky.
+
+_J. Dryden_
+
+
+LXXXVII
+
+_ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT_
+
+    Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
+    Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
+    Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
+    When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,
+
+    Forget not: In Thy book record their groans
+    Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
+    Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd
+    Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
+
+    The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
+    To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
+    O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
+
+    The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
+    A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,
+    Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+LXXXVIII
+
+_HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND_
+
+    The forward youth that would appear,
+    Must now forsake his Muses dear,
+        Nor in the shadows sing
+        His numbers languishing.
+
+    'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
+    And oil the unused armour's rust,
+        Removing from the wall
+        The corslet of the hall.
+
+    So restless Cromwell could not cease
+    In the inglorious arts of peace,
+        But through adventurous war
+        Urged his active star:
+
+    And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
+    Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
+        Did thorough his own Side
+        His fiery way divide:
+
+    For 'tis all one to courage high,
+    The emulous, or enemy;
+        And with such, to enclose
+        Is more than to oppose;
+
+    Then burning through the air he went
+    And palaces and temples rent;
+        And Caesar's head at last
+        Did through his laurels blast.
+
+    'Tis madness to resist or blame
+    The face of angry heaven's flame;
+        And if we would speak true,
+        Much to the Man is due
+
+    Who, from his private gardens, where
+    He lived reserved and austere,
+        (As if his highest plot
+        To plant the bergamot,)
+
+    Could by industrious valour climb
+    To ruin the great work of time,
+        And cast the Kingdoms old
+        Into another mould;
+
+    Though Justice against Fate complain,
+    And plead the ancient Rights in vain--
+        But those do hold or break
+        As men are strong or weak;
+
+    Nature, that hateth emptiness,
+    Allows of penetration less,
+        And therefore must make room
+        Where greater spirits come.
+
+    What field of all the civil war
+    Where his were not the deepest scar?
+        And Hampton shows what part
+        He had of wiser art,
+
+    Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
+    He wove a net of such a scope
+        That Charles himself might chase
+        To Carisbrook's narrow case,
+
+    That thence the Royal actor borne
+    The tragic scaffold might adorn:
+        While round the armed bands
+        Did clap their bloody hands.
+
+    He nothing common did or mean
+    Upon that memorable scene,
+        But with his keener eye
+        The axe's edge did try;
+
+    Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,
+    To vindicate his helpless right;
+        But bow'd his comely head
+        Down, as upon a bed.
+
+    --This was that memorable hour
+    Which first assured the forced power:
+        So when they did design
+        The Capitol's first line,
+
+    A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
+    Did fright the architects to run;
+        And yet in that the State
+        Foresaw its happy fate!
+
+    And now the Irish are ashamed
+    To see themselves in one year tamed:
+        So much one man can do
+        That does both act and know.
+
+    They can affirm his praises best,
+    And have, though overcome, confest
+        How good he is, how just
+        And fit for highest trust.
+
+    Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
+    But still in the Republic's hand--
+        How fit he is to sway
+        That can so well obey!
+
+    He to the Commons' feet presents
+    A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
+        And (what he may) forbears
+        His fame, to make it theirs:
+
+    And has his sword and spoils ungirt
+    To lay them at the Public's skirt.
+       So when the falcon high
+       Falls heavy from the sky,
+
+    She, having kill'd, no more doth search
+    But on the next green bough to perch,
+        Where, when he first does lure,
+        The falconer has her sure.
+
+    --What may not then our Isle presume
+    While victory his crest does plume?
+        What may not others fear
+        If thus he crowns each year?
+
+    As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
+    To Italy an Hannibal,
+        And to all States not free
+        Shall climacteric be.
+
+    The Pict no shelter now shall find
+    Within his parti-colour'd mind,
+        But from this valour sad
+        Shrink underneath the plaid--
+
+    Happy, if in the tufted brake
+    The English hunter him mistake,
+        Nor lay his hounds in near
+        The Caledonian deer.
+
+    But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
+    March indefatigably on;
+        And for the last effect
+        Still keep the sword erect:
+
+    Besides the force it has to fright
+    The spirits of the shady night,
+        The same arts that did gain
+        A power, must it maintain.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+LXXXIX
+
+_LYCIDAS_
+
+_Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel 1637_
+
+    Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+    Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
+    I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
+    And with forced fingers rude
+    Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
+    Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
+    Compels me to disturb your season due:
+    For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
+    Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
+    Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
+    Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
+    He must not float upon his watery bier
+    Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
+    Without the meed of some melodious tear.
+
+      Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well
+    That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
+    Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
+    Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
+    So may some gentle Muse
+    With lucky words favour my destined urn;
+    And as he passes, turn
+    And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
+
+      For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
+    Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:
+    Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
+    Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
+    We drove a-field, and both together heard
+    What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
+    Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
+    Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
+    Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
+    Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
+    Temper'd to the oaten flute,
+    Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
+    From the glad sound would not be absent long;
+    And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
+
+      But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
+    Now thou art gone, and never must return!
+    Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves
+    With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
+    And all their echoes, mourn:
+    The willows and the hazel copses green
+    Shall now no more be seen
+    Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:--
+    As killing as the canker to the rose,
+    Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
+    Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear
+    When first the white-thorn blows;
+    Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
+
+      Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
+    Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
+    For neither were ye playing on the steep
+    Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
+    Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
+    Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
+    Ay me! I fondly dream--
+    Had ye been there ... For what could that have done?
+    What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
+    The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
+    Whom universal nature did lament,
+    When by the rout that made the hideous roar
+    His gory visage down the stream was sent,
+    Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
+
+      Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
+    To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade
+    And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
+    Were it not better done, as others use,
+    To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
+    Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
+    Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
+    (That last infirmity of noble mind)
+    To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
+    But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
+    And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
+    Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears
+    And slits the thin-spun life.  'But not the praise'
+    Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
+    'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
+    Nor in the glistering foil
+    Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
+    But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
+    And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
+    As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
+    Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'
+
+      O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
+    Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
+    That strain I heard was of a higher mood.
+    But now my oat proceeds,
+    And listens to the herald of the sea
+    That came in Neptune's plea;
+    He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
+    What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
+    And question'd every gust of rugged wings
+    That blows from off each beaked promontory:
+    They knew not of his story;
+    And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
+    That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
+    The air was calm, and on the level brine
+    Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
+    It was that fatal and perfidious bark
+    Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
+    That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
+
+      Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
+    His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge
+    Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
+    Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:
+    'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge!'
+    Last came, and last did go
+    The Pilot of the Galilean lake;
+    Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
+    (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
+    He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
+    'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
+    Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake
+    Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!
+    Of other care they little reckoning make
+    Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast.
+    And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
+    Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
+    A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least
+    That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
+    What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
+    And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
+    Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
+    The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
+    But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw
+    Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
+    Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
+    Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
+    --But that two-handed engine at the door
+    Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'
+
+      Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past
+    That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
+    And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
+    Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
+    Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
+    Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
+    On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
+    Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
+    That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers
+    And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
+    Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
+    The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
+    The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
+    The glowing violet,
+    The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
+    With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
+    And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
+    Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,
+    And daffadillies fill their cups with tears
+    To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
+    For so to interpose a little ease,
+    Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:--
+    Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
+    Wash far away,--where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
+    Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
+    Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
+    Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
+    Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
+    Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
+    Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
+    Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,
+    --Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
+    --And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!
+
+      Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
+    For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
+    Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor:
+    So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
+    And yet anon repairs his drooping head
+    And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
+    Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
+    So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high
+    Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;
+    Where, other groves and other streams along,
+    With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
+    And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
+    In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
+    There entertain him all the Saints above
+    In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
+    That sing, and singing, in their glory move,
+    And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
+    Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
+    Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore
+    In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
+    To all that wander in that perilous flood.
+
+      Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
+    While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
+    He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
+    With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
+    And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
+    And now was dropt into the western bay:
+    At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
+    To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XC
+
+_ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY_
+
+    Mortality, behold and fear
+    What a change of flesh is here!
+    Think how many royal bones
+    Sleep within these heaps of stones;
+    Here they lie, had realms and lands,
+    Who now want strength to stir their hands,
+    Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
+    They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
+    Here's an acre sown indeed
+    With the richest royallest seed
+    That the earth did e'er suck in
+    Since the first man died for sin:
+    Here the bones of birth have cried
+    'Though gods they were, as men they died!'
+    Here are sands, ignoble things,
+    Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
+    Here's a world of pomp and state
+    Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
+
+_F. Beaumont_
+
+
+XCI
+
+_THE LAST CONQUEROR_
+
+    Victorious men of earth, no more
+      Proclaim how wide your empires are;
+    Though you bind-in every shore
+      And your triumphs reach as far
+          As night or day,
+      Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
+    And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
+    Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
+
+    Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
+      Each able to undo mankind,
+    Death's servile emissaries are;
+      Nor to these alone confined,
+          He hath at will
+      More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
+    A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
+    Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
+
+_J. Shirley_
+
+
+XCII
+
+_DEATH THE LEVELLER_
+
+    The glories of our blood and state
+        Are shadows, not substantial things;
+    There is no armour against fate;
+        Death lays his icy hand on kings:
+            Sceptre and Crown
+            Must tumble down,
+    And in the dust be equal made
+    With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
+
+    Some men with swords may reap the field,
+        And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
+    But their strong nerves at last must yield;
+        They tame but one another still:
+            Early or late
+            They stoop to fate,
+    And must give up their murmuring breath
+    When they, pale captives, creep to death.
+
+    The garlands wither on your brow;
+        Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
+    Upon Death's purple altar now
+        See where the victor-victim bleeds:
+            Your heads must come
+            To the cold tomb;
+    Only the actions of the just
+    Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
+
+_J. Shirley_
+
+
+XCIII
+
+_WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY_
+
+    Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,
+    Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
+    If deed of honour did thee ever please,
+    Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
+
+    He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
+    That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
+    And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
+    Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
+
+    Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
+    The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
+    The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
+
+    Went to the ground: and the repeated air
+    Of sad Electra's poet had the power
+    To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XCIV
+
+_ON HIS BLINDNESS_
+
+    When I consider how my light is spent
+    Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
+    And that one talent which is death to hide
+    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
+
+    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
+    My true account, lest He returning chide,--
+    Doth God exact day labour, light denied?
+    I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent
+
+    That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need
+    Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best
+    Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
+
+    Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
+    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:--
+    They also serve who only stand and wait.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+XCV
+
+_CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE_
+
+    How happy is he born and taught
+    That serveth not another's will;
+    Whose armour is his honest thought
+    And simple truth his utmost skill!
+
+    Whose passions not his masters are,
+    Whose soul is still prepared for death,
+    Untied unto the world by care
+    Of public fame, or private breath;
+
+    Who envies none that chance doth raise
+    Nor vice; Who never understood
+    How deepest wounds are given by praise;
+    Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
+
+    Who hath his life from rumours freed,
+    Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
+    Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
+    Nor ruin make oppressors great;
+
+    Who God doth late and early pray
+    More of His grace than gifts to lend;
+    And entertains the harmless day
+    With a religious book or friend;
+
+    --This man is freed from servile bands
+    Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
+    Lord of himself, though not of lands;
+    And having nothing, yet hath all.
+
+_Sir H. Wotton_
+
+
+XCVI
+
+_THE NOBLE NATURE_
+
+        It is not growing like a tree
+        In bulk, doth make Man better be;
+    Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
+    To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
+            A lily of a day
+            Is fairer far in May,
+        Although it fall and die that night--
+        It was the plant and flower of Light.
+    In small proportions we just beauties see;
+    And in short measures life may perfect be.
+
+_B. Jonson_
+
+
+XCVII
+
+_THE GIFTS OF GOD_
+
+            When God at first made Man,
+    Having a glass of blessings standing by;
+    Let us (said He) pour on him all we can:
+    Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
+            Contract into a span.
+
+            So strength first made a way;
+    Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
+    When almost all was out, God made a stay,
+    Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure,
+            Rest in the bottom lay.
+
+          For if I should (said He)
+    Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
+    He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
+    And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature,
+          So both should losers be.
+
+          Yet let him keep the rest,
+    But keep them with repining restlessness:
+    Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
+    If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
+          May toss him to My breast.
+
+_G. Herbert_
+
+
+XCVIII
+
+_THE RETREAT_
+
+    Happy those early days, when I
+    Shined in my Angel-infancy!
+    Before I understood this place
+    Appointed for my second race,
+    Or taught my soul to fancy aught
+    But a white, celestial thought;
+    When yet I had not walk'd above
+    A mile or two from my first Love,
+    And looking back, at that short space
+    Could see a glimpse of His bright face;
+    When on some gilded cloud or flower
+    My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
+    And in those weaker glories spy
+    Some shadows of eternity;
+    Before I taught my tongue to wound
+    My conscience with a sinful sound,
+    Or had the black art to dispense
+    A several sin to every sense,
+    But felt through all this fleshly dress
+    Bright shoots of everlastingness.
+
+    O how I long to travel back,
+    And tread again that ancient track!
+    That I might once more reach that plain
+    Where first I left my glorious train;
+    From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
+    That shady City of palm trees!
+    But ah! my soul with too much stay
+    Is drunk, and staggers in the way:--
+    Some men a forward motion love,
+    But I by backward steps would move;
+    And when this dust falls to the urn,
+    In that state I came, return.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+XCIX
+
+_TO MR. LAWRENCE_
+
+    Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
+    Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
+    Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
+    Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
+
+    From the hard season gaining? Time will run
+    On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
+    The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
+    The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
+
+    What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
+    Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
+    To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice.
+
+    Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
+    He who of those delights can judge, and spare
+    To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+C
+
+_TO CYRIACK SKINNER_
+
+    Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
+    Of British Themis, with no mean applause
+    Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
+    Which others at their bar so often wrench;
+
+    To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
+    In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
+    Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
+    And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
+
+    To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
+    Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
+    For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
+
+    And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
+    That with superfluous burden loads the day,
+    And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CI
+
+_A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE_
+
+    Of Neptune's empire let us sing,
+    At whose command the waves obey;
+    To whom the rivers tribute pay,
+    Down the high mountains sliding;
+    To whom the scaly nation yields
+    Homage for the crystal fields
+          Wherein they dwell;
+    And every sea-god pays a gem
+    Yearly out of his watery cell,
+    To deck great Neptune's diadem.
+
+    The Tritons dancing in a ring,
+    Before his palace gates do make
+    The water with their echoes quake,
+    Like the great thunder sounding:
+    The sea-nymphs chaunt their accents shrill,
+    And the Syrens taught to kill
+          With their sweet voice,
+    Make every echoing rock reply,
+    Unto their gentle murmuring noise,
+    The praise of Neptune's empery.
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+CII
+
+_HYMN TO DIANA_
+
+    Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
+        Now the sun is laid to sleep,
+    Seated in thy silver chair
+        State in wonted manner keep:
+            Hesperus entreats thy light,
+            Goddess excellently bright.
+
+    Earth, let not thy envious shade
+        Dare itself to interpose;
+    Cynthia's shining orb was made
+        Heaven to clear when day did close:
+            Bless us then with wished sight,
+            Goddess excellently bright.
+
+    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_
+
+
+CIII
+
+_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 tread 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 commend the rest:
+
+    A face made up
+    Out of no other shop
+    Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
+
+    Sidneian 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_
+
+
+CIV
+
+_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.
+
+    Where there is no place
+    For the glow-worm to lie;
+    Where there is no space
+    For receipt of a fly;
+    Where the midge dares not venture
+    Lest herself fast she lay;
+    If love come, he will enter
+    And soon 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._
+
+
+CV
+
+_THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T.C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS_
+
+        See with what simplicity
+        This nymph begins her golden days!
+        In the green grass she loves to lie,
+        And there with her fair aspect tames
+        The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
+        But only with the roses plays,
+                          And them does tell
+    What colours best become them, and what smell.
+
+        Who can foretell for what high cause
+        This darling of the Gods was born?
+        Yet this is she whose chaster laws
+        The wanton Love shall one day fear,
+        And, under her command severe,
+        See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.
+                          Happy who can
+    Appease this virtuous enemy of man!
+
+        O then let me in time compound
+        And parley with those conquering eyes,
+        Ere they have tried their force to wound;
+        Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
+        In triumph over hearts that strive,
+        And them that yield but more despise:
+                          Let me be laid,
+    Where I may see the glories from some shade.
+
+        Mean time, whilst every verdant thing
+        Itself does at thy beauty charm,
+        Reform the errors of the Spring;
+        Make that the tulips may have share
+        Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,
+        And roses of their thorns disarm;
+                          But most procure
+    That violets may a longer age endure.
+
+        But O young beauty of the woods,
+        Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
+        Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
+        Lest FLORA, angry at thy crime
+        To kill her infants in their prime,
+        Should quickly make th' example yours;
+                         And ere we see--
+    Nip in the blossom--all our hopes and thee.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CVI
+
+_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_
+
+
+CVII
+
+_CONSTANCY_
+
+    I cannot change, as others do,
+      Though you unjustly scorn,
+    Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
+      For you alone was born;
+    No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
+      A surer way I'll try,--
+    And to revenge my slighted love,
+      Will still love on, and die.
+
+    When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,
+      And you to mind shall call
+    The sighs that now unpitied rise,
+      The tears that vainly fall,
+    That welcome hour that ends his smart
+      Will then begin your pain,
+    For such a faithful tender heart
+      Can never break in vain.
+
+_J. Wilmot, Earl of Rochester_
+
+
+CVIII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CIX
+
+_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 shall adore;
+    I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
+      Loved I not Honour more.
+
+_Colonel Lovelace_
+
+
+CX
+
+_ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA_
+
+    You meaner beauties of the night,
+      That 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?
+
+    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?
+
+    You 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?
+
+    So when my Mistress shall be seen
+      In form and beauty of her 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_
+
+
+CXI
+
+_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 Chaeroneia, 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_
+
+
+CXII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXIII
+
+_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._
+
+
+CXIV
+
+    Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise;
+        Old Time will make thee colder,
+    And though each morning new arise
+        Yet we each day grow older.
+    Thou as Heaven art fair and young,
+        Thine eyes like twin stars shining;
+    But ere another day be sprung
+        All these will be declining.
+    Then winter comes with all his fears,
+        And all thy sweets shall borrow;
+    Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,--
+        And I too late shall sorrow!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXV
+
+        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_
+
+
+CXVI
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXVII
+
+_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 may 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._
+
+
+CXVIII
+
+_CORINNA'S MAYING_
+
+    Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn
+    Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
+        See how Aurora throws her fair
+        Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
+        Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see
+        The dew bespangling herb and tree.
+    Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
+    Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
+        Nay! not so much as out of bed?
+        When all the birds have matins said,
+        And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
+        Nay, profanation, to keep in,--
+    Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,
+    Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch-in May,
+
+    Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
+    To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,
+        And sweet as Flora. Take no care
+        For jewels for your gown, or hair:
+        Fear not; the leaves will strew
+        Gems in abundance upon you:
+    Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
+    Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:
+        Come, and receive them while the light
+        Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
+        And Titan on the eastern hill
+        Retires himself, or else stands still
+    Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
+    Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.
+
+    Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
+    How each field turns a street; each street a park
+        Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how
+        Devotion gives each house a bough
+        Or branch: Each porch, each door, ere this,
+        An ark, a tabernacle is,
+    Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
+    As if here were those cooler shades of love.
+        Can such delights be in the street,
+        And open fields, and we not see't?
+        Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
+        The proclamation made for May:
+    And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
+    But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.
+
+    There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
+    But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
+        A deal of youth, ere this, is come
+        Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
+        Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,
+        Before that we have left to dream:
+    And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
+    And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
+        Many a green-gown has been given;
+        Many a kiss, both odd and even:
+        Many a glance too has been sent
+        From out the eye, Love's firmament:
+    Many a jest told of the keys betraying
+    This night, and locks pick'd:--Yet we're not a Maying.
+
+    --Come, let us go, while we are in our prime;
+    And take the harmless folly of the time!
+        We shall grow old apace, and die
+        Before we know our liberty.
+        Our life is short; and our days run
+        As fast away as does the sun:--
+    And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
+    Once lost, can ne'er be found again:
+        So when or you or I are made
+        A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
+        All love, all liking, all delight
+        Lies drown'd with us in endless night.
+    Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
+    Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXIX
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXX
+
+2
+
+    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_
+
+
+CXXI
+
+3
+
+    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._
+
+
+CXXII
+
+_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_
+
+
+CXXIII
+
+_A MYSTICAL ECSTASY_
+
+    E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
+        That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
+    And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,
+        Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
+          Where in a greater current they conjoin:
+    So I my Best-Beloved's am; so He is mine.
+
+    E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,
+        E'en so we join'd; we both became entire;
+    No need for either to renew a suit,
+        For I was flax and he was flames of fire:
+        Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
+    So I my Best-Beloved's am; so He is mine.
+
+    If all those glittering Monarchs that command
+        The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
+    Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,
+        I would not change my fortunes for them all:
+        Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
+    The world's but theirs; but my Beloved's mine.
+
+_F. Quarles_
+
+
+CXXIV
+
+_TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING_
+
+    Bid me to live, and I will live
+      Thy Protestant to be:
+    Or bid me love, and I will give
+      A loving heart to thee.
+
+    A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
+      A heart as sound and free
+    As in the whole world thou canst find,
+      That heart I'll give to thee.
+
+    Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
+      To honour thy decree:
+    Or bid it languish quite away,
+      And 't shall do so for thee.
+
+    Bid me to weep, and I will weep
+      While I have eyes to see:
+    And having none, yet I will keep
+      A heart to weep for thee.
+
+    Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
+      Under that cypress tree:
+    Or bid me die, and I will dare
+      E'en Death, to die for thee.
+
+    Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
+      The very eyes of me,
+    And hast command of every part,
+      To live and die for thee.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXXV
+
+    Love not me for comely grace,
+    For my pleasing eye or face,
+    Nor for any outward part,
+    No, nor for my constant heart,--
+      For those may fail, or turn to ill,
+        So thou and I shall sever:
+    Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
+    And love me still, but know not why--
+      So hast thou the same reason still
+        To doat upon me ever!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXVI
+
+    Not, Celia, that I juster am
+      Or better than the rest;
+    For I would change each hour, like them,
+      Were not my heart at rest,
+
+    But I am tied to very thee
+      By every thought I have;
+    Thy face I only care to see,
+      Thy heart I only crave.
+
+    All that in woman is adored
+      In thy dear self I find--
+    For the whole sex can but afford
+      The handsome and the kind.
+
+    Why then should I seek further store,
+      And still make love anew?
+    When change itself can give no more,
+      'Tis easy to be true.
+
+_Sir C. Sedley_
+
+
+CXXVII
+
+_TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON_
+
+    When Love with 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 Gods that wanton in the air
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+    When flowing cups run swiftly round
+      With no allaying Thames,
+    Our careless heads with roses bound,
+      Our hearts with loyal flames;
+    When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
+      When healths and draughts go free--
+    Fishes that tipple in the deep
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+    When, (like committed linnets), I
+      With shriller throat shall sing
+    The sweetness, mercy, majesty
+      And glories of my King;
+    When I shall voice aloud how good
+      He is, how great should be,
+    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_
+
+
+CXXVIII
+
+_TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS_
+
+        If to be absent were to be
+            Away from thee;
+          Or that when I am gone
+          You or I were alone;
+        Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
+    Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.
+
+        But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
+            To swell my sail,
+          Or pay a tear to 'suage
+          The foaming blue-god's rage;
+        For whether he will let me pass
+    Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.
+
+        Though seas and land betwixt us both,
+            Our faith and troth,
+          Like separated souls,
+          All time and space controls:
+        Above the highest sphere we meet
+    Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.
+
+        So then we do anticipate
+            Our after-fate,
+          And are alive i' the skies,
+          If thus our lips and eyes
+        Can speak like spirits unconfined
+    In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
+
+_Colonel Lovelace_
+
+
+CXXIX
+
+_ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER_
+
+      Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+          Prythee, why so pale?
+      Will, if looking well can't move her,
+          Looking ill prevail?
+          Prithee, why so pale?
+
+      Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
+          Prythee, why so mute?
+      Will, when speaking well can't win her,
+          Saying nothing do't?
+          Prythee, why so mute?
+
+    Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
+          This cannot take her;
+      If of herself she will not love,
+          Nothing can make her:
+          The D--l take her!
+
+_Sir J. Suckling_
+
+
+CXXX
+
+_A SUPPLICATION_
+
+        Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+    And tell thy silent master's humble tale
+        In sounds that may prevail;
+      Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
+        Though so exalted she
+        And I so lowly be
+    Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
+
+        Hark, how the strings awake!
+    And, though the moving hand approach not near,
+        Themselves with awful fear
+      A kind of numerous trembling make.
+        Now all thy forces try;
+        Now all thy charms apply;
+    Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
+
+        Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
+    Is useless here, since thou art only found
+        To cure, but not to wound,
+      And she to wound, but not to cure.
+        Too weak too wilt thou prove
+        My passion to remove;
+    Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.
+
+        Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
+    For thou canst never tell my humble tale
+        In sounds that will prevail,
+      Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
+        All thy vain mirth lay by,
+        Bid thy strings silent lie,
+    Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
+
+_A. Cowley_
+
+
+CXXXI
+
+_THE MANLY HEART_
+
+    Shall I, wasting in despair,
+    Die because a woman's fair?
+    Or make pale my cheeks with care
+    'Cause another's rosy are?
+    Be she fairer than the day
+    Or the flowery meads in May--
+        If she think not well of me
+        What care I how fair she be?
+
+    Shall my silly heart be pined
+    'Cause I see a woman kind;
+    Or a well disposed nature
+    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 well-deservings known
+    Make me quite forget mine own?
+    Be she with, that goodness blest
+    Which may merit name of Best;
+        If she be not such to me,
+        What care I how good she be?
+
+    'Cause her fortune seems too high,
+    Shall I play the fool and die?
+    She that bears a noble mind
+    If not outward helps she find,
+    Thinks what with them he would do
+    Who without them dares her woo;
+        And unless that mind I see,
+        What care I how great she be?
+
+    Great or good, or kind or fair,
+    I will ne'er the more despair;
+    If she love me, this believe,
+    I will die ere she shall grieve;
+    If she slight me when I woo,
+    I can scorn and let her go;
+        For if she be not for me,
+        What care I for whom she be?
+
+_G. Wither_
+
+
+CXXXII
+
+_MELANCHOLY_
+
+        Hence, all you vain delights,
+        As short as are the nights
+        Wherein you spend your folly:
+        There's nought in this life sweet
+        If man were wise to see't,
+        But only melancholy,
+        O sweetest Melancholy!
+      Welcome, folded arms, and 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_
+
+
+CXXXIII
+
+_FORSAKEN_
+
+    O waly waly up the bank,
+      And waly waly down the brae,
+    And waly waly yon burn-side
+      Where I and my Love wont to gae!
+    I leant my back unto an aik,
+      I thought it was a trusty tree;
+    But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
+      Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
+
+    O waly waly, but love be bonny
+      A little time while it is new;
+    But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld
+      And fades awa' like morning dew.
+    O wherefore should I busk my head?
+      Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
+    For my true Love has me forsook,
+      And says he'll never loe me mair.
+
+    Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
+      The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
+    Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
+      Since my true Love has forsaken me.
+    Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
+      And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
+    O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
+      For of my life I am 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 with a siller pin.
+    And, O! if my young babe were born,
+      And set upon the nurse's knee,
+    And I mysell were dead and gane,
+      And the green grass growing over me!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXIV
+
+    Upon my lap my sovereign sits
+    And sucks upon my breast;
+    Meantime his love maintains my life
+    And gives my sense her rest.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    When thou hast taken thy repast,
+    Repose, my babe, on me;
+    So may thy mother and thy nurse
+    Thy cradle also be.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    I grieve that duty doth not work
+    All that my wishing would,
+    Because I would not be to thee
+    But in the best I should.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+    Yet as I am, and as I may,
+    I must and will be thine,
+    Though all too little for thy self
+    Vouchsafing to be mine.
+        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
+        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXV
+
+_FAIR HELEN_
+
+    I wish I were where Helen lies;
+    Night and day on me she cries;
+    O that I were where Helen lies
+        On fair Kirconnell lea!
+
+    Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
+    And curst the hand that fired the shot,
+    When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
+        And died to succour me!
+
+    O think na but my heart was sair
+    When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
+    I laid her down wi' meikle care
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+    As I went down the water-side,
+    None but my foe to be my guide,
+    None but my foe to be my guide,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea;
+
+    I lighted down my sword to draw,
+    I 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._
+
+
+CXXXVI
+
+_THE TWA CORBIES_
+
+    As I was walking all alane
+    I heard twa corbies making a mane;
+    The tane unto the t'other say,
+    'Where sall we gang and dine today?'
+
+    '--In behint yon auld fail dyke,
+    I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
+    And naebody kens that he lies there,
+    But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
+
+    'His hound is to the hunting gane,
+    His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
+    His lady's ta'en another mate,
+    So we may mak our dinner sweet.
+
+    'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
+    And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een:
+    Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
+    We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
+
+    'Mony a one for him makes mane,
+    But nane sall ken where he is gane;
+    O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
+    The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXXXVII
+
+_ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY_
+
+    It was a dismal and a fearful night,--
+    Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,
+    When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
+        By something liker death possest.
+    My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
+        And on my soul hung the dull weight
+        Of some intolerable fate.
+    What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!
+
+    My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,
+    Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
+    Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
+        O thou hast left me all alone!
+    Thy soul and body, when death's agony
+        Besieged around thy noble heart,
+        Did not with more reluctance part
+    Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.
+
+    Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
+    Have ye not seen us walking every day?
+    Was there a tree about which did not know
+        The love betwixt us two?
+    Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,
+        Or your sad branches thicker join,
+        And into darksome shades combine,
+    Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.
+
+    Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
+    Submitted to inform a body here;
+    High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,
+        But low and humble as his grave;
+    So high that all the virtues there did come
+        As to the chiefest seat
+        Conspicuous, and great;
+    So low that for me too it made a room.
+
+    Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
+    As if for him knowledge had rather sought;
+    Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
+        In such a short mortality.
+    Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
+        Still did the notions throng
+        About his eloquent tongue;
+    Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.
+
+    His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
+    Yet never did his God or friends forget.
+    And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
+        Retired, and gave to them their due.
+    For the rich help of books he always took,
+        Though his own searching mind before
+        Was so with notions written o'er,
+    As if wise Nature had made that her book.
+
+    With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
+    He always lived, as other saints do die.
+    Still with his soul severe account he kept,
+        Weeping all debts out ere he slept.
+    Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
+        Like the sun's laborious light,
+        Which still in water sets at night,
+    Unsullied with his journey of the day.
+
+_A. Cowley_
+
+
+CXXXVIII
+
+_FRIENDS IN PARADISE_
+
+    They are all gone into the world of light!
+        And I alone sit lingering here;
+    Their very memory is fair and bright,
+          And my sad thoughts doth clear:--
+
+    It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
+        Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
+    Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
+          After the sun's remove.
+
+    I see them walking in an air of glory,
+        Whose light doth trample on my days:
+    My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
+            Mere glimmering and decays.
+
+    O holy Hope! and high Humility,
+        High as the heavens above!
+    These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me,
+            To kindle my cold love.
+
+    Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
+        Shining no where, but in the dark;
+    What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
+            Could man outlook that mark!
+
+    He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know
+        At first sight, if the bird be flown;
+    But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
+            That is to him unknown.
+
+    And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
+        Call to the soul, when man doth sleep;
+    So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
+            And into glory peep.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+CXXXIX
+
+_TO BLOSSOMS_
+
+    Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
+        Why do ye fall so fast?
+        Your date is not so past,
+    But you may stay yet here awhile
+        To blush and gently smile,
+            And go at last.
+
+    What, were ye born to be
+        An hour or half's delight,
+        And so to bid good-night?
+    'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
+        Merely to show your worth,
+            And lose you quite.
+
+    But you are lovely leaves, where we
+        May read how soon things have
+        Their end, though ne'er so brave:
+    And after they have shown their pride
+        Like you, awhile, they glide
+            Into the grave.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXL
+
+_TO DAFFODILS_
+
+    Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+        You haste away so soon:
+    As yet the early-rising Sun
+        Has not attain'd his noon.
+            Stay, stay,
+        Until the hasting day
+            Has run
+        But to the even-song;
+    And, having pray'd together, we
+        Will go with you along.
+
+    We have short time to stay, as you,
+        We have as short a Spring;
+    As quick a growth to meet decay
+        As you, or any thing.
+            We die,
+        As your hours do, and dry
+            Away
+        Like to the Summer's rain;
+    Or as the pearls of morning's dew
+        Ne'er to be found again.
+
+_R. Herrick_
+
+
+CXLI
+
+_THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN_
+
+    With sweetest milk and sugar first
+    I it at my own fingers nursed;
+    And as it grew, so every day
+    It wax'd more white and sweet than they--
+    It had so sweet a breath! and oft
+    I blush'd to see its foot more soft
+    And white,--shall I say,--than my hand?
+    Nay, any lady's of the land!
+
+    It is a wondrous thing how fleet
+    'Twas on those little silver feet:
+    With what a pretty skipping grace
+    It oft would challenge me the race:--
+    And when 't had left me far away
+    'Twould stay, and run again, and stay:
+    For it was nimbler much than hinds,
+    And trod as if on the four winds.
+
+    I have a garden of my own,
+    But so with roses overgrown
+    And lilies, that you would it guess
+    To be a little wilderness:
+    And all the spring-time of the year
+    It only loved to be there.
+    Among the beds of lilies I
+    Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
+    Yet could not, till itself would rise,
+    Find it, although before mine eyes:--
+    For in the flaxen lilies' shade
+    It like a bank of lilies laid.
+
+    Upon the roses it would feed,
+    Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed:
+    And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
+    And print those roses on my lip.
+    But all its chief delight was still
+    On roses thus itself to fill,
+    And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+    In whitest sheets of lilies cold:--
+    Had it lived long, it would have been
+    Lilies without--roses within.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLII
+
+_THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN_
+
+    How vainly men themselves amaze
+    To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
+    And their uncessant labours see
+    Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
+    Whose short and narrow-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! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,
+    No name shall but your own be found.
+
+    When we have run our passions' heat
+    Love hither makes his best retreat:
+    The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
+    Still in a tree did end their race;
+    Apollo hunted Daphne so
+    Only that she might laurel grow;
+    And Pan did after Syrinx speed
+    Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
+
+    What wondrous life is this I lead!
+    Ripe apples drop about my head;
+    The luscious clusters of the vine
+    Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
+    The nectarine and curious peach
+    Into my hands themselves do reach;
+    Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
+    Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
+
+    Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
+    Withdraws into its happiness;
+    The mind, that ocean where each kind
+    Does straight its own resemblance find;
+    Yet it creates, transcending these,
+    Far other worlds, and other seas;
+    Annihilating all that's made
+    To a green thought in a green shade.
+
+    Here at the fountain's sliding foot
+    Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
+    Casting the body's vest aside
+    My soul into the boughs does glide;
+    There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
+    Then whets and claps its silver wings,
+    And, till prepared for longer flight,
+    Waves in its plumes the various light.
+
+    Such was that happy Garden-state
+    While man there walk'd without a mate:
+    After a place so pure and sweet,
+    What other help could yet be meet!
+    But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
+    To wander solitary there:
+    Two paradises 'twere in one,
+    To live in Paradise alone.
+
+    How well the skilful gardener drew
+    Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
+    Where, from above, the milder sun
+    Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
+    And, as it works, th' industrious bee
+    Computes its time as well as we.
+    How could such sweet and wholesome hours
+    Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLIII
+
+_FORTUNATI NIMIUM_
+
+    Jack and Joan, they think no ill,
+    But loving live, and merry still;
+    Do their week-day's work, and pray
+    Devoutly on the holy-day:
+    Skip and trip it on the green,
+    And help to choose the Summer Queen;
+    Lash out at a country feast
+    Their silver penny with the best.
+
+    Well can they judge of nappy ale,
+    And tell at large a winter tale;
+    Climb up to the apple loft,
+    And turn the crabs till they be soft.
+    Tib is all the father's joy,
+    And little Tom the mother's boy:--
+    All their pleasure is, Content,
+    And care, to pay their yearly rent.
+
+    Joan can call by name her cows
+    And deck her windows with green boughs;
+    She can wreaths and tutties make,
+    And trim with plums a bridal cake.
+    Jack knows what brings gain or loss,
+    And his long flail can stoutly toss:
+    Makes the hedge which others break,
+    And ever thinks what he doth speak.
+
+    --Now, you courtly dames and knights,
+    That study only strange delights,
+    Though you scorn the homespun gray,
+    And revel in your rich array;
+    Though your tongues dissemble deep
+    And can your heads from danger keep;
+    Yet, for all your pomp and train,
+    Securer lives the silly swain!
+
+_T. Campion_
+
+
+CXLIV
+
+_L'ALLEGRO_
+
+    Hence, 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-brow'd rocks
+    As ragged as thy locks,
+      In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
+
+          But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
+        In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
+        And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
+        Whom lovely Venus at a birth
+        With two sister Graces more
+        To ivy-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 hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
+        Right against the eastern gate
+        Where the great Sun begins his state
+        Robed in flames and amber light,
+        The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
+        While the ploughman, near at hand,
+        Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
+        And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
+        And the mower whets his scythe,
+        And every shepherd tells his tale
+        Under the hawthorn in the dale.
+          Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
+        Whilst the landscape round it measures;
+        Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
+        Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
+        Mountains, on whose barren breast
+        The labouring clouds do often rest;
+        Meadows trim with daisies pied,
+        Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
+        Towers and battlements it sees
+        Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
+        Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
+        The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
+          Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
+        From betwixt two aged oaks,
+        Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,
+        Are at their savoury dinner set
+        Of herbs, and other country messes
+        Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
+        And then in haste her bower she leaves
+        With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
+        Or, if the earlier season lead,
+        To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
+          Sometimes with secure delight
+        The upland hamlets will invite,
+        When the merry bells ring round,
+        And the jocund rebecks sound
+        To many a youth and many a maid,
+        Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
+        And young and old come forth to play
+        On a sunshine holyday,
+        Till the live-long day-light fail:
+        Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
+        With stories told of many a feat,
+        How Faery Mab the junkets eat:--
+        She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said;
+        And he, by Friar's lantern led;
+        Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
+        To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
+        When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
+        His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
+        That ten day-labourers could not end;
+        Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
+        And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
+        Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
+        And crop-full out of doors he flings,
+        Ere the first cock his matin rings.
+          Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
+        By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.
+          Tower'd cities please us then
+        And the busy hum of men,
+        Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
+        In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,
+        With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
+        Rain influence, and judge the prize
+        Of wit or arms, while both contend
+        To win her grace, whom all commend.
+        There let Hymen oft appear
+        In saffron robe, with taper clear,
+        And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
+        With mask, and antique pageantry;
+        Such sights as youthful poets dream
+        On summer eves by haunted stream.
+        Then to the well-trod stage anon,
+        If Jonson's learned sock be on,
+        Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
+        Warble his native wood-notes wild.
+          And ever against eating cares
+        Lap me in soft Lydian airs
+        Married to immortal verse,
+        Such as the meeting soul may pierce
+        In notes, with many a winding bout
+        Of 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_
+
+
+CXLV
+
+_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,
+      While yet there was no fear of Jove.
+
+        Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
+      Sober, steadfast, and demure,
+      All in a robe of darkest grain
+      Flowing with majestic train,
+      And sable stole of Cipres lawn
+      Over thy decent shoulders drawn:
+      Come, but keep thy wonted state,
+      With even step, and musing gait,
+      And looks commercing with the skies,
+      Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
+      There, held in holy passion still,
+      Forget thyself to marble, till
+      With a sad leaden downward cast
+      Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
+      And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
+      Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
+      And hears the Muses in a ring
+      Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
+      And add to these retired Leisure
+      That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:--
+      But first and chiefest, with thee bring
+      Him that yon soars on golden wing
+      Guiding the fiery-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 fleshly nook:
+      And of those demons that are found
+      In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
+      Whose power hath a true consent
+      With planet, or with element.
+      Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
+      In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
+      Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
+      Or the tale of Troy divine;
+      Or what (though rare) of later age
+      Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
+        But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
+      Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
+      Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
+      Such notes as, warbled to the string,
+      Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
+      And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
+      Or call up him that left half-told
+      The story of Cambuscan bold,
+      Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
+      And who had 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 turneys, and of trophies hung,
+      Of forests, and enchantments drear,
+      Where more is meant than meets the ear.
+        Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
+      Till civil-suited Morn appear,
+      Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
+      With the Attic Boy to hunt,
+      But kercheft in a comely cloud
+      While rocking winds are piping loud,
+      Or usher'd with a shower still,
+      When the gust hath blown his fill,
+      Ending on the rustling leaves
+      With minute drops from off the eaves.
+      And when the sun begins to fling
+      His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
+      To 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 airy stream
+      Of lively portraiture display'd,
+      Softly on my eyelids laid:
+      And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
+      Above, about, or underneath,
+      Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
+      Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
+        But let my due feet never fail
+      To walk the studious cloister's pale,
+      And love the high-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 shew,
+      And every herb that sips the dew;
+      Till old experience do attain
+      To something like prophetic strain.
+
+      These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
+      And I with thee will choose to live.
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CXLVI
+
+_SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA_
+
+    Where the remote Bermudas ride
+    In the ocean's bosom unespied,
+    From a small boat that row'd along
+    The listening winds received this song.
+      'What should we do but sing His praise
+    That led us through the watery maze
+    Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
+    That lift the deep upon their backs,
+    Unto an isle so long unknown,
+    And yet far kinder than our own?
+    He lands us on a grassy stage,
+    Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:
+    He gave us this eternal Spring
+    Which here enamels everything,
+    And sends the fowls to us in care
+    On daily visits through the air.
+    He hangs in shades the orange bright
+    Like golden lamps in a green night,
+    And does in the pomegranates close
+    Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
+    He makes the figs our mouths to meet
+    And throws the melons at our feet;
+    But apples plants of such a price,
+    No tree could ever bear them twice.
+    With cedars chosen by His hand
+    From Lebanon He stores the land;
+    And makes the hollow seas that roar
+    Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
+    He cast (of which we rather boast)
+    The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
+    And in these rocks for us did frame
+    A temple where to sound His name.
+    Oh! let our voice His praise exalt
+    Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
+    Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may
+    Echo beyond the Mexique bay!'
+    --Thus sung they in the English boat
+    A holy and a cheerful note:
+    And all the way, to guide their chime,
+    With falling oars they kept the time.
+
+_A. Marvell_
+
+
+CXLVII
+
+_AT A SOLEMN MUSIC_
+
+    Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
+    Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!
+    Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ,
+    Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
+    And to our high-raised phantasy present
+    That undisturbed Song of pure concent
+    Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
+          To Him that sits thereon,
+
+    With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
+    Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
+    Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
+    And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
+    Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
+    With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
+          Hymns devout and holy psalms
+          Singing everlastingly:
+    That we on Earth, with undiscording voice
+    May rightly answer that melodious noise;
+    As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
+    Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
+    Broke the fair music that all creatures made
+    To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
+    In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
+    In first obedience, and their state of good.
+    O may we soon again renew that Song,
+    And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
+    To His celestial consort us unite,
+  To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
+
+_J. Milton_
+
+
+CXLVIII
+
+_NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM_.
+
+        When I survey the bright
+            Celestial sphere:
+    So rich with jewels hung, that night
+    Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;
+
+        My soul her wings doth spread,
+            And heaven-ward flies,
+    The Almighty's mysteries to read
+    In the large volumes of the skies.
+
+        For the bright firmament
+            Shoots forth no flame
+    So silent, but is eloquent
+    In speaking the Creator's name.
+
+        No unregarded star
+            Contracts its light
+    Into so small a character,
+    Removed far from our human sight,
+
+        But if we steadfast look,
+            We shall discern
+    In it as in some holy book,
+    How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
+
+        It tells the Conqueror,
+            That far-stretch'd power
+    Which his proud dangers traffic for,
+    Is but the triumph of an hour.
+
+        That from the farthest North
+            Some nation may
+    Yet undiscover'd issue forth,
+    And o'er his new-got conquest sway.
+
+        Some nation yet shut in
+            With hills of ice,
+    May be let out to scourge his sin,
+    Till they shall equal him in vice.
+
+        And then they likewise shall
+            Their ruin have;
+    For as yourselves your Empires fall,
+    And every Kingdom hath a grave.
+
+        Thus those celestial fires,
+            Though seeming mute,
+    The fallacy of our desires
+    And all the pride of life, confute.
+
+        For they have watch'd since first
+            The World had birth:
+    And found sin in itself accursed,
+    And nothing permanent on earth.
+
+_W. Habington_
+
+
+CXLIX
+
+_HYMN TO DARKNESS_
+
+      Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!
+          What Muse is worthy thee to sing?
+        Thee, from whose pregnant universal womb
+        All things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come.
+        What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,
+          Thou first and greatest mystery?
+        Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?
+    Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible.
+
+        Before great Love this monument did raise,
+          This ample theatre of praise;
+        Before the folding circles of the sky
+        Were tuned by Him, Who is all harmony;
+        Before the morning Stars their hymn began,
+          Before the council held for man,
+        Before the birth of either time or place,
+    Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space.
+
+        Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,
+          But still half of the globe is thine.
+        Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand,
+        Like the best emperors thou dost command.
+        To thee the stars above their brightness owe,
+          And mortals their repose below:
+        To thy protection fear and sorrow flee,
+    And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.
+
+_J. Norris of Bemerton_
+
+
+CL
+
+_A VISION_
+
+    I saw Eternity the other night,
+    Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
+        All calm, as it was bright:--
+    And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,
+        Driven by the spheres,
+    Like a vast shadow moved; in which the World
+        And all her train were hurl'd.
+
+_H. Vaughan_
+
+
+CLI
+
+_ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC_
+
+      'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+        By Philip's warlike son--
+        Aloft in awful state
+        The godlike hero sate
+        On his imperial throne;
+        His valiant peers were placed around,
+        Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,
+        (So should desert in arms be crown'd);
+        The lovely Thais by his side
+        Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
+        In flower of youth and beauty's pride:--
+        Happy, happy, happy pair!
+        None but the brave
+        None but the brave
+        None but the brave deserves the fair!
+
+      Timotheus placed on high
+    Amid the tuneful quire
+    With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
+    The trembling notes ascend the sky
+    And heavenly joys inspire.
+    The song began from Jove
+    Who left his blissful seats above--
+    Such is the power of mighty love!
+    A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
+    Sublime on radiant spires he rode
+    When he to fair Olympia prest,
+    And while he sought her snowy breast,
+    Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
+    And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
+    --The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
+    A present deity! they shout around:
+    A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:
+    With ravish'd ears
+    The monarch hears,
+    Assumes the god;
+    Affects to nod
+    And seems to shake the spheres.
+
+      The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
+    Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
+    The jolly god in triumph comes;
+    Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
+    Flush'd with a purple grace
+    He shows his honest face:
+    Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
+    Bacchus, ever fair and young,
+    Drinking joys did first ordain;
+    Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
+    Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
+    Rich the treasure,
+    Sweet the pleasure,
+    Sweet is pleasure after pain.
+
+      Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
+    Fought all his battles o'er again,
+    And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
+    The master saw the madness rise,
+    His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
+    And while he Heaven and Earth defied
+    Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
+    He chose a mournful Muse
+    Soft pity to infuse:
+    He sung Darius great and good,
+    By too severe a fate
+    Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
+    Fallen from his high estate,
+    And weltering in his blood;
+    Deserted at his utmost need
+    By those his former bounty fed;
+    On the bare earth exposed he lies
+    With not a friend to close his eyes.
+    --With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
+    Revolving in his alter'd soul
+    The various turns of Chance below;
+    And now and then a sigh he stole,
+    And tears began to flow.
+
+      The mighty master smiled to see
+    That love was in the next degree;
+    'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,
+    For pity melts the mind to love.
+    Softly sweet, in Lydian measures
+    Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
+    War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
+    Honour but an empty bubble;
+    Never ending, still beginning,
+    Fighting still, and still destroying;
+    If the world be worth thy winning,
+    Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
+    Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
+    Take the good the gods provide thee!
+    --The many rend the skies with loud applause
+    So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
+    The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
+    Gazed on the fair
+    Who caused his care,
+    And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
+    Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
+    At length with love and wine at once opprest
+    The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
+
+      Now strike the golden lyre again:
+    A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
+    Break his bands of sleep asunder
+    And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
+    Hark, hark! the horrid sound
+    Has raised up his head:
+    As awaked from the dead
+    And amazed he stares around.
+    Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
+    See the Furies arise!
+    See the snakes that they rear
+    How they hiss in their hair,
+    And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
+    Behold a ghastly band,
+    Each a torch in his hand!
+    Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
+    And unburied remain
+    Inglorious on the plain:
+    Give the vengeance due
+    To the valiant crew!
+    Behold how they toss their torches on high,
+    How they point to the Persian abodes
+    And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
+    --The princes applaud with a furious joy:
+    And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
+    Thais led the way
+    To light him to his prey,
+    And like another Helen, fired another Troy!
+
+      --Thus, long ago,
+    Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
+    While organs yet were mute,
+    Timotheus, to his breathing flute
+    And sounding lyre
+    Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire
+    At last divine Cecilia came,
+    Inventress of the vocal frame;
+    The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store
+    Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
+    And added length to solemn sounds,
+    With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before
+    --Let old Timotheus yield the prize
+    Or both divide the crown;
+    He raised a mortal to the skies;
+    She drew an angel down!
+
+_J. Dryden_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Third
+
+
+CLII
+
+_ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE_
+
+    Now the golden Morn aloft
+      Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
+    With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
+      She woos the tardy Spring:
+    Till April starts, and calls around
+    The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
+    And lightly o'er the living scene
+    Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
+
+    New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
+      Frisking ply their feeble feet;
+    Forgetful of their wintry trance
+      The birds his presence greet:
+    But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
+    His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
+    And lessening from the dazzled sight,
+    Melts into air and liquid light.
+
+    Yesterday the sullen year
+      Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
+    Mute was the music of the air,
+      The herd stood drooping by:
+    Their raptures now that wildly flow
+    No yesterday nor morrow know;
+    'Tis Man alone that joy descries
+    With forward and reverted eyes.
+
+    Smiles on past misfortune's brow
+      Soft reflection's hand can trace,
+    And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
+      A melancholy grace;
+    While hope prolongs our happier hour,
+    Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
+    And blacken round our weary way,
+    Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
+
+    Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
+      See a kindred grief pursue;
+    Behind the steps that misery treads
+      Approaching comfort view:
+    The hues of bliss more brightly glow
+    Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
+    And blended form, with artful strife,
+    The strength and harmony of life.
+
+    See the wretch that long has tost
+      On the thorny bed of pain,
+    At length repair his vigour lost
+      And breathe and walk again:
+    The meanest floweret of the vale,
+    The simplest note that swells the gale,
+    The common sun, the air, the skies,
+    To him are opening Paradise.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLIII
+
+_ODE TO SIMPLICITY_
+
+        O Thou, by Nature taught
+        To breathe her genuine thought
+    In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;
+        Who first, on mountains wild,
+        In Fancy, loveliest child,
+    Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!
+
+        Thou, who with hermit heart,
+        Disdain'st the wealth of art,
+    And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,
+        But com'st, a decent maid
+        In Attic robe array'd,
+    O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!
+
+        By all the honey'd store
+        On Hybla's thymy shore,
+    By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;
+        By her whose love-lorn woe
+        In evening musings slow
+    Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
+
+        By old Cephisus deep,
+        Who spread his wavy sweep
+    In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat;
+        On whose enamell'd side,
+        When holy Freedom died,
+    No equal haunt allured thy future feet:--
+
+        O sister meek of Truth,
+        To my admiring youth
+    Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
+        The flowers that sweetest breathe,
+        Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,
+    Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
+
+        While Rome could none esteem
+        But Virtue's patriot theme,
+    You loved her hills, and led her laureat band;
+        But stay'd to sing alone
+        To one distinguish'd throne;
+    And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.
+
+        No more, in hall or bower,
+        The Passions own thy power;
+    Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:
+        For thou hast left her shrine;
+        Nor olive more, nor vine,
+    Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
+
+        Though taste, though genius, bless
+        To some divine excess,
+    Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;
+        What each, what all supply
+        May court, may charm our eye;
+    Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
+
+        Of these let others ask
+        To aid some mighty task;
+    I only seek to find thy temperate vale;
+        Where oft my reed might sound
+        To maids and shepherds round,
+    And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLIV
+
+_SOLITUDE_
+
+    Happy the man, whose wish and care
+    A few paternal acres bound,
+    Content to breathe his native air
+                      In his own ground.
+
+    Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
+    Whose flocks supply him with attire;
+    Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
+                      In winter fire.
+
+    Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
+    Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
+    In health of body, peace of mind,
+                      Quiet by day,
+
+    Sound sleep by night; study and ease
+    Together mixt, sweet recreation,
+    And innocence, which most does please
+                      With meditation.
+
+    Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
+    Thus unlamented let me die;
+    Steal from the world, and not a stone
+                      Tell where I lie.
+
+_A. Pope_
+
+
+CLV
+
+_THE BLIND BOY_
+
+    O say what is that thing call'd Light,
+      Which I must ne'er enjoy;
+    What are the blessings of the sight,
+      O tell your poor blind boy!
+
+    You talk of wondrous things you see,
+      You say the sun shines bright;
+    I feel him warm, but how can he
+      Or make it day or night?
+
+    My day or night myself I make
+      Whene'er I sleep or play;
+    And could I ever keep awake
+      With me 'twere always day.
+
+    With heavy sighs I often hear
+      You mourn my hapless woe;
+    But sure with patience I can bear
+      A loss I ne'er can know.
+
+    Then let not what I cannot have
+      My cheer of mind destroy:
+    Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
+      Although a poor blind boy.
+
+_C. Cibber_
+
+
+CLVI
+
+_ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES_
+
+    'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
+    Where China's gayest art had dyed
+    The azure flowers that blow,
+    Demurest of the tabby kind
+    The pensive Selima, reclined,
+    Gazed on the lake below.
+
+    Her conscious tail her joy declared:
+    The fair round face, the snowy beard,
+    The velvet of her paws,
+    Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
+    Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes--
+    She saw, and purr'd applause.
+
+    Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide
+    Two angel forms were seen to glide,
+    The Genii of the stream:
+    Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
+    Through richest purple, to the view
+    Betray'd a golden gleam.
+
+    The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:
+    A whisker first, and then a claw
+    With many an ardent wish
+    She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize--
+    What female heart can gold despise?
+    What Cat's averse to fish?
+
+    Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
+    Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
+    Nor knew the gulf between--
+    Malignant Fate sat by and smiled--
+    The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
+    She tumbled headlong in!
+
+    Eight times emerging from the flood
+    She mew'd to every watery God
+    Some speedy aid to send:--
+    No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
+    Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard--
+    A favourite has no friend!
+
+    From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
+    Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
+    And be with caution bold:
+    Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
+    And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
+    Nor all that glisters, gold!
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLVII
+
+_TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY_
+
+    Timely blossom, Infant fair,
+    Fondling of a happy pair,
+    Every morn and every night
+    Their solicitous delight,
+    Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
+    Pleasing, without skill to please;
+    Little gossip, blithe and hale,
+    Tattling many a broken tale,
+    Singing many a tuneless song,
+    Lavish of a heedless tongue;
+    Simple maiden, void of art,
+    Babbling out the very heart,
+    Yet abandon'd to thy will,
+    Yet imagining no ill,
+    Yet too innocent to blush;
+    Like the linnet in the bush
+    To the mother-linnet's note
+    Moduling her slender throat;
+    Chirping forth thy petty joys,
+    Wanton in the change of toys,
+    Like the linnet green, in May
+    Flitting to each bloomy spray;
+    Wearied then and glad of rest,
+    Like the linnet in the nest:--
+    This thy present happy lot
+    This, in time will be forgot:
+    Other pleasures, other cares,
+    Ever-busy Time prepares;
+  And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
+  This picture, once, resembled thee.
+
+_A. Philips_
+
+
+CLVIII
+
+_RULE BRITANNIA_
+
+      When Britain first at Heaven's command
+        Arose from out the azure main,
+      This was the charter of her land,
+        And guardian angels sung the strain:
+    Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
+          Britons never shall be slaves.
+
+      The nations not so blest as thee
+        Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
+      Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free
+        The dread and envy of them all.
+
+      Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
+        More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
+      As the loud blast that tears the skies
+        Serves but to root thy native oak.
+
+      Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
+        All their attempts to bend thee down
+      Will but arouse thy generous flame,
+        And work their woe and thy renown.
+
+      To thee belongs the rural reign;
+        Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
+      All thine shall be the subject main,
+        And every shore it circles thine!
+
+      The Muses, still with Freedom found,
+        Shall to thy happy coast repair;
+      Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd
+        And manly hearts to guard the fair:--
+    Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
+          Britons never shall be slaves!
+
+_J. Thomson_
+
+
+CLIX
+
+_THE BARD_
+
+_Pindaric Ode_
+
+        'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+      Confusion on thy banners wait;
+    Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
+      They mock the air with idle state.
+    Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
+    Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
+    To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
+    From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'
+    --Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
+      Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
+    As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
+      He wound with toilsome march his long array:--
+    Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;
+      'To arms!', cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.
+
+      On a rock, whose haughty brow
+    Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
+      Robed in the sable garb of woe
+    With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
+    (Loose his beard and hoary hair
+    Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)
+    And with a master's hand and prophet's fire
+    Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:
+      'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave
+    Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
+    O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
+      Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
+    Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
+    To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
+
+      'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
+      That hush'd the stormy main:
+    Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
+      Mountains, ye mourn in vain
+      Modred, whose magic song
+    Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
+      On dreary Arvon's shore they lie
+    Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:
+    Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
+      The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
+    Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
+      Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
+    Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
+      Ye died amidst your dying country's cries--
+    No more I weep; They do not sleep;
+      On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
+    I see them sit; They linger yet,
+      Avengers of their native land:
+    With me in dreadful harmony they join,
+    And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
+
+    _Weave the warp and weave the woof
+      The winding sheet of Edward's race:
+    Give ample room and verge enough
+      The characters of hell to trace.
+    Mark the year, and mark the night,
+    When Severn shall re-echo with affright
+    The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
+    Shrieks of an agonizing king!
+      She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
+    That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
+      From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
+    The scourge of heaven! What terrors round him wait!
+    Amazement in his van, with flight combined,
+    And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind._
+
+    _'Mighty victor, mighty lord,
+      Low on his funeral couch he lies!
+    No pitying heart, no eye, afford
+      A tear to grace his obsequies.
+    Is the sable warrior fled?
+    Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
+    The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
+    --Gone to salute the rising morn.
+    Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
+      While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
+    In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes:
+      Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:
+    Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
+    That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey._
+
+      _'Fill high the sparkling bowl,
+    The rich repast prepare;
+      Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
+    Close by the regal chair
+      Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
+      A baleful smile upon their baffled guest,
+    Heard ye the din of battle bray,
+      Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
+      Long years of havock urge their destined course,
+    And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
+      Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
+    With many afoul and midnight murder fed,
+      Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
+    And spare the meek usurpers holy head!
+    Above, below, the rose of snow,
+      Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
+    The bristled boar in infant-gore
+      Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
+    Now, brothers, bending o'er the 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, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
+    Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
+    In yon bright track that fires the western skies
+    They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
+    But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
+      Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
+    Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
+    Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
+    No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:--
+    All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!
+
+      'Girt with many a baron bold
+    Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
+      And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
+    In bearded majesty, appear.
+    In the midst a form divine!
+    Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line:
+    Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face
+    Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
+    What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
+      What strains of vocal transport round her play?
+    Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
+      They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
+    Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
+    Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings.
+
+    'The verse adorn again
+      Fierce war, and faithful love,
+    And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
+      In buskin'd measures move
+    Pale grief, and pleasing pain,
+    With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
+    A voice as of the cherub-choir
+      Gales from blooming Eden bear,
+      And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
+    That lost in long futurity expire.
+    Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud
+      Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
+    To-morrow he repairs the golden flood
+      And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
+    Enough for me: with joy I see
+      The different doom our fates assign:
+    Be thine despair and sceptred care,
+      To triumph and to die are mine,'
+    --He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
+    Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLX
+
+_ODE WRITTEN IN 1746_
+
+    How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
+    By all their country's wishes blest!
+    When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
+    Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
+    She there shall dress a sweeter sod
+    Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
+
+    By fairy hands their knell is rung,
+    By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
+    There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
+    To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
+    And Freedom shall awhile repair
+    To dwell a weeping hermit there!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXI
+
+_LAMENT FOR CULLODEN_
+
+    The lovely lass o' Inverness,
+    Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
+    For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
+    And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
+    Drumossie moor--Drumossie day--
+    A waefu' day it was to me!
+    For there I lost my father dear,
+    My father dear, and brethren three.
+
+    Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
+    Their graves are growing green to see:
+    And by them lies the dearest lad
+    That ever blest a woman's ee!
+    Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
+    A bluidy man I trow thou be;
+    For mony a heart thou hast made sair
+    That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXII
+
+_LAMENT FOR FLODDEN_
+
+    I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
+      Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
+    But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+    At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
+      Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
+    Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
+      Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
+
+    In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
+      Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
+    At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+    At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
+      'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
+    But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.
+
+    Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
+      The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
+    The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
+      The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.
+
+    We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
+      Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
+    Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--
+      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+_J. Elliott_
+
+
+CLXIII
+
+_THE BRAES OF YARROW_
+
+    Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
+    When first on them I met my lover;
+    Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
+    When now thy waves his body cover!
+    For ever now, O Yarrow stream!
+    Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
+    For never on thy banks shall I
+    Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!
+
+    He promised me a milk-white steed
+    To bear me to his father's bowers;
+    He promised me a little page
+    To squire me to his father's towers;
+    He promised me a wedding-ring,--
+    The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;--
+    Now he is wedded to his grave,
+    Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!
+
+    Sweet were his words when last we met;
+    My passion I as freely told him;
+    Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
+    That I should never more behold him!
+    Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
+    It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
+    Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
+    And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.
+
+    His mother from the window look'd
+    With all the longing of a mother;
+    His little sister weeping walk'd
+    The greenwood path to meet her brother;
+    They sought him east, they sought him west,
+    They sought him all the forest thorough;
+    They only saw the cloud of night,
+    They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
+
+    No longer from thy window look--
+    Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
+    No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
+    Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
+    No longer seek him east or west
+    And search no more the forest thorough;
+    For, wandering in the night so dark,
+    He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
+
+    The tear shall never leave my cheek,
+    No other youth shall be my marrow--
+    I'll seek thy body in the stream,
+    And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
+    --The tear did never leave her cheek,
+    No other youth became her marrow;
+    She found his body in the stream,
+    And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
+
+_J. Logan_
+
+
+CLXIV
+
+_WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW_
+
+    Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+      Where bonnie grows the lily,
+    I heard a fair maid sighing say,
+      'My wish be wi' sweet Willie!
+
+    'Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
+      And Willie's wondrous bonny;
+    And Willie hecht to marry me
+      Gin e'er he married ony.
+
+    'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
+      From where my Love repaireth,
+    Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth
+      And tell me how he fareth!
+
+    'O tell sweet Willie to come doun
+      And hear the mavis singing,
+    And see the birds on ilka bush
+      And leaves around them hinging.
+
+    'The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
+      And gentle throat sae narrow;
+    There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
+      On Leader haughs and Yarrow.
+
+    'O Leader haughs are wide and braid
+      And Yarrow haughs are bonny;
+    There Willie hecht to marry me
+      If e'er he married ony.
+
+    'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
+      And does not hear me weeping;
+    Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
+      When other maids are sleeping.
+
+    'Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
+      The night I'll mak' it narrow,
+    For a' the live-lang winter night
+      I lie twined o' my marrow.
+
+    'O came ye by yon water-side?
+      Pou'd you the rose or lily?
+    Or came you by yon meadow green,
+      Or saw you my sweet Willie?'
+
+    She sought him up, she sought him down,
+      She sought him braid and narrow;
+    Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,
+      She found him drown'd in Yarrow!
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CLXV
+
+_LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE_
+
+    Toll for the Brave!
+    The brave that are no more!
+    All sunk beneath the wave
+    Fast by their native shore!
+
+    Eight hundred of the brave
+    Whose courage well was tried,
+    Had made the vessel heel
+    And laid her on her side.
+
+    A land-breeze shook the shrouds
+    And she was overset;
+    Down went the Royal George,
+    With all her crew complete.
+
+    Toll for the brave!
+    Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
+    His last sea-fight is fought,
+    His work of glory done.
+
+    It was not in the battle;
+    No tempest gave the shock;
+    She sprang no fatal leak,
+    She ran upon no rock.
+
+    His sword was in its sheath,
+    His fingers held the pen,
+    When Kempenfelt went down
+    With twice four hundred men.
+
+    --Weigh the vessel up
+    Once dreaded by our foes!
+    And mingle with our cup
+    The tears that England owes.
+
+    Her timbers yet are sound,
+    And she may float again
+    Full charged with England's thunder,
+    And plough the distant main:
+
+    But Kempenfelt is gone,
+    His victories are o'er;
+    And he and his eight hundred
+    Shall plough the wave no more.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXVI
+
+_BLACK-EYED SUSAN_
+
+    All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
+      The streamers waving in the wind,
+    When black-eyed Susan came aboard;
+      'O! where shall I my true-love find?
+    Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true
+    If my sweet William sails among the crew.'
+
+    William, who high upon the yard
+      Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
+    Soon as her well-known voice he heard
+      He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:
+    The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
+    And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.
+
+    So the sweet lark, high poised in air,
+      Shuts close his pinions to his breast
+    If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,
+      And drops at once into her nest:--
+    The noblest captain in the British fleet
+    Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.
+
+    'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
+      My vows shall ever true remain;
+    Let me kiss off that falling tear;
+      We only part to meet again.
+    Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
+    The faithful compass that still points to thee.
+
+    'Believe not what the landmen say
+      Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:
+    They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
+      In every port a mistress find:
+    Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
+    For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
+
+    'If to fair India's coast we sail,
+      Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
+    Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
+      Thy skin is ivory so white.
+    Thus every beauteous object that I view
+    Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
+
+    'Though battle call me from thy arms
+      Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
+    Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms
+      William shall to his Dear return.
+    Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
+    Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
+
+    The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
+      The sails their swelling bosom spread
+    No longer must she stay aboard;
+      They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.
+    Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;
+    'Adieu!' she cries; and waved her lily hand.
+
+_J. Gay_
+
+
+CLXVII
+
+_SALLY IN OUR ALLEY_
+
+    Of all the girls that are so smart
+      There's none like pretty Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+    There is no lady in the land
+      Is half so sweet as Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    Her father he makes cabbage-nets
+      And through the streets does cry 'em;
+    Her mother she sells laces long
+      To such as please to buy 'em:
+    But sure such folks could ne'er beget
+      So sweet a girl as Sally!
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    When she is by, I leave my work,
+      I love her so sincerely;
+    My master comes like any Turk,
+      And bangs me most severely--
+    But let him bang his bellyful,
+      I'll bear it all for Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    Of all the days that's in the week
+      I dearly love but one day--
+    And that's the day that comes betwixt
+      A Saturday and Monday;
+    For then I'm drest all in my best
+      To walk abroad with Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    My master carries me to church,
+      And often am I blamed
+    Because I leave him in the lurch
+      As soon as text is named;
+    I leave the church in sermon-time
+      And slink away to Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    When Christmas comes about again
+      O then I shall have money;
+    I'll hoard it up, and box it all,
+      I'll give it to my honey:
+    I would it were ten thousand pound,
+      I'd give it all to Sally;
+    She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+    My master and the neighbours all
+      Make game of me and Sally,
+    And, but for her, I'd better be
+      A slave and row a galley;
+    But when my seven long years are out
+      O then I'll marry Sally,--
+    O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed...
+      But not in our alley!
+
+_H. Carey_
+
+
+CLXVIII
+
+_A FAREWELL_
+
+    Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
+      An' fill it in a silver tassie;
+    That I may drink before I go
+      A service to my bonnie lassie:
+    The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
+      Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
+    The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
+      And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
+
+    The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
+      The glittering spears are 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 shout o' war that's heard afar--
+      It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXIX
+
+    If doughty deeds my lady please
+      Right soon I'll mount my steed;
+    And strong his arm, and fast his seat
+      That bears frae me the meed.
+    I'll wear thy colours in my cap
+      Thy picture at my heart;
+    And he that bends not to thine eye
+      Shall rue it to his smart!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+    If gay attire delight thine eye
+      I'll dight me in array;
+    I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
+      And squire thee all the day.
+    If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
+      These sounds I'll strive to catch;
+    Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
+      That voice that nane can match.
+
+    But if fond love thy heart can gain,
+      I never broke a vow;
+    Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
+      I never loved but you.
+    For you alone I ride the ring,
+      For you I wear the blue;
+    For you alone I strive to sing,
+      O tell me how to woo!
+
+    Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+      O tell me how to woo thee!
+    For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
+      Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+_R. Graham of Gartmore_
+
+
+CLXX
+
+_TO A YOUNG LADY_
+
+    Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,
+    Apt emblem of a virtuous maid--
+    Silent and chaste she steals along,
+    Far from the world's gay busy throng:
+    With gentle yet prevailing force,
+    Intent upon her destined course;
+    Graceful and useful all she does,
+    Blessing and blest where'er she goes;
+    Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,
+    And Heaven reflected in her face.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXXI
+
+_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY_
+
+    Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile--
+    Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
+    Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
+    And move, and breathe delicious sighs!
+
+    Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
+    And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
+    Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
+    What most I wish--and fear to know!
+
+    She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
+    Her fair hands folded on her breast:
+    --And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
+    A seraph in the realms of rest!
+
+    Sleep on secure! Above controul
+    Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
+    And may the secret of thy soul
+    Remain within its sanctuary!
+
+_S. Rogers_
+
+
+CLXXII
+
+    For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+    An unrelenting foe to Love,
+    And when we meet a mutual heart
+    Come in between, and bid us part?
+
+    Bid us sigh on from day to day,
+    And wish and wish the soul away;
+    Till youth and genial years are flown,
+    And all the life of life is gone?
+
+    But busy, busy, still art thou,
+    To bind the loveless joyless vow,
+    The heart from pleasure to delude,
+    To join the gentle to the rude.
+
+    For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
+    And I absolve thy future care;
+    All other blessings I resign,
+    Make but the dear Amanda mine.
+
+_J. Thomson_
+
+
+CLXXIII
+
+    The merchant, to secure his treasure,
+    Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
+    Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
+    But Cloe is my real flame.
+
+    My softest verse, my darling lyre
+    Upon Euphelia's toilet lay--
+    When Cloe noted her desire
+    That I should sing, that I should play.
+
+    My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
+    But with my numbers mix my sighs;
+    And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
+    I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
+
+    Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
+    I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:
+    And Venus to the Loves around
+    Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.
+
+_M. Prior_
+
+
+CLXXIV
+
+_LOVE'S SECRET_
+
+    Never seek to tell thy love,
+      Love that never told can be;
+    For the gentle wind doth move
+      Silently, invisibly.
+
+    I told my love, I told my love,
+      I told her all my heart,
+    Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears:--
+      Ah! she did depart.
+
+    Soon after she was gone from me
+      A traveller came by,
+    Silently, invisibly:
+      He took her with a sigh.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXV
+
+    When lovely woman stoops to folly
+    And finds too late that men betray,--
+    What charm can soothe her melancholy,
+    What art can wash her guilt away?
+
+    The only art her guilt to cover,
+    To hide her shame from every eye,
+    To give repentance to her lover
+    And wring his bosom, is--to die.
+
+_O. Goldsmith_
+
+
+CLXXVI
+
+    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+      How can ye blume sae fair!
+    How can ye chant, ye little birds,
+      And I sae fu' o' care!
+
+    Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+      That sings upon the bough;
+    Thou minds me o' the happy days
+      When my fause Luve was true.
+
+    Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+      That sings beside thy mate;
+    For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
+      And wist na o' my fate.
+
+    Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
+      To see the woodbine twine,
+    And ilka bird sang o' its love;
+      And sae did I o' mine.
+
+    Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
+      Frae aff its thorny tree;
+    And my fause luver staw the rose,
+      But left the thorn wi' me.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXVII
+
+_THE PROGRESS OF POESY_
+
+_A Pindaric Ode_
+
+      Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
+    And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
+    From Helicon's harmonious springs
+        A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
+    The laughing flowers that round them blow
+    Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
+    Now the rich stream of music winds along
+    Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
+    Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
+    Now rolling down the steep amain
+    Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
+    The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.
+
+      Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,
+    Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
+    Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
+      And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul
+    On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
+    Has curb'd the fury of his car
+    And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
+    Perching on the sceptred hand
+    Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
+    With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
+    Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
+    The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
+
+    Thee the voice, the dance, obey
+    Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
+    O'er Idalia's velvet-green
+    The rosy-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 labyrinths creep,
+    How do your tuneful echoes languish,
+    Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
+    Where each old poetic mountain
+      Inspiration breathed around;
+    Every shade and hallow'd fountain
+      Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
+    Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour
+      Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
+    Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
+      And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
+    When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
+    They sought, oh Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
+
+      Far from the sun and summer-gale
+    In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
+    What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
+      To him the mighty Mother did unveil
+    Her awful face: the dauntless child
+    Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
+    'This pencil take' (she said), 'whose colours clear
+    Richly paint the vernal year:
+    Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
+    This can unlock the gates of joy;
+    Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
+    Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'
+
+      Nor second He, that rode sublime
+    Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy
+    The secrets of the abyss to spy:
+      He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
+    The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze
+    Where angels tremble while they gaze,
+    He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
+    Closed his eyes in endless night.
+    Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
+    Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
+    Two coursers of ethereal race,
+    With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
+
+    Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
+    Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
+    Scatters from her pictured urn
+    Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
+    But ah! 'tis heard no more--
+    Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
+    Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit
+    Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
+      That the Theban eagle bear,
+    Sailing with supreme dominion
+      Thro' the azure deep of air:
+    Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
+      Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
+    With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:
+      Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
+    Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:
+    Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXVIII
+
+_THE PASSIONS_
+
+_An Ode for Music_
+
+    When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
+    While yet in early Greece she sung,
+    The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
+    Throng'd around her magic cell
+    Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
+    Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
+    By turns they felt the glowing mind
+    Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
+    'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
+    Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
+    From the supporting myrtles round
+    They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
+    And, as they oft had heard apart
+    Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
+    Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
+    Would prove his own expressive power.
+
+    First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
+      Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
+    And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
+      E'en at the sound himself had made.
+
+    Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
+      In lightnings, own'd his secret stings;
+    In one rude clash he struck the lyre
+      And swept with hurried hand the strings.
+
+    With woeful measures wan Despair,
+      Low sullen sounds, his grief beguiled;
+    A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
+      'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
+
+    But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
+      What was thy delighted measure?
+    Still it whisper'd promised pleasure
+      And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
+    Still would her touch the strain prolong;
+      And from the rocks, the woods, the vale
+    She call'd on Echo still through all the song;
+      And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
+      A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
+    And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;--
+
+    And longer had she sung:--but with a frown
+        Revenge impatient rose:
+    He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
+        And with a withering look
+      The war-denouncing trumpet took
+    And blew a blast so loud and dread,
+    Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
+        And ever and anon he beat
+        The doubling drum with furious heat;
+    And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
+        Dejected Pity at his side
+        Her soul-subduing voice applied,
+      Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
+    While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
+
+    Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:
+      Sad proof of thy distressful state!
+    Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;
+      And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
+
+    With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
+    Pale Melancholy sat retired;
+    And from her wild sequester'd seat,
+    In notes by distance made more sweet,
+    Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
+        And dashing soft from rocks around
+        Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
+    Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
+      Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
+        Round an holy calm diffusing,
+        Love of peace, and lonely musing,
+      In hollow murmurs died away.
+
+    But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone
+    When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
+      Her bow across her shoulder flung,
+      Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
+    Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
+      The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
+    The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,
+      Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen
+      Peeping from forth their alleys green:
+    Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
+      And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.
+
+    Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
+    He, with viny crown advancing,
+      First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:
+    But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol
+      Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:
+    They would have thought who heard the strain
+        They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids
+        Amidst the festal-sounding shades
+    To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
+    While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
+      Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
+      Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
+      And he, amidst his frolic play,
+      As if he would the charming air repay,
+    Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
+
+    O Music! sphere-descended maid,
+    Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
+    Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
+    Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
+    As in that loved Athenian bower
+    You learn'd an all-commanding power,
+    Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
+    Can well recall what then it heard.
+    Where is thy native simple heart
+    Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
+    Arise, as in that elder time,
+    Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
+    Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
+    Fill thy recording Sister's page;--
+    'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
+    Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
+    Had more of strength, diviner rage,
+    Than all which charms this laggard age:
+    E'en all at once together found,
+    Cecilia's mingled world of sound:--
+    O bid our vain endeavours cease:
+    Revive the just designs of Greece:
+    Return in all thy simple state!
+    Confirm the tales her sons relate!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXXIX
+
+_THE SONG OF DAVID_
+
+    He sang of God, the mighty source
+    Of all things, the stupendous force
+      On which all strength depends:
+    From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,
+    All period, power, and enterprise
+      Commences, reigns, and ends.
+
+    The world, the clustering spheres He made,
+    The glorious light, the soothing shade,
+      Dale, champaign, grove and hill:
+    The multitudinous abyss,
+    Where secrecy remains in bliss,
+      And wisdom hides her skill.
+
+    Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said
+    To Moses: while Earth heard in dread,
+      And, smitten to the heart,
+    At once, above, beneath, around,
+    All Nature, without voice or sound,
+      Replied, 'O Lord, THOU ART.'
+
+_C. Smart_
+
+
+CLXXX
+
+_INFANT JOY_
+
+    'I have no name;
+    I am but two days old.'
+    --What shall I call thee?
+    'I happy am;
+    Joy is my name.'
+    --Sweet joy befall thee!
+
+    Pretty joy!
+    Sweet joy, but two days old;
+    Sweet joy I call thee:
+    Thou dost smile:
+    I sing the while,
+    Sweet joy befall thee!
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXXI
+
+_A CRADLE SONG_
+
+    Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
+    Dreaming in the joys of night;
+    Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
+    Little sorrows sit and weep.
+
+    Sweet babe, in thy face
+    Soft desires I can trace,
+    Secret joys and secret smiles,
+    Little pretty infant wiles.
+
+    As thy softest limbs I feel,
+    Smiles as of the morning steal
+    O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
+    Where thy little heart doth rest.
+
+    Oh the cunning wiles that creep
+    In thy little heart asleep!
+    When thy little heart doth wake,
+    Then the dreadful light shall break.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CLXXXII
+
+_ODE ON THE SPRING_
+
+    Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
+      Fair Venus' train, appear,
+    Disclose the long-expecting flowers
+      And wake the purple year!
+    The Attic warbler pours her throat
+    Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
+    The untaught harmony of Spring:
+    While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
+    Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
+      Their gather'd fragrance fling.
+
+    Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
+      A broader, browner shade,
+    Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
+      O'er-canopies the glade,
+    Beside some water's rushy brink
+    With me the Muse shall sit, and think
+    (At ease reclined in rustic state)
+    How vain the ardour of the crowd,
+    How low, how little are the proud,
+      How indigent the great!
+
+    Still is the toiling hand of Care;
+      The panting herds repose:
+    Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
+      The busy murmur glows!
+    The insect-youth are on the wing,
+    Eager to taste the honied spring
+    And float amid the liquid noon:
+    Some lightly o'er the current skim,
+    Some show their gaily-gilded trim
+      Quick-glancing to the sun.
+
+    To Contemplation's sober eye
+      Such is the race of Man:
+    And they that creep, and they that
+      Shall end where they began.
+    Alike the Busy and the Gay
+    But flutter thro' life's little day,
+    In Fortune's varying colours drest:
+    Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
+    Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
+      They leave, in dust to rest.
+
+    Methinks I hear in accents low
+      The sportive kind reply:
+    Poor moralist! and what art thou?
+      A solitary fly!
+    Thy joys no glittering female meets,
+    No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
+    No painted plumage to display:
+    On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
+    Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone--
+      We frolic while 'tis May.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXXIII
+
+_THE POPLAR FIELD_
+
+    The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade
+    And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
+    The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
+    Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
+
+    Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
+    Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:
+    And now in the grass behold they are laid,
+    And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!
+
+    The blackbird has fled to another retreat
+    Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
+    And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
+    Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
+
+    My fugitive years are all hasting away,
+    And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
+    With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
+    Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
+
+    The change both my heart and my fancy employs;
+    I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys:
+    Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
+    Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CLXXXIV
+
+_TO A MOUSE_
+
+_On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785_
+
+    Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
+    O what a panic's in thy breastie!
+    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
+    Wi' bickering brattle!
+    I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
+    Wi' murd'ring pattle!
+
+    I'm truly sorry man's dominion
+    Has broken Nature's social union,
+    An' justifies that ill opinion
+    Which makes thee startle
+    At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
+    An' fellow-mortal!
+
+    I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
+    What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
+    A daimen-icker in a thrave
+    'S a sma' request:
+    I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,
+    And never miss't!
+
+    Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
+    Its silly wa's the win's are strewin:
+    And naething, now, to big a new ane,
+    O' foggage green!
+    An' bleak December's winds ensuin'
+    Baith snell an' keen!
+
+    Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste
+    An' weary winter comin' fast,
+    An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
+    Thou thought to dwell,
+    Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
+    Out thro' thy cell.
+
+    That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
+    Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
+    Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
+    But house or hald,
+    To thole the winter's sleety dribble
+    An' cranreuch cauld!
+
+    But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
+    In proving foresight may be vain:
+    The best laid schemes o mice an' men
+    Gang aft a-gley,
+    An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
+    For promised joy.
+
+    Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
+    The present only toucheth thee:
+    But, Och! I backward cast my e'e
+    On prospects drear!
+    An' forward, tho' I canna see,
+    I guess an' fear!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXXV
+
+_A WISH_
+
+    Mine be a cot beside the hill;
+    A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
+    A willowy brook that turns a mill,
+    With many a fall shall linger near.
+
+    The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
+    Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
+    Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
+    And share my meal, a welcome guest.
+
+    Around my ivied porch shall spring
+    Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
+    And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
+    In russet-gown and apron blue.
+
+    The village-church among the trees,
+    Where first our marriage-vows were given,
+    With merry peals shall swell the breeze
+    And point with taper spire to Heaven.
+
+_S. Rogers_
+
+
+CLXXXVI
+
+_ODE TO EVENING_
+
+    If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
+    May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear
+        Like thy own solemn springs,
+        Thy springs, and dying gales;
+
+    O Nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun
+    Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
+        With brede ethereal wove,
+        O'erhang his wavy bed;
+
+    Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
+    With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
+        Or where the beetle winds
+        His small but sullen horn,
+
+    As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
+    Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,--
+        Now teach me, maid composed,
+        To breathe some soften'd strain
+
+    Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
+    May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
+        As, musing slow, I hail
+        Thy genial loved return.
+
+    For when thy folding-star arising shows
+    His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
+        The fragrant Hours, and Elves
+        Who slept in buds the day,
+
+    And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge
+    And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
+        The pensive Pleasures sweet,
+        Prepare thy shadowy car.
+
+    Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
+    Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
+        Whose walls more awful nod
+        By thy religious gleams.
+
+    Or, if chill blustering winds or driving rain
+    Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
+        That, from the mountain's side,
+        Views wilds, and swelling floods,
+
+    And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
+    And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
+        Thy dewy fingers draw
+        The gradual dusky veil.
+
+    While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
+    And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
+        While Summer loves to sport
+        Beneath thy lingering light;
+
+    While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
+    Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
+        Affrights thy shrinking train
+        And rudely rends thy robes;
+
+    So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
+    Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
+        Thy gentlest influence own,
+        And love thy favourite name!
+
+_W. Collins_
+
+
+CLXXXVII
+
+_ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD_
+
+    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
+    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
+    The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
+    And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
+
+    Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
+    And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
+    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
+    And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
+
+    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
+    The moping owl does to the moon complain
+    Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
+    Molest her ancient solitary reign.
+
+    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade
+    Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
+    Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
+    The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
+
+    The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
+    The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
+    The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
+    No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
+
+    For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn
+    Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
+    No children run to lisp their sire's return,
+    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
+
+    Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
+    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
+    How jocund did they drive their team afield!
+    How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
+
+    Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
+    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
+    Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
+    The short and simple annals of the poor.
+
+    The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
+    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
+    Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:--
+    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
+
+    Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
+    If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
+    Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
+    The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
+
+    Can storied urn or animated bust
+    Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
+    Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
+    Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
+
+    Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
+    Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
+    Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
+    Or waked to extasy the living lyre:
+
+    But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
+    Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
+    Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
+    And froze the genial current of the soul.
+
+    Full many a gem of purest ray serene
+    The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
+    Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
+    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
+
+    Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
+    The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
+    Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
+    Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
+
+    Th' applause of listening senates to command,
+    The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
+    To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
+    And read their history in a nation's eyes
+
+    Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
+    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
+    Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,
+    And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
+
+    The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
+    To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
+    Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
+    With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
+
+    Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
+    Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
+    Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
+    They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
+
+    Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
+    Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
+    With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
+    Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
+
+    Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
+    The place of fame and elegy supply:
+    And many a holy text around she strews,
+    That teach the rustic moralist to die.
+
+    For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
+    This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
+    Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
+    Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
+
+    On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
+    Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
+    E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
+    E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
+
+    For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
+    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
+    If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
+    Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,--
+
+    Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
+    'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
+    Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
+    To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
+
+    'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
+    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
+    His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
+    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
+
+    'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
+    Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
+    Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
+    Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
+
+    'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
+    Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
+    Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
+    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
+
+    'The next with dirges due in sad array
+    Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,--
+    Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
+    Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
+
+THE EPITAPH
+
+    Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
+    A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
+    Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth
+    And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
+
+    Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
+    Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
+    He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,
+    He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
+
+    No farther seek his merits to disclose,
+    Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
+    (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
+    The bosom of his Father and his God.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CLXXXVIII
+
+_MARY MORISON_
+
+    O Mary, at thy window be,
+    It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
+    Those smiles and glances let me see
+    That make the miser's treasure poor:
+    How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
+    A weary slave frae sun to sun,
+    Could I the rich reward secure,
+    The lovely Mary Morison.
+
+    Yestreen when to the trembling string
+    The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
+    To thee my fancy took its wing,--
+    I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
+    Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
+    And yon the toast of a' the town,
+    I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
+    'Ye are na Mary Morison.'
+
+    O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
+    Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
+    Or canst thou break that heart of his,
+    Whase only faut is loving thee?
+    If love for love thou wilt na gie,
+    At least be pity to me shown;
+    A thought ungentle canna be
+    The thought o' Mary Morison.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CLXXXIX
+
+_BONNIE LESLEY_
+
+    O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+      As she gaed o'er the border?
+    She's gane, like Alexander,
+      To spread her conquests farther.
+
+    To see her is to love her,
+      And love but her for ever;
+    For Nature made her what she is,
+      And ne'er made sic anither!
+
+    Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,
+      Thy subjects we, before thee;
+    Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,
+      The hearts o' men adore thee.
+
+    The Deil he could na scaith thee,
+      Or aught that wad belang thee;
+    He'd look into thy bonnie face,
+      And say 'I canna wrang thee!'
+
+    The Powers aboon will tent thee;
+      Misfortune sha' na steer thee;
+    Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely
+      That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
+
+    Return again, Fair Lesley,
+      Return to Caledonie!
+    That we may brag we hae a lass
+      There's nane again sae bonnie.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXC
+
+    O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+      That's newly sprung in June:
+    O my Luve's like the melodie
+      That's sweetly play'd in tune.
+
+    As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
+      So deep in luve am I:
+    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
+      Till a' the seas gang dry:
+
+    Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
+      And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
+    I will luve thee still, my dear,
+      While the sands o' life shall run.
+
+    And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
+      And fare thee weel awhile!
+    And I will come again, my Luve,
+      Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCI
+
+_HIGHLAND MARY_
+
+    Ye banks and braes and streams around
+      The castle o' Montgomery,
+    Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
+      Your waters never drumlie!
+    There simmer first unfauld her robes,
+      And there the langest tarry;
+    For there I took the last fareweel
+      O' my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+    How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
+      How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
+    As underneath their fragrant shade
+      I clasp'd her to my bosom!
+    The golden hours on angel wings
+      Flew o'er me and my dearie;
+    For dear to me as light and life
+      Was my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+    Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace
+      Our parting was fu' tender;
+    And pledging aft to meet again,
+      We tore oursels asunder;
+    But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
+      That nipt my flower sae early!
+    Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
+      That wraps my Highland Mary!
+
+    O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
+      I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
+    And closed for aye the sparkling glance
+      That dwelt on me sae kindly;
+    And mouldering now in silent dust
+      That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
+    But still within my bosom's core
+      Shall live my Highland Mary.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCII
+
+_AULD ROBIN GRAY_
+
+    When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a hame,
+    And a' the warld to rest are gane,
+    The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
+    While my gudeman lies sound by me.
+
+    Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
+    But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
+    To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
+    And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
+
+    He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
+    When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
+    My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--
+    And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
+
+    My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
+    I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
+    Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
+    Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!
+
+    My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
+    But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
+    His ship it was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee?
+    Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
+
+    My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
+    But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:
+    They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
+    Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
+
+    I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
+    When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
+    I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he
+    Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.
+
+    O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
+    We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
+    I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
+    And why was I born to say, Wae's me!
+
+    I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
+    I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
+    But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
+    For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
+
+_Lady A. Lindsay._
+
+
+CXCIII
+
+_DUNCAN GRAY_
+
+    Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
+    On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't:
+    Maggie coost her head fu' high,
+    Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
+    Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+    Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
+    Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
+    Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
+    Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
+    Spak o' lowpin ower a linn!
+
+    Time and chance are but a tide,
+    Slighted love is sair to bide;
+    Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
+    For a haughty hizzie dee?
+    She may gae to--France for me!
+
+    How it comes let doctors tell,
+    Meg grew sick--as he grew well;
+    Something in her bosom wrings,
+    For relief a sigh she brings;
+    And O, her een, they spak sic things!
+
+    Duncan was a lad o' grace;
+    Maggie's was a piteous case;
+    Duncan couldna be her death,
+    Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
+    Now they're crouse and canty baith:
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCIV
+
+_THE SAILOR'S WIFE_
+
+    And are ye sure the news is true?
+      And are ye sure he's weel?
+    Is this a time to think o' wark?
+      Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
+    Is this the time to spin a thread,
+      When Colin's at the door?
+    Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
+      And see him come ashore.
+    For there's nae luck about the house,
+      There's nae luck at a';
+    There's little pleasure in the house
+      When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+    And gie to me my bigonet,
+      My bishop's satin gown;
+    For I maun tell the baillie's wife
+      That Colin's in the town.
+    My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
+      My stockins pearly blue;
+    It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
+      For he's baith leal and true.
+
+    Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
+      Put on the muckle pot;
+    Gie little Kate her button gown
+      And Jock his Sunday coat;
+    And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
+      Their hose as white as snaw;
+    It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
+      For he's been long awa.
+
+    There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
+      Been fed this month and mair;
+    Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
+      That Colin weel may fare;
+    And spread the table neat and clean,
+      Gar ilka thing look braw,
+    For wha can tell how Colin fared
+      When he was far awa?
+
+    Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
+      His breath like caller air;
+    His very foot has music in't
+      As he comes up the stair--
+    And will I see his face again?
+      And will I hear him speak?
+    I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+      In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+    If Colin's weel, and weel content,
+      I hae nae mair to crave:
+    And gin I live to keep him sae,
+      I'm blest aboon the lave:
+    And will I see his face again,
+      And will I hear him speak?
+    I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+      In troth I'm like to greet.
+    For there's nae luck about the house,
+      There's nae luck at a';
+    There's little pleasure in the house
+      When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+_W. J. Mickle_
+
+
+CXCV
+
+_ABSENCE_
+
+    When I think on the happy days
+      I spent wi' you, my dearie;
+    And now what lands between us lie,
+      How can I be but eerie!
+
+    How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
+      As ye were wae and weary!
+    It was na sae ye glinted by
+      When I was wi' my dearie.
+
+_Anon._
+
+
+CXCVI
+
+_JEAN_
+
+    Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+      I dearly like the West,
+    For there the bonnie lassie lives,
+      The lassie I lo'e best:
+    There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
+      And mony a hill between;
+    But day and night my fancy's flight
+      Is ever wi' my Jean.
+
+    I see her in the dewy flowers,
+      I see her sweet and fair:
+    I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
+      I hear her charm the air:
+    There's not a bonnie flower that springs
+      By fountain, shaw, or green,
+    There's not a bonnie bird that sings
+      But minds me o' my Jean.
+
+    O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft
+      Amang the leafy trees;
+    Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
+      Bring hame the laden bees;
+    And bring the lassie back to me
+      That's aye sae neat and clean;
+    Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
+      Sae charming is my Jean.
+
+    What sighs and vows amang the knowes
+      Hae pass'd atween us twa!
+    How fond to meet, how wae to part
+      That night she gaed awa!
+    The Powers aboon can only ken
+      To whom the heart is seen,
+    That nane can be sae dear to me
+      As my sweet lovely Jean!
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCVII
+
+_JOHN ANDERSON_
+
+    John Anderson my jo, John,
+    When we were first acquent
+    Your locks were like the raven,
+    Your bonnie brow was brent;
+    But now your brow is bald, John,
+    Your locks are like the snow;
+    But blessings on your frosty pow,
+    John Anderson my jo.
+
+    John Anderson my jo, John,
+    We clamb the hill thegither,
+    And mony a canty day, John,
+    We've had wi' ane anither:
+    Now we maun totter down, John,
+    But hand in hand we'll go,
+    And sleep thegither at the foot,
+    John Anderson my jo.
+
+_R. Burns_
+
+
+CXCVIII
+
+_THE LAND O' THE LEAL_
+
+    I'm wearing awa', Jean,
+    Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
+    I'm wearing awa'
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
+    There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
+    The day is aye fair
+      In the land o' the leal.
+
+    Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
+    Your task's ended noo, Jean,
+    And I'll welcome you
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
+    She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
+    O we grudged her right sair
+      To the land o' the leal!
+
+    Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
+    My soul langs to be free, Jean,
+    And angels wait on me
+      To the land o' the leal.
+    Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
+    This warld's care is vain, Jean;
+    We'll meet and aye be fain
+      In the land o' the leal.
+
+_Lady Nairn_
+
+
+CXCIX
+
+_ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE_
+
+    Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+      That crown the watery glade,
+    Where grateful Science still adores
+      Her Henry's holy shade;
+    And ye, that from the stately brow
+    Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
+    Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
+    Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
+    Wanders the hoary Thames along
+      His silver-winding way:
+
+    Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
+      Ah fields beloved in vain!
+    Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
+      A stranger yet to pain!
+    I feel the gales that from ye blow
+    A momentary bliss bestow,
+    As waving fresh their gladsome wing
+    My weary soul they seem to soothe,
+    And, redolent of joy and youth,
+      To breathe a second spring.
+
+    Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
+      Full many a sprightly race
+    Disporting on thy margent green
+      The paths of pleasure trace;
+    Who foremost now delight to cleave
+    With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
+    The captive linnet which enthral?
+    What idle progeny succeed
+    To chase the rolling circle's speed
+      Or urge the flying ball?
+
+    While some on earnest business bent
+      Their murmuring labours ply
+    'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
+      To sweeten liberty:
+    Some bold adventurers disdain
+    The limits of their little reign
+    And unknown regions dare descry:
+    Still as they run they look behind,
+    They hear a voice in every wind,
+      And snatch a fearful joy.
+
+    Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
+      Less pleasing when possest;
+    The tear forgot as soon as shed,
+      The sunshine of the breast:
+    Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,
+    Wild wit, invention ever new,
+    And lively cheer, of vigour born;
+    The thoughtless day, the easy night,
+    The spirits pure, the slumbers light
+      That fly th' approach of morn.
+
+    Alas! regardless of their doom
+      The little victims play;
+    No sense have they of ills to come
+      Nor care beyond to-day:
+    Yet see how all around 'em wait
+    The ministers of human fate
+    And black Misfortune's baleful train!
+    Ah show them where in ambush stand
+    To seize their prey, the murderous band!
+      Ah, tell them they are men!
+
+    These shall the fury Passions tear,
+      The vultures of the mind,
+    Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
+      And Shame that sculks behind;
+    Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
+    Or Jealousy with rankling tooth
+    That inly gnaws the secret heart,
+    And Envy wan, and faded Care,
+    Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
+      And Sorrow's piercing dart.
+
+    Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
+      Then whirl the wretch from high
+    To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
+      And grinning Infamy.
+    The stings of Falsehood those shall try
+    And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
+    That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
+    And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
+    And moody Madness laughing wild
+      Amid severest woe.
+
+    Lo, in the vale of years beneath
+      A griesly troop are seen,
+    The painful family of Death,
+      More hideous than their queen:
+    This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
+    That every labouring sinew strains,
+    Those in the deeper vitals rage:
+    Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
+    That numbs the soul with icy hand,
+      And slow-consuming Age.
+
+    To each his sufferings: all are men,
+      Condemn'd alike to groan;
+    The tender for another's pain,
+      Th' unfeeling for his own.
+    Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
+    Since sorrow never comes too late,
+    And happiness too swiftly flies?
+    Thought would destroy their paradise.
+    No more;--where ignorance is bliss,
+      'Tis folly to be wise.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CC
+
+_THE SHRUBBERY_
+
+    O happy shades! to me unblest!
+      Friendly to peace, but not to me!
+    How ill the scene that offers rest,
+      And heart that cannot rest, agree!
+
+    This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
+      Those alders quivering to the breeze,
+    Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
+      And please, if anything could please.
+
+    But fix'd unalterable Care
+      Foregoes not what she feels within,
+    Shows the same sadness everywhere,
+      And slights the season and the scene.
+
+    For all that pleased in wood or lawn
+      While Peace possess'd these silent bowers,
+    Her animating smile withdrawn,
+      Has lost its beauties and its powers.
+
+    The saint or moralist should tread
+      This moss-grown alley, musing, slow,
+    They seek like me the secret shade,
+      But not, like me, to nourish woe!
+
+    Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste
+      Alike admonish not to roam;
+    These tell me of enjoyments past,
+      And those of sorrows yet to come.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCI
+
+_HYMN TO ADVERSITY_
+
+      Daughter of Jove, relentless power,
+        Thou tamer of the human breast,
+      Whose iron scourge and torturing hour
+        The bad affright, afflict the best!
+      Bound in thy adamantine chain
+      The proud are taught to taste of pain,
+      And purple tyrants vainly groan
+    With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
+
+      When first thy Sire to send on earth
+        Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
+      To thee he gave the heavenly birth
+        And bade to form her infant mind.
+      Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
+      With patience many a year she bore;
+      What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,
+    And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.
+
+      Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
+        Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
+      Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
+        And leave us leisure to be good.
+      Light they disperse, and with them go
+      The summer friend, the flattering foe;
+      By vain Prosperity received,
+    To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
+
+      Wisdom in sable garb array'd
+        Immersed in rapturous thought profound,
+      And Melancholy, silent maid,
+        With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
+      Still on thy solemn steps attend:
+      Warm Charity, the general friend,
+      With Justice, to herself severe,
+    And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
+
+      Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head
+        Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!
+      Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
+        Nor circled with the vengeful band
+      (As by the impious thou art seen)
+      With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
+      With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
+    Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;--
+
+      Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,
+        Thy milder influence impart,
+      Thy philosophic train be there
+        To soften, not to wound my heart.
+      The generous spark extinct revive,
+      Teach me to love and to forgive,
+      Exact my own defects to scan,
+    What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
+
+_T. Gray_
+
+
+CCII
+
+_THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK_
+
+    I am monarch of all I survey;
+    My right there is none to dispute;
+    From the centre all round to the sea
+    I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
+    O Solitude! where are the charms
+    That sages have seen in thy face?
+    Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
+    Than reign in this horrible place.
+
+    I am out of humanity's reach,
+    I must finish my journey alone,
+    Never hear the sweet music of speech;
+    I start at the sound of my own.
+    The beasts that roam over the plain
+    My form with indifference see;
+    They are so unacquainted with man,
+    Their tameness is shocking to me.
+
+    Society, Friendship, and Love
+    Divinely bestow'd upon man,
+    Oh, had I the wings of a dove
+    How soon would I taste you again!
+    My sorrows I then might assuage
+    In the ways of religion and truth,
+    Might learn from the wisdom of age,
+    And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
+
+    Ye winds that have made me your sport,
+    Convey to this desolate shore
+    Some cordial endearing report
+    Of a land I shall visit no more:
+    My friends, do they now and then send
+    A wish or a thought after me?
+    O tell me I yet have a friend,
+    Though a friend I am never to see.
+
+    How fleet is a glance of the mind!
+    Compared with the speed of its flight,
+    The tempest itself lags behind,
+    And the swift-winged arrows of light.
+    When I think of my own native land
+    In a moment I seem to be there;
+    But alas! recollection at hand
+    Soon hurries me back to despair.
+
+    But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
+    The beast is laid down in his lair;
+    Even here is a season of rest,
+    And I to my cabin repair.
+    There's mercy in every place,
+    And mercy, encouraging thought!
+    Gives even affliction a grace
+    And reconciles man to his lot.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCIII
+
+_TO MARY UNWIN_
+
+    Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
+    Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
+    An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
+    And undebased by praise of meaner things,
+
+    That ere through age or woe I shed my wings
+    I may record thy worth with honour due,
+    In verse as musical as thou art true,
+    And that immortalizes whom it sings:--
+
+    But thou hast little need. There is a Book
+    By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
+    On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
+
+    A chronicle of actions just and bright--
+    There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
+    And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCIV
+
+_TO THE SAME_
+
+    The twentieth year is well-nigh past
+    Since first our sky was overcast;
+    Ah would that this might be the last!
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
+    I see thee daily weaker grow--
+    'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy needles, once a shining store,
+    For my sake restless heretofore,
+    Now rust disused, and shine no more;
+          My Mary!
+
+    For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
+    The same kind office for me still,
+    Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
+          My Mary!
+
+    But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
+    And all thy threads with magic art
+    Have wound themselves about this heart,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy indistinct expressions seem
+    Like language utter'd in a dream;
+    Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
+    Are still more lovely in my sight
+    Than golden beams of orient light,
+          My Mary!
+
+    For could I view nor them nor thee,
+    What sight worth seeing could I see?
+    The sun would rise in vain for me,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Partakers of thy sad decline
+    Thy hands their little force resign;
+    Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,
+          My Mary!
+
+    Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
+    That now at every step thou mov'st
+    Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
+          My Mary!
+
+    And still to love, though prest with ill,
+    In wintry age to feel no chill,
+    With me is to be lovely still,
+          My Mary!
+
+    But ah! by constant heed I know
+    How oft the sadness that I show
+    Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
+          My Mary!
+
+    And should my future lot be cast
+    With much resemblance of the past,
+    Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
+          My Mary!
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCV
+
+_THE CASTAWAY_
+
+    Obscurest night involved the sky,
+      The Atlantic billows roar'd,
+    When such a destined wretch as I,
+      Wash'd headlong from on board,
+    Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
+    His floating home for ever left.
+
+    No braver chief could Albion boast
+      Than he with whom he went,
+    Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
+      With warmer wishes sent.
+    He loved them both, but both in vain,
+    Nor him beheld, nor her again.
+
+    Not long beneath the whelming brine,
+      Expert to swim, he lay;
+    Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
+      Or courage die away;
+    But waged with death a lasting strife,
+    Supported by despair of life.
+
+    He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
+      To check the vessel's course,
+    But so the furious blast prevail'd,
+      That, pitiless perforce,
+    They left their outcast mate behind,
+    And scudded still before the wind.
+
+    Some succour yet they could afford;
+      And such as storms allow,
+    The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
+      Delay'd not to bestow.
+    But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
+    Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
+
+    Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
+      Their haste himself condemn,
+    Aware that flight, in such a sea,
+      Alone could rescue them;
+    Yet bitter felt it still to die
+    Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
+
+    He long survives, who lives an hour
+      In ocean, self-upheld;
+    And so long he, with unspent power,
+      His destiny repell'd;
+    And ever, as the minutes flew,
+    Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'
+
+    At length, his transient respite past,
+      His comrades, who before
+    Had heard his voice in every blast,
+      Could catch the sound no more;
+    For then, by toil subdued, he drank
+    The stifling wave, and then he sank.
+
+    No poet wept him; but the page
+      Of narrative sincere,
+    That tells his name, his worth, his age,
+      Is wet with Anson's tear:
+    And tears by bards or heroes shed
+    Alike immortalize the dead.
+
+    I therefore purpose not, or dream,
+      Descanting on his fate,
+    To give the melancholy theme
+      A more enduring date:
+    But misery still delights to trace
+    Its semblance in another's case.
+
+    No voice divine the storm allay'd,
+      No light propitious shone,
+    When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
+      We perish'd, each alone:
+    But I beneath a rougher sea,
+    And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
+
+_W. Cowper_
+
+
+CCVI
+
+_TOMORROW_
+
+    In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
+      May my fate no less fortunate be
+    Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
+      And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
+    With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
+      While I carol away idle sorrow,
+    And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
+      Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.
+
+    With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
+      As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
+    And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
+      With a barn for the use of the flail:
+    A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
+      And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
+    I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
+      Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow.
+
+    From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
+      Secured by a neighbouring hill;
+    And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
+      By the sound of a murmuring rill:
+    And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
+      With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
+    With my friends may I share what Today may afford,
+      And let them spread the table Tomorrow.
+
+    And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring
+      Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
+    On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,
+      Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:
+    But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
+      And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
+    As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,
+      May become Everlasting Tomorrow.
+
+_J. Collins_
+
+
+CCVII
+
+    Life! I know not what thou art,
+    But know that thou and I must part;
+    And when, or how, or where we met
+    I own to me's a secret yet.
+
+      Life! we've been long together
+    Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
+    'Tis hard to part when friends are dear--
+    Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
+    --Then steal away, give little warning,
+      Choose thine own time;
+    Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime
+      Bid me Good Morning.
+
+_A. L. Barbauld_
+
+
+
+
+The Golden Treasury
+
+Book Fourth
+
+
+CCVIII
+
+_TO THE MUSES_
+
+    Whether on Ida's shady brow,
+      Or in the chambers of the East,
+    The chambers of the sun, that now
+      From ancient melody have ceased;
+
+    Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
+      Or the green corners of the earth,
+    Or the blue regions of the air,
+      Where the melodious winds have birth;
+
+    Whether on crystal rocks ye rove
+      Beneath the bosom of the sea,
+    Wandering in many a coral grove,--
+      Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
+
+    How have you left the ancient love
+      That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
+    The languid strings do scarcely move,
+      The sound is forced, the notes are few.
+
+_W. Blake_
+
+
+CCIX
+
+_ODE ON THE POETS_
+
+    Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+    Ye have left your souls on earth!
+    Have ye souls in heaven too,
+    Double-lived in regions new?
+
+    --Yes, and those of heaven commune
+    With the spheres of sun and moon;
+    With the noise of fountains wond'rous
+    And the parle of voices thund'rous;
+    With the whisper of heaven's trees
+    And one another, in soft ease
+    Seated on Elysian lawns
+    Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
+    Underneath large blue-bells tented,
+    Where the daisies are rose-scented,
+    And the rose herself has got
+    Perfume which on earth is not;
+    Where the nightingale doth sing
+    Not a senseless, tranced thing,
+    But divine melodious truth;
+    Philosophic numbers smooth;
+    Tales and golden histories
+    Of heaven and its mysteries.
+
+      Thus ye live on high, and then
+    On the earth ye live again;
+    And the souls ye left behind you
+    Teach us, here, the way to find you,
+    Where your other souls are joying,
+    Never slumber'd, never cloying.
+    Here, your earth-born souls still speak
+    To mortals, of their little week;
+    Of their sorrows and delights;
+    Of their passions and their spites;
+    Of their glory and their shame;
+    What doth strengthen and what maim:--
+    Thus ye teach us, every day,
+    Wisdom, though fled far away.
+
+      Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+    Ye have left your souls on earth!
+    Ye have souls in heaven too,
+    Double-lived in regions new!
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCX
+
+_ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER_
+
+    Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+    And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
+    Round many western islands have I been
+    Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
+
+    Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
+    That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
+    Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
+    Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
+
+    --Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
+    When a new planet swims into his ken;
+    Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
+
+    He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
+    Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
+    Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXI
+
+_LOVE_
+
+    All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
+    Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
+    All are but ministers of Love,
+        And feed his sacred flame.
+
+    Oft in my waking dreams do I
+    Live o'er again that happy hour,
+    When midway on the mount I lay,
+        Beside the ruin'd tower.
+
+    The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
+    Had blended with the lights of eve;
+    And she was there, my hope, my joy,
+        My own dear Genevieve!
+
+    She lean'd against the armed man,
+    The statue of the armed knight;
+    She stood and listen'd to my lay,
+        Amid the lingering light.
+
+    Few sorrows hath she of her own,
+    My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
+    She loves me best, whene'er I sing
+        The songs that make her grieve.
+
+    I play'd a soft and doleful air,
+    I sang an old and moving story--
+    An old rude song, that suited well
+        That ruin wild and hoary.
+
+    She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+    With downcast eyes and modest grace;
+    For well she knew, I could not choose
+        But gaze upon her face.
+
+    I told her of the Knight that wore
+    Upon his shield a burning brand;
+    And that for ten long years he woo'd
+        The Lady of the Land.
+
+    I told her how he pined: and ah!
+    The deep, the low, the pleading tone
+    With which I sang another's love
+        Interpreted my own.
+
+    She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+    With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
+    And she forgave me, that I gazed
+        Too fondly on her face!
+
+    But when I told the cruel scorn
+    That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
+    And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
+        Nor rested day nor night;
+
+    That sometimes from the savage den,
+    And sometimes from the darksome shade,
+    And sometimes starting up at once
+        In green and sunny glade,--
+
+    There came and look'd him in the face
+    An angel beautiful and bright;
+    And that he knew it was a Fiend,
+        This miserable Knight!
+
+    And that unknowing what he did,
+    He leap'd amid a murderous band,
+    And saved from outrage worse than death
+        The Lady of the Land;--
+
+    And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
+    And how she tended him in vain--
+    And ever strove to expiate
+        The scorn that crazed his brain;--
+
+    And that she nursed him in a cave,
+    And how his madness went away,
+    When on the yellow forest-leaves
+        A dying man he lay;--
+
+    His dying words--but when I reach'd
+    That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
+    My faltering voice and pausing harp
+        Disturb'd her soul with pity!
+
+    All impulses of soul and sense
+    Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
+    The music and the doleful tale,
+        The rich and balmy eve;
+
+    And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
+    An undistinguishable throng,
+    And gentle wishes long subdued,
+        Subdued and cherish'd long!
+
+    She wept with pity and delight,
+    She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
+    And like the murmur of a dream,
+        I heard her breathe my name.
+
+    Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside,
+    As conscious of my look she stept--
+    Then suddenly, with timorous eye
+        She fled to me and wept.
+
+    She half inclosed me with her arms,
+    She press'd me with a meek embrace;
+    And bending back her head, look'd up,
+        And gazed upon my face.
+
+    'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
+    And partly 'twas a bashful art
+    That I might rather feel, than see,
+        The swelling of her heart.
+
+    I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
+    And told her love with virgin pride;
+    And so I won my Genevieve,
+        My bright and beauteous Bride.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCXII
+
+_ALL FOR LOVE_
+
+    O talk not to me of a name great in story;
+    The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
+    And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
+    Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
+
+    What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
+    'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
+    Then away with all such from the head that is hoary--
+    What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
+
+    Oh Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
+    'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
+    Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
+    She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
+
+    There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
+    Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
+    When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
+    I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXIII
+
+_THE OUTLAW_
+
+    O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+    And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+    And as I rode by Dalton-Hall
+      Beneath the turrets high,
+    A Maiden on the castle-wall
+      Was singing merrily:
+    'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+    I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.'
+
+    'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
+      To leave both tower and town,
+    Thou first must guess what life lead we
+      That dwell by dale and down.
+    And if thou canst that riddle read,
+      As read full well you may,
+    Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
+      As blithe as Queen of May.'
+    Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+    I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.
+
+    'I read you, by your bugle-horn
+      And by your palfrey good,
+    I read you for a ranger sworn
+      To keep the king's greenwood.'
+    'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,
+      And 'tis at peep of light;
+    His blast is heard at merry morn,
+      And mine at dead of night.'
+    Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are gay;
+    I would I were with Edmund there
+      To reign his Queen of May!
+
+    'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
+      So gallantly you come,
+    I read you for a bold Dragoon
+      That lists the tuck of drum.'
+    'I list no more the tuck of drum,
+      No more the trumpet hear;
+    But when the beetle sounds his hum
+      My comrades take the spear.
+    And O! though Brignall banks be fair
+      And Greta woods be gay,
+    Yet mickle must the maiden dare
+      Would reign my Queen of May!
+
+    'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
+      A nameless death I'll die;
+    The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
+      Were better mate than I!
+    And when I'm with my comrades met
+      Beneath the greenwood bough,--
+    What once we were we all forget,
+      Nor think what we are now.'
+
+_Chorus_
+
+    'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+    And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXIV
+
+    There be none of Beauty's daughters
+      With a magic like Thee;
+    And like music on the waters
+      Is thy sweet voice to me:
+    When, as if its sound were causing
+    The charmed ocean's pausing,
+    The waves lie still and gleaming,
+    And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
+
+    And the midnight moon is weaving
+      Her bright chain o'er the deep,
+    Whose breast is gently heaving
+      As an infant's asleep:
+    So the spirit bows before thee
+    To listen and adore thee;
+    With a full but soft emotion,
+    Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXV
+
+_THE INDIAN SERENADE_
+
+    I arise from dreams of Thee
+    In the first sweet sleep of night,
+    When the winds are breathing low
+    And the stars are shining bright:
+    I arise from dreams of thee,
+    And a spirit in my feet
+    Hath led me--who knows how?
+    To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
+
+    The wandering airs they faint
+    On the dark, the silent stream--
+    The champak odours fail
+    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+    The nightingale's complaint
+    It dies upon her heart,
+    As I must die on thine
+    O beloved as thou art!
+
+    Oh lift me from the grass!
+    I die, I faint, I fail!
+    Let thy love in kisses rain
+    On my lips and eyelids pale.
+    My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+    My heart beats loud and fast;
+    Oh! press it close to thine again
+    Where it will break at last.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXVI
+
+    She walks in beauty, like the night
+    Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
+    And all that's best of dark and bright
+    Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
+    Thus mellow'd to that tender light
+    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
+
+    One shade the more, one ray the less,
+    Had half impair'd the nameless grace
+    Which waves in every raven tress
+    Or softly lightens o'er her face,
+    Where thoughts serenely sweet express
+    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
+
+    And on that cheek and o'er that brow
+    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
+    The smiles that win, the tints that glow
+    But tell of days in goodness spent,--
+    A mind at peace with all below,
+    A heart whose love is innocent.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXVII
+
+    She was a Phantom of delight
+    When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
+    A lovely Apparition, sent
+    To be a moment's ornament;
+    Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
+    Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
+    But all things else about her drawn
+    From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
+    A dancing shape, an image gay,
+    To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
+
+    I saw her upon nearer view,
+    A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
+    Her household motions light and free,
+    And steps of virgin-liberty;
+    A countenance in which did meet
+    Sweet records, promises as sweet;
+    A creature not too bright or good
+    For human nature's daily food,
+    For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
+    Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
+
+    And now I see with eye serene
+    The very pulse of the machine;
+    A being breathing thoughtful breath,
+    A traveller between life and death:
+    The reason firm, the temperate will,
+    Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
+    A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
+    To warn, to comfort, and command;
+    And yet a Spirit still, and bright
+    With something of an angel-light.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXVIII
+
+    She is not fair to outward view
+      As many maidens be;
+    Her loveliness I never knew
+      Until she smiled on me.
+    O then I saw her eye was bright,
+    A well of love, a spring of light.
+
+    But now her looks are coy and cold,
+      To mine they ne'er reply,
+    And yet I cease not to behold
+      The love-light in her eye:
+    Her very frowns are fairer far
+    Than smiles of other maidens are.
+
+_H. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCXIX
+
+    I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
+    Thou needest not fear mine;
+    My spirit is too deeply laden
+    Ever to burthen thine.
+
+    I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
+    Thou needest not fear mine;
+    Innocent is the heart's devotion
+    With which I worship thine.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXX
+
+    She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+      Beside the springs of Dove;
+    A maid whom there were none to praise,
+      And very few to love.
+
+    A violet by a mossy stone
+      Half-hidden from the eye!
+    --Fair as a star, when only one
+      Is shining in the sky.
+
+    She lived unknown, and few could know
+      When Lucy ceased to be;
+    But she is in her grave, and, oh,
+      The difference to me!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXI
+
+    I travell'd among unknown men
+      In lands beyond the sea;
+    Nor, England! did I know till then
+      What love I bore to thee.
+
+    'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
+      Nor will I quit thy shore
+    A second time; for still I seem
+      To love thee more and more.
+
+    Among thy mountains did I feel
+      The joy of my desire;
+    And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
+      Beside an English fire.
+
+    Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd
+      The bowers where Lucy play'd;
+    And thine too is the last green field
+      That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXII
+
+_THE EDUCATION OF NATURE_
+
+    Three years she grew in sun and shower;
+    Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
+    On earth was never sown:
+    This Child I to myself will take;
+    She shall be mine, and I will make
+    A lady of my own.
+
+    'Myself will to my darling be
+    Both law and impulse: and with me
+    The girl, in rock and plain,
+    In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
+    Shall feel an overseeing power
+    To kindle or restrain.
+
+    'She shall be sportive as the fawn
+    That wild with glee across the lawn
+    Or up the mountain springs;
+    And her's shall be the breathing balm,
+    And her's the silence and the calm
+    Of mute insensate things.
+
+    'The floating clouds their state shall lend
+    To her; for her the willow bend;
+    Nor shall she fail to see
+    Ev'n in the motions of the storm
+    Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
+    By silent sympathy.
+
+    'The stars of midnight shall be dear
+    To her; and she shall lean her ear
+    In many a secret place
+    Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+    And beauty born of murmuring sound
+    Shall pass into her face.
+
+    'And vital feelings of delight
+    Shall rear her form to stately height,
+    Her virgin bosom swell;
+    Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
+    While she and I together live
+    Here in this happy dell.'
+
+    Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
+    How soon my Lucy's race was run!
+    She died, and left to me
+    This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
+    The memory of what has been,
+    And never more will be.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXIII
+
+    A slumber did my spirit seal;
+      I had no human fears:
+    She seem'd a thing that could not feel
+      The touch of earthly years.
+
+    No motion has she now, no force;
+      She neither hears nor sees;
+    Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
+      With rocks, and stones, and trees.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXIV
+
+_A LOST LOVE_
+
+    I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
+      Thy thrilling voice I hear;
+    And former hours and scenes retrace,
+      Too fleeting, and too dear!
+
+    Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
+      Though none is nigh to share;
+    And life has nought beside for me
+      So sweet as this despair.
+
+    There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
+      And mine, methinks, is one;
+    Or thus I should not weep and wake,
+      And thou to slumber gone.
+
+    I little thought it thus could be
+      In days more sad and fair--
+    That earth could have a place for me,
+      And thou no longer there.
+
+    Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
+      Or make thee less my own:
+    'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
+      Than watching here alone.
+
+    Yet never, never can we part,
+      While Memory holds her reign:
+    Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart
+      Till we shall meet again.
+
+_H. F. Lyte_
+
+
+CCXXV
+
+_LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER_
+
+    A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+    Cries 'Boatman, do not tarry!
+    And I'll give thee a silver pound
+    To row us o'er the ferry!'
+
+    'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
+    This dark and stormy water?'
+    'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
+    And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
+
+    'And fast before her father's men
+    Three days we've fled together,
+    For should he find us in the glen,
+    My blood would stain the heather.
+
+    'His horsemen hard behind us ride--
+    Should they our steps discover,
+    Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
+    When they have slain her lover?'
+
+    Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
+    'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
+    It is not for your silver bright,
+    But for your winsome lady:--
+
+    'And by my word! the bonny bird
+    In danger shall not tarry;
+    So though the waves are raging white
+    I'll row you o'er the ferry.'
+
+    By this the storm grew loud apace,
+    The water-wraith was shrieking;
+    And in the scowl of Heaven each face
+    Grew dark as they were speaking.
+
+    But still as wilder blew the wind,
+    And as the night grew drearer,
+    Adown the glen rode armed men,
+    Their trampling sounded nearer.
+
+    'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
+    'Though tempests round us gather;
+    I'll meet the raging of the skies,
+    But not an angry father.'
+
+    The boat has left a stormy land,
+    A stormy sea before her,--
+    When, oh! too strong for human hand
+    The tempest gather'd o'er her.
+
+    And still they row'd amidst the roar
+    Of waters fast prevailing:
+    Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--
+    His wrath was changed to wailing.
+
+    For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
+    His child he did discover:--
+    One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
+    And one was round her lover.
+
+    'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief
+    'Across this stormy water:
+    And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
+    My daughter!--Oh, my daughter!'
+
+    'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
+    Return or aid preventing:
+    The waters wild went o'er his child,
+    And he was left lamenting.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXXVI
+
+_LUCY GRAY_
+
+    Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
+    And when I cross'd the wild,
+    I chanced to see at break of day
+    The solitary child.
+
+    No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
+    She dwelt on a wide moor,
+    The sweetest thing that ever grew
+    Beside a human door!
+
+    You yet may spy the fawn at play,
+    The hare upon the green;
+    But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
+    Will never more be seen.
+
+    'To-night will be a stormy night--
+    You to the town must go;
+    And take a lantern, Child, to light
+    Your mother through the snow.'
+
+    'That, Father! will I gladly do:
+    'Tis scarcely afternoon--
+    The minster-clock has just struck two,
+    And yonder is the moon!'
+
+    At this the father raised his hook,
+    And snapp'd a faggot-band;
+    He plied his work;--and Lucy took
+    The lantern in her hand.
+
+    Not blither is the mountain roe:
+    With many a wanton stroke
+    Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
+    That rises up like smoke.
+
+    The storm came on before its time:
+    She wander'd up and down;
+    And many a hill did Lucy climb:
+    But never reach'd the town.
+
+    The wretched parents all that night
+    Went shouting far and wide;
+    But there was neither sound nor sight
+    To serve them for a guide.
+
+    At day-break on a hill they stood
+    That overlook'd the moor;
+    And thence they saw the bridge of wood
+    A furlong from their door.
+
+    They wept--and, turning homeward, cried
+    'In heaven we all shall meet!'
+    --When in the snow the mother spied
+    The print of Lucy's feet.
+
+    Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
+    They track'd the footmarks small;
+    And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
+    And by the long stone-wall:
+
+    And then an open field they cross'd:
+    The marks were still the same;
+    They track'd them on, nor ever lost;
+    And to the bridge they came:
+
+    They follow'd from the snowy bank
+    Those footmarks, one by one,
+    Into the middle of the plank;
+    And further there were none!
+
+    --Yet some maintain that to this day
+    She is a living child;
+    That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
+    Upon the lonesome wild.
+
+    O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
+    And never looks behind;
+    And sings a solitary song
+    That whistles in the wind.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXVII
+
+_JOCK OF HAZELDEAN_
+
+    'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+      Why weep ye by the tide?
+    I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
+      And ye sall be his bride:
+    And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
+      Sae comely to be seen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
+      And dry that cheek so pale;
+    Young Frank is chief of Errington
+      And lord of Langley-dale;
+    His step is first in peaceful ha',
+      His sword in battle keen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
+      Nor braid to bind your hair,
+    Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
+      Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
+    And you the foremost o' them a'
+      Shall ride our forest-queen'--
+    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+      For Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+    The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
+      The tapers glimmer'd fair;
+    The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
+      And dame and knight are there:
+    They sought her baith by bower and ha';
+      The ladie was not seen!
+    She's o'er the Border, and awa'
+      Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXVIII
+
+_LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY_
+
+    The fountains mingle with the river
+    And the rivers with the ocean,
+    The winds of heaven mix for ever
+    With a sweet emotion;
+    Nothing in the world is single,
+    All things by a law divine
+    In one another's being mingle--
+    Why not I with thine?
+
+    See the mountains kiss high heaven,
+    And the waves clasp one another;
+    No sister-flower would be forgiven
+    If it disdain'd its brother:
+    And the sunlight clasps the earth,
+    And the moonbeams kiss the sea--
+    What are all these kissings worth,
+    If thou kiss not me?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXXIX
+
+_ECHOES_
+
+    How sweet the answer Echo makes
+    To Music at night
+    When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
+    And far away o'er lawns and lakes
+    Goes answering light!
+
+    Yet Love hath echoes truer far
+    And far more sweet
+    Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
+    Of horn or lute or soft guitar
+    The songs repeat.
+
+    'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere
+    And only then,
+    The sigh that's breathed for one to hear--
+    Is by that one, that only Dear
+    Breathed back again.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCXXX
+
+_A SERENADE_
+
+    Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
+      The sun has left the lea,
+    The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
+      The breeze is on the sea.
+    The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
+      Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
+    Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
+      But where is County Guy?
+
+    The village maid steals through the shade
+      Her shepherd's suit to hear;
+    To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
+      Sings high-born Cavalier.
+    The star of Love, all stars above,
+      Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
+    And high and low the influence know--
+      But where is County Guy?
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXI
+
+_TO THE EVENING STAR_
+
+    Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,
+    Companion of retiring day,
+    Why at the closing gates of heaven,
+    Beloved Star, dost thou delay?
+
+    So fair thy pensile beauty burns
+    When soft the tear of twilight flows;
+    So due thy plighted love returns
+    To chambers brighter than the rose;
+
+    To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love
+    So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
+    Sure some enamour'd orb above
+    Descends and burns to meet with thee.
+
+    Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
+    When all unheavenly passions fly,
+    Chased by the soul-subduing power
+    Of Love's delicious witchery.
+
+    O! sacred to the fall of day
+    Queen of propitious stars, appear,
+    And early rise, and long delay,
+    When Caroline herself is here!
+
+    Shine on her chosen green resort
+    Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
+    And wanton flowers, that well may court
+    An angel's feet to tread them down:--
+
+    Shine on her sweetly scented road
+    Thou star of evening's purple dome,
+    That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
+    And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
+
+    Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
+    Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
+    Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
+    To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--
+
+    Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
+    Her silken tresses darkly flow
+    And fall upon her brow so fair,
+    Like shadows on the mountain snow.
+
+    Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
+    In converse sweet to wander far--
+    O bring with thee my Caroline,
+    And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXXXII
+
+_TO THE NIGHT_
+
+    Swiftly walk over the western wave,
+                Spirit of Night!
+    Out of the misty eastern cave
+    Where, all the long and lone daylight,
+    Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
+    Which make thee terrible and dear,--
+                Swift be thy flight!
+
+    Wrap thy form in a mantle gray
+                Star-inwrought;
+    Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,
+    Kiss her until she be wearied out:
+    Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
+    Touching all with thine opiate wand--
+                Come, long-sought!
+
+    When I arose and saw the dawn,
+                I sigh'd for thee;
+    When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
+    And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
+    And the weary Day turn'd to his rest
+    Lingering like an unloved guest,
+                I sigh'd for thee.
+
+    Thy brother Death came, and cried
+                Wouldst thou me?
+    Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
+    Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
+    Shall I nestle near thy side?
+    Wouldst thou me?--And I replied
+                No, not thee!
+
+    Death will come when thou art dead,
+                Soon, too soon--
+    Sleep will come when thou art fled;
+    Of neither would I ask the boon
+    I ask of thee, beloved Night--
+    Swift be thine approaching flight,
+                Come soon, soon!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXXXIII
+
+_TO A DISTANT FRIEND_
+
+    Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
+    Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
+    Of absence withers what was once so fair?
+    Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
+
+    Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
+    Bound to thy service with unceasing care--
+    The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
+    For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
+
+    Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
+    A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
+    Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
+
+    Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
+    'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
+    Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXXXIV
+
+    When we two parted
+    In silence and tears,
+    Half broken-hearted,
+    To sever for years,
+    Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
+    Colder thy kiss;
+    Truly that hour foretold
+    Sorrow to this!
+
+    The dew of the morning
+    Sunk chill on my brow;
+    It felt like the warning
+    Of what I feel now.
+    Thy vows are all broken,
+    And light is thy fame:
+    I hear thy name spoken
+    And share in its shame.
+
+    They name thee before me,
+    A knell to mine ear;
+    A shudder comes o'er me--
+    Why wert thou so dear?
+    They know not I knew thee
+    Who knew thee too well:
+    Long, long shall I rue thee,
+    Too deeply to tell.
+
+    In secret we met:
+    In silence I grieve
+    That thy heart could forget,
+    Thy spirit deceive.
+    If I should meet thee
+    After long years,
+    How should I greet thee?--
+    With silence and tears.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXXXV
+
+_HAPPY INSENSIBILITY_
+
+    In a drear-nighted December,
+    Too happy, happy tree,
+    Thy branches ne'er remember
+    Their green felicity:
+    The north cannot undo them
+    With a sleety whistle through them,
+    Nor frozen thawings glue them
+    From budding at the prime.
+
+    In a drear-nighted December,
+    Too happy, happy brook,
+    Thy bubblings ne'er remember
+    Apollo's summer look;
+    But with a sweet forgetting
+    They stay their crystal fretting,
+    Never, never petting
+    About the frozen time.
+
+    Ah! would 'twere so with many
+    A gentle girl and boy!
+    But were there ever any
+    Writhed not at passed joy?
+    To know the change and feel it,
+    When there is none to heal it
+    Nor numbed sense to steal it--
+    Was never said in rhyme.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXXXVI
+
+    Where shall the lover rest
+      Whom the fates sever
+    From his true maiden's breast
+      Parted for ever?
+    Where, through groves deep and high
+      Sounds the far billow,
+    Where early violets die
+      Under the willow.
+        _Eleu loro
+      Soft shall be his pillow._
+
+    There through the summer day
+      Cool streams are laving:
+    There, while the tempests sway,
+      Scarce are boughs waving;
+    There thy rest shalt thou take,
+      Parted for ever,
+    Never again to wake
+      Never, O never!
+        _Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!_
+
+    Where shall the traitor rest,
+      He, the deceiver,
+    Who could win maiden's breast,
+      Ruin, and leave her?
+    In the lost battle,
+      Borne down by the flying,
+    Where mingles war's rattle
+      With groans of the dying;
+        _Eleu loro
+      There shall he be lying._
+
+    Her wing shall the eagle flap
+      O'er the falsehearted;
+    His warm blood the wolf shall lap
+      Ere life be parted:
+    Shame and dishonour sit
+      By his grave ever;
+    Blessing shall hallow it
+      Never, O never!
+        _Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!_
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXVII
+
+_LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI_
+
+    'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      Alone and palely loitering?
+    The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.
+
+    'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
+      So haggard and so woe-begone?
+    The squirrel's granary is full,
+      And the harvest's done.
+
+    'I see a lily on thy brow
+      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
+    And on thy cheeks a fading rose
+      Fast withereth too.'
+
+    'I met a lady in the meads,
+      Full beautiful--a faery's child,
+    Her hair was long, her foot was light,
+      And her eyes were wild.
+
+    'I made a garland for her head,
+      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
+    She look'd at me as she did love,
+      And made sweet moan.
+
+    'I set her on my pacing steed
+      And nothing else saw all day long,
+    For sidelong would she bend, and sing
+      A faery's song.
+
+    'She found me roots of relish sweet,
+      And honey wild and manna-dew,
+    And sure in language strange she said
+      "I love thee true."
+
+    'She took me to her elfin grot,
+      And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;
+    And there I shut her wild wild eyes
+      With kisses four.
+
+    'And there she lulled me asleep,
+      And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
+    The latest dream I ever dream'd
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+    'I saw pale kings and princes too,
+      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
+    They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci
+      Hath thee in thrall!"
+
+    'I saw their starved lips in the gloam
+      With horrid warning gaped wide,
+    And I awoke and found me here
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+    'And this is why I sojourn here
+      Alone and palely loitering,
+    Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.'
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXXXVIII
+
+_THE ROVER_
+
+    A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
+      A weary lot is thine!
+    To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
+      And press the rue for wine.
+    A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
+      A feather of the blue,
+    A doublet of the Lincoln green--
+      No more of me you knew
+                    My Love!
+    No more of me you knew.
+
+    'This morn is merry June, I trow,
+      The rose is budding fain;
+    But she shall bloom in winter snow
+      Ere we two meet again.'
+    He turn'd his charger as he spake
+      Upon the river shore,
+    He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
+      Said 'Adieu for evermore
+                    My Love!
+    And adieu for evermore.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXXXIX
+
+_THE FLIGHT OF LOVE_
+
+    When the lamp is shatter'd
+    The light in the dust lies dead--
+    When the cloud is scatter'd,
+    The rainbow's glory is shed.
+    When the lute is broken,
+    Sweet tones are remember'd not;
+    When the lips have spoken,
+    Loved accents are soon forgot.
+
+    As music and splendour
+    Survive not the lamp and the lute,
+    The heart's echoes render
+    No song when the spirit is mute--
+    No song but sad dirges,
+    Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
+    Or the mournful surges
+    That ring the dead seaman's knell.
+
+    When hearts have once mingled,
+    Love first leaves the well-built nest;
+    The weak one is singled
+    To endure what it once possesst.
+    O Love! who bewailest
+    The frailty of all things here,
+    Why choose you the frailest
+    For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
+
+    Its passions will rock thee
+    As the storms rock the ravens on high;
+    Bright reason will mock thee
+    Like the sun from a wintry sky.
+    From thy nest every rafter
+    Will rot, and thine eagle home
+    Leave thee naked to laughter,
+    When leaves fall and cold winds come.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXL
+
+_THE MAID OF NEIDPATH_
+
+    O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
+      And lovers' ears in hearing;
+    And love, in life's extremity,
+      Can lend an hour of cheering.
+    Disease had been in Mary's bower
+      And slow decay from mourning,
+    Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
+      To watch her Love's returning.
+
+    All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
+      Her form decay'd by pining,
+    Till through her wasted hand, at night,
+      You saw the taper shining.
+    By fits a sultry hectic hue
+      Across her cheek was flying;
+    By fits so ashy pale she grew
+      Her maidens thought her dying.
+
+    Yet keenest powers to see and hear
+      Seem'd in her frame residing;
+    Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
+      She heard her lover's riding;
+    Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
+      She knew and waved to greet him,
+    And o'er the battlement did bend
+      As on the wing to meet him.
+
+    He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze
+      As o'er some stranger glancing;
+    Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
+      Lost in his courser's prancing--
+    The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
+      Returns each whisper spoken,
+    Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
+      Which told her heart was broken.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXLI
+
+    Earl March look'd on his dying child,
+      And, smit with grief to view her--
+    The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
+      Shall be restored to woo her.
+
+    She's at the window many an hour
+      His coming to discover:
+    And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
+      And she look'd on her lover--
+
+    But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
+      Though her smile on him was dwelling--
+    And am I then forgot--forgot?
+      It broke the heart of Ellen.
+
+    In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
+      Her cheek is cold as ashes;
+    Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
+      To lift their silken lashes.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXLII
+
+    Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
+    Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
+    And watching, with eternal lids apart,
+    Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
+
+    The moving waters at their priestlike task
+    Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
+    Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
+    Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--
+
+    No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
+    Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast
+    To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
+    Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
+
+    Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
+    And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXLIII
+
+_THE TERROR OF DEATH_
+
+    When I have fears that I may cease to be
+    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
+    Before high-piled books, in charact'ry
+    Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
+
+    When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
+    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
+    And think that I may never live to trace
+    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
+
+    And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
+    That I shall never look upon thee more,
+    Never have relish in the faery power
+    Of unreflecting love--then on the shore
+
+    Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
+    Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
+
+_Keats_
+
+
+CCXLIV
+
+_DESIDERIA_
+
+    Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind--
+    I turn'd to share the transport--Oh! with whom
+    But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb,
+    That spot which no vicissitude can find?
+
+    Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind--
+    But how could I forget thee? Through what power
+    Even for the least division of an hour
+    Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
+
+    To my most grievous loss!--That thought's return
+    Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
+    Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
+
+    Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
+    That neither present time, nor years unborn
+    Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXLV
+
+    At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
+    To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
+    And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
+    To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there
+    And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!
+
+    Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
+    When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;
+    And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
+    I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
+    Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCXLVI
+
+_ELEGY ON THYRZA_
+
+    And thou art dead, as young and fair
+      As aught of mortal birth;
+    And forms so soft and charms so rare
+      Too soon return'd to Earth!
+    Though Earth received them in her bed,
+    And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
+      In carelessness or mirth,
+    There is an eye which could not brook
+    A moment on that grave to look.
+
+    I will not ask where thou liest low
+      Nor gaze upon the spot;
+    There flowers or weeds at will may grow
+      So I behold them not:
+    It is enough for me to prove
+    That what I loved, and long must love,
+      Like common earth can rot;
+    To me there needs no stone to tell
+    'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
+
+    Yet did I love thee to the last,
+      As fervently as thou
+    Who didst not change through all the past
+      And canst not alter now.
+    The love where Death has set his seal
+    Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
+      Nor falsehood disavow:
+    And, what were worse, thou canst not see
+    Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
+
+    The better days of life were ours;
+      The worst can be but mine:
+    The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,
+      Shall never more be thine.
+    The silence of that dreamless sleep
+    I envy now too much to weep;
+      Nor need I to repine
+    That all those charms have pass'd away
+    I might have watch'd through long decay.
+
+    The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
+      Must fall the earliest prey;
+    Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
+      The leaves must drop away.
+    And yet it were a greater grief
+    To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
+      Than see it pluck'd today;
+    Since earthly eye but ill can bear
+    To trace the change to foul from fair.
+
+    I know not if I could have borne
+      To see thy beauties fade;
+    The night that follow'd such a morn
+      Had worn a deeper shade:
+    Thy day without a cloud hath past,
+    And thou wert lovely to the last,
+      Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
+    As stars that shoot along the sky
+    Shine brightest as they fall from high.
+
+    As once I wept, if I could weep,
+      My tears might well be shed
+    To think I was not near, to keep
+      One vigil o'er thy bed:
+    To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
+    To fold thee in a faint embrace,
+      Uphold thy drooping head;
+    And show that love, however vain,
+    Nor thou nor I can feel again.
+
+    Yet how much less it were to gain,
+      Though thou hast left me free,
+    The loveliest things that still remain
+      Than thus remember thee!
+    The all of thine that cannot die
+    Through dark and dread Eternity
+      Returns again to me,
+    And more thy buried love endears
+    Than aught except its living years.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCXLVII
+
+    One word is too often profaned
+      For me to profane it,
+    One feeling too falsely disdain'd
+      For thee to disdain it.
+    One hope is too like despair
+      For prudence to smother,
+    And pity from thee more dear
+      Than that from another.
+
+    I can give not what men call love;
+      But wilt thou accept not
+    The worship the heart lifts above
+      And the Heavens reject not:
+    The desire of the moth for the star,
+      Of the night for the morrow,
+    The devotion to something afar
+      From the sphere of our sorrow?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXLVIII
+
+_GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK_
+
+    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+      Pibroch of Donuil
+    Wake thy wild voice anew,
+      Summon Clan Conuil.
+    Come away, come away,
+      Hark to the summons!
+    Come in your war-array,
+      Gentles and commons.
+
+    Come from deep glen, and
+      From mountain so rocky;
+    The war-pipe and pennon
+      Are at Inverlocky.
+    Come every hill-plaid, and
+      True heart that wears one,
+    Come every steel blade, and
+      Strong hand that bears one.
+
+    Leave untended the herd,
+      The flock without shelter;
+    Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
+      The bride at the altar;
+    Leave the deer, leave the steer,
+      Leave nets and barges:
+    Come with your fighting gear,
+      Broadswords and targes.
+
+    Come as the winds come, when
+      Forests are rended,
+    Come as the waves come, when
+      Navies are stranded:
+    Faster come, faster come,
+      Faster and faster,
+    Chief, vassal, page and groom,
+      Tenant and master.
+
+    Fast they come, fast they come;
+      See how they gather!
+    Wide waves the eagle plume
+      Blended with heather.
+    Cast your plaids, draw your blades
+      Forward each man set!
+    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+      Knell for the onset!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCXLIX
+
+    A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
+      A wind that follows fast
+    And fills the white and rustling sail
+      And bends the gallant mast;
+    And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
+      While like the eagle free
+    Away the good ship flies, and leaves
+      Old England on the lee.
+
+    O for a soft and gentle wind!
+      I heard a fair one cry;
+    But give to me the snoring breeze
+      And white waves heaving high;
+    And white waves heaving high, my lads,
+      The good ship tight and free--
+    The world of waters is our home,
+      And merry men are we.
+
+    There's tempest in yon horned moon,
+      And lightning in yon cloud;
+    But hark the music, mariners!
+      The wind is piping loud;
+    The wind is piping loud, my boys,
+      The lightning flashes free--
+    While the hollow oak our palace is,
+      Our heritage the sea.
+
+_A. Cunningham_
+
+
+CCL
+
+    Ye Mariners of England
+    That guard our native seas!
+    Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
+    The battle and the breeze!
+    Your glorious standard launch again
+    To match another foe:
+    And sweep through the deep,
+    While the stormy winds do blow;
+    While the battle rages loud and long
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    The spirits of your fathers
+    Shall start from every wave--
+    For the deck it was their field of fame,
+    And Ocean was their grave:
+    Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
+    Your manly hearts shall glow,
+    As ye sweep through the deep,
+    While the stormy winds do blow;
+    While the battle rages loud and long
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    Britannia needs no bulwarks,
+    No towers along the steep;
+    Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
+    Her home is on the deep.
+    With thunders from her native oak
+    She quells the floods below--
+    As they roar on the shore,
+    When the stormy winds do blow;
+    When the battle rages loud and long,
+    And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+    The meteor flag of England
+    Shall yet terrific burn;
+    Till danger's troubled night depart
+    And the star of peace return.
+    Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
+    Our song and feast shall flow
+    To the fame of your name,
+    When the storm has ceased to blow;
+    When the fiery fight is heard no more,
+    And the storm has ceased to blow.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLI
+
+_BATTLE OF THE BALTIC_
+
+    Of Nelson and the North
+    Sing the glorious day's renown,
+    When to battle fierce came forth
+    All the might of Denmark's crown,
+    And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
+    By each gun the lighted brand
+    In a bold determined hand,
+    And the Prince of all the land
+    Led them on.
+
+    Like leviathans afloat
+    Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
+    While the sign of battle flew
+    On the lofty British line:
+    It was ten of April morn by the chime:
+    As they drifted on their path
+    There was silence deep as death,
+    And the boldest held his breath
+    For a time.
+
+    But the might of England flush'd
+    To anticipate the scene;
+    And her van the fleeter rush'd
+    O'er the deadly space between.
+    'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun
+    From its adamantine lips
+    Spread a death-shade round the ships,
+    Like the hurricane eclipse
+    Of the sun.
+
+    Again! again! again!
+    And the havoc did not slack,
+    Till a feeble cheer the Dane
+    To our cheering sent us back;--
+    Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
+    Then ceased--and all is wail,
+    As they strike the shatter'd sail;
+    Or in conflagration pale
+    Light the gloom.
+
+    Out spoke the victor then
+    As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
+    'Ye are brothers! ye are men!
+    And we conquer but to save:--
+    So peace instead of death let us bring:
+    But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
+    With the crews, at England's feet,
+    And make submission meet
+    To our King.'
+
+    Then Denmark bless'd our chief
+    That he gave her wounds repose;
+    And the sounds of joy and grief
+    From her people wildly rose,
+    As death withdrew his shades from the day:
+    While the sun look'd smiling bright
+    O'er a wide and woeful sight,
+    Where the fires of funeral light
+    Died away.
+
+    Now joy, old England, raise!
+    For the tidings of thy might,
+    By the festal cities' blaze,
+    Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
+    And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
+    Let us think of them that sleep
+    Full many a fathom deep
+    By thy wild and stormy steep,
+    Elsinore!
+
+    Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
+    Once so faithful and so true,
+    On the deck of fame that died,
+    With the gallant good Riou:
+    Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
+    While the billow mournful rolls
+    And the mermaid's song condoles
+    Singing glory to the souls
+    Of the brave!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLII
+
+_ODE TO DUTY_
+
+      Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
+      O Duty! if that name thou love
+      Who art a light to guide, a rod
+      To check the erring, and reprove;
+      Thou who art victory and law
+      When empty terrors overawe;
+      From vain temptations dost set free,
+    And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
+
+      There are who ask not if thine eye
+      Be on them; who, in love and truth
+      Where no misgiving is, rely
+      Upon the genial sense of youth:
+      Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
+      Who do thy work, and know it not:
+      Oh! if through confidence misplaced
+    They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
+
+      Serene will be our days and bright
+      And happy will our nature be
+      When love is an unerring light,
+      And joy its own security.
+      And they a blissful course may hold
+      Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold,
+      Live in the spirit of this creed;
+    Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
+
+      I, loving freedom, and untried,
+      No sport of every random gust,
+      Yet being to myself a guide,
+      Too blindly have reposed my trust:
+      And oft, when in my heart was heard
+      Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
+      The task, in smoother walks to stray;
+    But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
+
+      Through no disturbance of my soul
+      Or strong compunction in me wrought,
+      I supplicate for thy controul,
+      But in the quietness of thought:
+      Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
+      I feel the weight of chance-desires:
+      My hopes no more must change their name;
+    I long for a repose that ever is the same.
+
+      Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
+      The Godhead's most benignant grace;
+      Nor know we anything so fair
+      As is the smile upon thy face:
+      Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
+      And fragrance in thy footing treads;
+      Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
+    And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
+
+      To humbler functions, awful Power!
+      I call thee: I myself commend
+      Unto thy guidance from this hour;
+      Oh let my weakness have an end!
+      Give unto me, made lowly wise,
+      The spirit of self-sacrifice;
+      The confidence of reason give;
+    And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.
+
+_W. Wordsworth._
+
+
+CCLIII
+
+_ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON_
+
+    Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+    Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
+    For there thy habitation is the heart--
+    The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
+
+    And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,
+    To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
+    Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
+    And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
+
+    Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
+    And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,
+    Until his very steps have left a trace
+
+    Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
+    By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
+    For they appeal from tyranny to God.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLIV
+
+_ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802_
+
+    Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
+    One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:
+    In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
+    They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
+
+    There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
+    Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven:
+    Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
+    Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
+
+    --Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
+    Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left--
+    For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
+
+    That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
+    And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
+    And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLV
+
+_ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC._
+
+    Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+    And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
+    Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
+    Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
+
+    She was a maiden city, bright and free;
+    No guile seduced, no force could violate;
+    And when she took unto herself a mate,
+    She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
+
+    And what if she had seen those glories fade,
+    Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,--
+    Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
+
+    When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
+    Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
+    Of that which once was great is pass'd away.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVI
+
+_LONDON, 1802_
+
+    O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+    For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
+    To think that now our life is only drest
+    For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
+
+    Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
+    In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
+    The wealthiest man among us is the best:
+    No grandeur now in nature or in book
+
+    Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
+    This is idolatry; and these we adore:
+    Plain living and high thinking are no more:
+
+    The homely beauty of the good old cause
+    Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
+    And pure religion breathing household laws.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVII
+
+_THE SAME_
+
+    Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
+    England hath need of thee: she is a fen
+    Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
+    Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
+
+    Have forfeited their ancient English dower
+    Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
+    Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
+    And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
+
+    Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
+    Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
+    Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
+
+    So didst thou travel on life's common way
+    In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
+    The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLVIII
+
+    When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+    Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
+    When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
+    The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed
+
+    I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
+    Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
+    Verily, in the bottom of my heart
+    Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
+
+    For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
+    In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
+    And I by my affection was beguiled:
+
+    What wonder if a Poet now and then,
+    Among the many movements of his mind,
+    Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLIX
+
+_HOHENLINDEN_
+
+    On Linden, when the sun was low,
+    All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
+    And dark as winter was the flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+    But Linden saw another sight,
+    When the drum beat at dead of night
+    Commanding fires of death to light
+        The darkness of her scenery.
+
+    By torch and trumpet fast array'd
+    Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
+    And furious every charger neigh'd
+        To join the dreadful revelry.
+
+    Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
+    Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
+    And louder than the bolts of Heaven
+        Far flash'd the red artillery.
+
+    But redder yet that light shall glow
+    On Linden's hills of stained snow;
+    And bloodier yet the torrent flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+    'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
+    Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
+    Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
+        Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
+
+    The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
+    Who rush to glory, or the grave!
+    Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
+        And charge with all thy chivalry!
+
+    Few, few shall part, where many meet!
+    The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
+    And every turf beneath their feet
+        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCLX
+
+_AFTER BLENHEIM_
+
+    It was a summer evening,
+      Old Kaspar's work was done,
+    And he before his cottage door
+      Was sitting in the sun;
+    And by him sported on the green
+    His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
+
+    She saw her brother Peterkin
+      Roll something large and round
+    Which he beside the rivulet
+      In playing there had found;
+    He came to ask what he had found
+    That was so large and smooth and round.
+
+    Old Kaspar took it from the boy
+      Who stood expectant by;
+    And then the old man shook his head,
+      And with a natural sigh
+    ''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,
+    'Who fell in the great victory.
+
+    'I find them in the garden,
+      For there's many here about;
+    And often when I go to plough
+      The ploughshare turns them out.
+    For many thousand men,' said he,
+    'Were slain in that great victory.'
+
+    'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'
+      Young Peterkin he cries;
+    And little Wilhelmine looks up
+      With wonder-waiting eyes;
+    'Now tell us all about the war,
+    And what they fought each other for.'
+
+    'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
+      'Who put the French to rout;
+    But what they fought each other for
+      I could not well make out.
+    But every body said,' quoth he,
+    'That 'twas a famous victory.
+
+    'My father lived at Blenheim then,
+      Yon little stream hard by;
+    They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
+      And he was forced to fly:
+    So with his wife and child he fled,
+    Nor had he where to rest his head.
+
+    'With fire and sword the country round
+      Was wasted far and wide,
+    And many a childing mother then
+      And new-born baby died:
+    But things like that, you know, must be
+    At every famous victory.
+
+    'They say it was a shocking sight
+      After the field was won;
+    For many thousand bodies here
+      Lay rotting in the sun:
+    But things like that, you know, must be
+    After a famous victory.
+
+    'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
+      And our good Prince Eugene;'
+    'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'
+      Said little Wilhelmine;
+    'Nay ... nay ... my little girl,' quoth he,
+    'It was a famous victory.
+
+    'And every body praised the Duke
+      Who this great fight did win.'
+    'But what good came of it at last?'
+      Quoth little Peterkin:--
+    'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,
+    'But 'twas a famous victory.'
+
+_R. Southey_
+
+
+CCLXI
+
+_PRO PATRIA MORI_
+
+    When he who adores thee has left out the name
+      Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
+    Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
+      Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
+    Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
+      Thy tears shall efface their decree;
+    For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
+      I have been but too faithful to thee.
+
+    With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
+      Every thought of my reason was thine:
+    In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
+      Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
+    Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
+      The days of thy glory to see;
+    But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
+      Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXII
+
+_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA_
+
+    Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
+      As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
+    Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
+      O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
+
+    We buried him darkly at dead of night,
+      The sods with our bayonets turning;
+    By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
+      And the lantern dimly burning.
+
+    No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
+      Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
+    But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
+      With his martial cloak around him.
+
+    Few and short were the prayers we said,
+      And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
+    But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
+      And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
+
+    We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
+      And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
+    That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
+      And we far away on the billow!
+
+    Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
+      And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
+    But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
+      In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
+
+    But half of our heavy task was done
+      When the clock struck the hour for retiring:
+    And we heard the distant and random gun
+      That the foe was sullenly firing.
+
+    Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
+      From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
+    We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
+      But we left him alone with his glory.
+
+_C. Wolfe_
+
+
+CCLXIII
+
+_SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN_
+
+    In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
+    Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
+    An old man dwells, a little man,--
+    'Tis said he once was tall.
+    Full five-and-thirty years he lived
+    A running huntsman merry;
+    And still the centre of his cheek
+    Is red as a ripe cherry.
+
+    No man like him the horn could sound,
+    And hill and valley rang with glee,
+    When Echo bandied, round and round,
+    The halloo of Simon Lee.
+    In those proud days he little cared
+    For husbandry or tillage;
+    To blither tasks did Simon rouse
+    The sleepers of the village.
+
+    He all the country could outrun,
+    Could leave both man and horse behind;
+    And often, ere the chase was done,
+    He reel'd and was stone-blind.
+    And still there's something in the world
+    At which his heart rejoices;
+    For when the chiming hounds are out,
+    He dearly loves their voices.
+
+    But oh the heavy change!--bereft
+    Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see!
+    Old Simon to the world is left
+    In liveried poverty:--
+    His master's dead, and no one now
+    Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
+    Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
+    He is the sole survivor.
+
+    And he is lean and he is sick,
+    His body, dwindled and awry,
+    Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
+    His legs are thin and dry.
+    One prop he has, and only one,--
+    His wife, an aged woman,
+    Lives with him, near the waterfall,
+    Upon the village common.
+
+    Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
+    Not twenty paces from the door,
+    A scrap of land they have, but they
+    Are poorest of the poor.
+    This scrap of land he from the heath
+    Enclosed when he was stronger;
+    But what to them avails the land
+    Which he can till no longer?
+
+    Oft, working by her husband's side,
+    Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
+    For she, with scanty cause for pride,
+    Is stouter of the two.
+    And, though you with your utmost skill
+    From labour could not wean them,
+    'Tis little, very little, all
+    That they can do between them.
+
+    Few months of life has he in store
+    As he to you will tell,
+    For still, the more he works, the more
+    Do his weak ankles swell.
+    My gentle Reader, I perceive
+    How patiently you've waited,
+    And now I fear that you expect
+    Some tale will be related.
+
+    O Reader! had you in your mind
+    Such stores as silent thought can bring,
+    O gentle Reader! you would find
+    A tale in every thing.
+    What more I have to say is short,
+    And you must kindly take it:
+    It is no tale; but, should you think,
+    Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
+
+    One summer-day I chanced to see
+    This old Man doing all he could
+    To unearth the root of an old tree,
+    A stump of rotten wood.
+    The mattock totter'd in his hand;
+    So vain was his endeavour
+    That at the root of the old tree
+    He might have work'd for ever.
+
+    'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
+    Give me your tool,' to him I said;
+    And at the word right gladly he
+    Received my proffer'd aid.
+    I struck, and with a single blow
+    The tangled root I sever'd,
+    At which the poor old man so long
+    And vainly had endeavour'd.
+
+    The tears into his eyes were brought,
+    And thanks and praises seem'd to run
+    So fast out of his heart, I thought
+    They never would have done.
+    --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed
+    With coldness still returning;
+    Alas! the gratitude of men
+    Hath oftener left me mourning.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXIV
+
+_THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES_
+
+    I have had playmates, I have had companions,
+    In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+    Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
+    Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+    I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
+    Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+    Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+
+    Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
+    Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+    Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+
+    Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+    Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+    So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
+
+    How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+    And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXV
+
+_THE JOURNEY ONWARDS_
+
+    As slow our ship her foamy track
+      Against the wind was cleaving,
+    Her trembling pennant still look'd back
+      To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
+    So loth we part from all we love,
+      From all the links that bind us;
+    So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+    When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
+      We talk with joyous seeming--
+    With smiles that might as well be tears,
+      So faint, so sad their beaming;
+    While memory brings us back again
+      Each early tie that twined us,
+    Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+    And when, in other climes, we meet
+      Some isle or vale enchanting,
+    Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
+      And nought but love is wanting;
+    We think how great had been our bliss
+      If Heaven had but assign'd us
+    To live and die in scenes like this,
+      With some we've left behind us!
+
+    As travellers oft look back at eve
+      When eastward darkly going,
+    To gaze upon that light they leave
+      Still faint behind them glowing,--
+    So, when the close of pleasure's day
+      To gloom hath near consign'd us,
+    We turn to catch one fading ray
+      Of joy that's left behind us.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXVI
+
+_YOUTH AND AGE_
+
+    There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+    When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
+    'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
+    But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
+
+    Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
+    Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:
+    The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
+    The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
+
+    Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
+    It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
+    That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
+    And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
+
+    Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
+    Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
+    'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
+    All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
+
+    Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
+    Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--
+    As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
+    So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLXVII
+
+_A LESSON_
+
+    There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
+    That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
+    And the first moment that the sun may shine,
+    Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
+
+    When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
+    Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
+    Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
+    In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
+
+    But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,
+    And recognized it, though an alter'd form,
+    Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
+    And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
+
+    I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,
+    'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
+    This neither is its courage nor its choice,
+    But its necessity in being old.
+
+    'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
+    It cannot help itself in its decay;
+    Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'--
+    And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
+
+    To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,
+    A miser's pensioner--behold our lot!
+    O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
+    Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXVIII
+
+_PAST AND PRESENT_
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The house where I was born,
+    The little window where the sun
+    Came peeping in at morn;
+    He never came a wink too soon
+    Nor brought too long a day;
+    But now, I often wish the night
+    Had borne my breath away.
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The roses, red and white,
+    The violets, and the lily-cups--
+    Those flowers made of light!
+    The lilacs where the robin built,
+    And where my brother set
+    The laburnum on his birth-day,--
+    The tree is living yet!
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    Where I was used to swing,
+    And thought the air must rush as fresh
+    To swallows on the wing;
+    My spirit flew in feathers then
+    That is so heavy now,
+    And summer pools could hardly cool
+    The fever on my brow.
+
+    I remember, I remember
+    The fir trees dark and high;
+    I used to think their slender tops
+    Were close against the sky:
+    It was a childish ignorance,
+    But now 'tis little joy
+    To know I'm farther off from Heaven
+    Than when I was a boy.
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXIX
+
+_THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS_
+
+    Oft in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Fond Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me:
+        The smiles, the tears
+        Of boyhood's years,
+      The words of love then spoken;
+        The eyes that shone,
+        Now dimm'd and gone,
+      The cheerful hearts now broken!
+    Thus in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+    When I remember all
+      The friends so link'd together
+    I've seen around me fall
+      Like leaves in wintry weather,
+        I feel like one
+        Who treads alone
+      Some banquet-hall deserted,
+        Whose lights are fled
+        Whose garlands dead,
+      And all but he departed!
+    Thus in the stilly night
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+    Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+_T. Moore_
+
+
+CCLXX
+
+_STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES_
+
+        The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
+        The waves are dancing fast and bright,
+        Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
+        The purple noon's transparent might:
+        The breath of the moist earth is light
+        Around its unexpanded buds;
+        Like many a voice of one delight--
+        The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'--
+    The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
+
+        I see the deep's untrampled floor
+        With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
+        I see the waves upon the shore
+        Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:
+        I sit upon the sands alone;
+        The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
+        Is flashing round me, and a tone
+        Arises from its measured motion--
+    How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
+
+        Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
+        Nor peace within nor calm around,
+        Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
+        The sage in meditation found,
+        And walk'd with inward glory crown'd--
+        Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
+        Others I see whom these surround--
+        Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
+    To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
+
+        Yet now despair itself is mild
+        Even as the winds and waters are;
+        I could lie down like a tired child,
+        And weep away the life of care
+        Which I have borne, and yet must bear,--
+        Till death like sleep might steal on me,
+        And I might feel in the warm air
+        My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
+    Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCLXXI
+
+_THE SCHOLAR_
+
+    My days among the Dead are past;
+    Around me I behold,
+    Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
+    The mighty minds of old:
+    My never-failing friends are they,
+    With whom I converse day by day.
+
+    With them I take delight in weal
+    And seek relief in woe;
+    And while I understand and feel
+    How much to them I owe,
+    My cheeks have often been bedew'd
+    With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
+
+    My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
+    I live in long-past years,
+    Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
+    Partake their hopes and fears,
+    And from their lessons seek and find
+    Instruction with an humble mind.
+
+    My hopes are with the Dead; anon
+    My place with them will be,
+    And I with them shall travel on
+    Through all Futurity;
+    Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
+    That will not perish in the dust.
+
+_R. Southey_
+
+
+CCLXXII
+
+_THE MERMAID TAVERN_
+
+    Souls of Poets dead and gone,
+    What Elysium have ye known,
+    Happy field or mossy cavern,
+    Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+    Have ye tippled drink more fine
+    Than mine host's Canary wine?
+
+    Or are fruits of Paradise
+    Sweeter than those dainty pies
+    Of venison? O generous food!
+    Drest as though bold Robin Hood
+    Would, with his Maid Marian,
+    Sup and bowse from horn and can.
+
+      I have heard that on a day
+    Mine host's sign-board flew away
+    Nobody knew whither, till
+    An astrologer's old quill
+    To a sheepskin gave the story,
+    Said he saw you in your glory,
+    Underneath a new-old sign
+    Sipping beverage divine,
+    And pledging with contented smack
+    The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
+
+      Souls of Poets dead and gone,
+    What Elysium have ye known,
+    Happy field or mossy cavern,
+    Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCLXXIII
+
+_THE PRIDE OF YOUTH_
+
+    Proud Maisie is in the wood,
+      Walking so early;
+    Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
+      Singing so rarely.
+
+    'Tell me, thou bonny bird,
+      When shall I marry me?'
+    --'When six braw gentlemen
+      Kirkward shall carry ye.'
+
+    'Who makes the bridal bed,
+      Birdie, say truly?'
+    --'The gray-headed sexton
+      That delves the grave duly
+
+    'The glowworm o'er grave and stone
+      Shall light thee steady;
+    The owl from the steeple sing
+      Welcome, proud lady.'
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXIV
+
+_THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS_
+
+    One more Unfortunate
+    Weary of breath
+    Rashly importunate,
+    Gone to her death!
+    Take her up tenderly,
+    Lift her with care;
+    Fashion'd so slenderly,
+    Young, and so fair!
+
+    Look at her garments
+    Clinging like cerements;
+    Whilst the wave constantly
+    Drips from her clothing;
+    Take her up instantly,
+    Loving, not loathing.
+
+    Touch her not scornfully;
+    Think of her mournfully,
+    Gently and humanly;
+    Not of the stains of her--
+    All that remains of her
+    Now is pure womanly.
+
+    Make no deep scrutiny
+    Into her mutiny
+    Rash and undutiful:
+    Past all dishonour,
+    Death has left on her
+    Only the beautiful.
+
+    Still, for all slips of hers,
+    One of Eve's family--
+    Wipe those poor lips of hers
+    Oozing so clammily.
+
+    Loop up her tresses
+    Escaped from the comb,
+    Her fair auburn tresses;
+    Whilst wonderment guesses
+    Where was her home?
+
+    Who was her father?
+    Who was her mother?
+    Had she a sister?
+    Had she a brother?
+    Or was there a dearer one
+    Still, and a nearer one
+    Yet, than all other?
+
+    Alas! for the rarity
+    Of Christian charity
+    Under the sun!
+    Oh! it was pitiful!
+    Near a whole city full,
+    Home she had none.
+
+    Sisterly, brotherly,
+    Fatherly, motherly
+    Feelings had changed:
+    Love, by harsh evidence,
+    Thrown from its eminence;
+    Even God's providence
+    Seeming estranged.
+
+    Where the lamps quiver
+    So far in the river,
+    With many a light
+    From window and casement,
+    From garret to basement,
+    She stood, with amazement,
+    Houseless by night.
+
+    The bleak wind of March
+    Made her tremble and shiver
+    But not the dark arch,
+    Or the black flowing river:
+    Mad from life's history,
+    Glad to death's mystery
+    Swift to be hurl'd--
+    Any where, any where
+    Out of the world!
+
+    In she plunged boldly,
+    No matter how coldly
+    The rough river ran,--
+    Over the brink of it,
+    Picture it--think of it,
+    Dissolute Man!
+    Lave in it, drink of it,
+    Then, if you can!
+
+    Take her up tenderly,
+    Lift her with care;
+    Fashion'd so slenderly,
+    Young, and so fair!
+
+    Ere her limbs frigidly
+    Stiffen too rigidly,
+    Decently, kindly,
+    Smooth and compose them,
+    And her eyes, close them,
+    Staring so blindly!
+
+    Dreadfully staring
+    Thro' muddy impurity,
+    As when with the daring
+    Last look of despairing
+    Fix'd on futurity.
+
+    Perishing gloomily,
+    Spurr'd by contumely,
+    Cold inhumanity,
+    Burning insanity,
+    Into her rest.
+    --Cross her hands humbly
+    As if praying dumbly,
+    Over her breast!
+
+    Owning her weakness,
+    Her evil behaviour,
+    And leaving, with meekness,
+    Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXXV
+
+_ELEGY_
+
+      Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+      On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
+      But on thy turf shall roses rear
+      Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
+    And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
+
+      And oft by yon blue gushing stream
+      Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
+      And feed deep thought with many a dream,
+      And lingering pause and lightly tread;
+    Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
+
+      Away! we know that tears are vain,
+      That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
+      Will this unteach us to complain?
+      Or make one mourner weep the less?
+      And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
+    Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
+
+_Lord Byron_
+
+
+CCLXXVI
+
+_HESTER_
+
+    When maidens such as Hester die
+    Their place ye may not well supply,
+    Though ye among a thousand try
+            With vain endeavour.
+    A month or more hath she been dead,
+    Yet cannot I by force be led
+    To think upon the wormy bed
+            And her together.
+
+    A springy motion in her gait,
+    A rising step, did indicate
+    Of pride and joy no common rate
+            That flush'd her spirit:
+    I know not by what name beside
+    I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
+    It was a joy to that allied
+            She did inherit.
+
+    Her parents held the Quaker rule,
+    Which doth the human feeling cool;
+    But she was train'd in Nature's school,
+            Nature had blest her.
+    A waking eye, a prying mind,
+    A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
+    A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
+            Ye could not Hester.
+
+    My sprightly neighbour! gone before
+    To that unknown and silent shore,
+    Shall we not meet, as heretofore
+            Some summer morning--
+    When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+    Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+    A bliss that would not go away,
+            A sweet fore-warning?
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXVII
+
+_TO MARY_
+
+    If I had thought thou couldst have died,
+        I might not weep for thee;
+    But I forgot, when by thy side,
+        That thou couldst mortal be:
+    It never through my mind had past
+        The time would e'er be o'er,
+    And I on thee should look my last,
+        And thou shouldst smile no more!
+
+    And still upon that face I look,
+        And think 'twill smile again;
+    And still the thought I will not brook
+        That I must look in vain!
+    But when I speak--thou dost not say
+        What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
+    And now I feel, as well I may,
+        Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
+
+    If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
+        All cold and all serene--
+    I still might press thy silent heart,
+        And where thy smiles have been.
+    While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
+        Thou seemest still mine own;
+    But there I lay thee in thy grave--
+        And I am now alone!
+
+    I do not think, where'er thou art,
+        Thou hast forgotten me;
+    And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
+        In thinking too of thee:
+    Yet there was round thee such a dawn
+        Of light ne'er seen before,
+    As fancy never could have drawn,
+        And never can restore!
+
+_C. Wolfe_
+
+
+CCLXXVIII
+
+_CORONACH_
+
+    He is gone on the mountain,
+      He is lost to the forest,
+    Like a summer-dried fountain,
+      When our need was the sorest.
+    The font reappearing
+      From the raindrops shall borrow,
+    But to us comes no cheering,
+      To Duncan no morrow!
+
+    The hand of the reaper
+      Takes the ears that are hoary,
+    But the voice of the weeper
+      Wails manhood in glory.
+    The autumn winds rushing
+      Waft the leaves that are searest,
+    But our flower was in flushing
+      When blighting was nearest.
+
+    Fleet foot on the correi,
+      Sage counsel in cumber,
+    Red hand in the foray,
+      How sound is thy slumber!
+    Like the dew on the mountain,
+      Like the foam on the river,
+    Like the bubble on the fountain,
+      Thou art gone; and for ever!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXIX
+
+_THE DEATH BED_
+
+    We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
+      Her breathing soft and low,
+    As in her breast the wave of life
+      Kept heaving to and fro.
+
+    So silently we seem'd to speak,
+      So slowly moved about,
+    As we had lent her half our powers
+      To eke her living out.
+
+    Our very hopes belied our fears,
+      Our fears our hopes belied--
+    We thought her dying when she slept,
+      And sleeping when she died.
+
+    For when the morn came dim and sad
+      And chill with early showers,
+    Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
+      Another morn than ours.
+
+_T. Hood_
+
+
+CCLXXX
+
+_AGNES_
+
+    I saw her in childhood--
+      A bright, gentle thing,
+    Like the dawn of the morn,
+      Or the dews of the spring:
+    The daisies and hare-bells
+      Her playmates all day;
+    Herself as light-hearted
+      And artless as they.
+
+    I saw her again--
+      A fair girl of eighteen,
+    Fresh glittering with graces
+      Of mind and of mien.
+    Her speech was all music;
+      Like moonlight she shone;
+    The envy of many,
+      The glory of one.
+
+    Years, years fleeted over--
+      I stood at her foot:
+    The bud had grown blossom,
+      The blossom was fruit.
+    A dignified mother,
+      Her infant she bore;
+    And look'd, I thought, fairer
+      Than ever before.
+
+    I saw her once more--
+      'Twas the day that she died;
+    Heaven's light was around her,
+      And God at her side;
+    No wants to distress her,
+      No fears to appal--
+    O then, I felt, then
+      She was fairest of all!
+
+_H. F. Lyte_
+
+
+CCLXXXI
+
+_ROSABELLE_
+
+    O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+      No haughty feat of arms I tell;
+    Soft is the note, and sad the lay
+      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
+
+    'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
+      And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
+    Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
+      Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
+
+    'The blackening wave is edged with white;
+      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
+    The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
+      Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
+
+    'Last night the gifted Seer did view
+      A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
+    Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
+      Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'
+
+    ''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
+      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
+    But that my ladye-mother there
+      Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
+
+    'Tis not because the ring they ride,
+      And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
+    But that my sire the wine will chide
+      If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'
+
+    --O'er Roslin all that dreary night
+      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
+    'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
+      And redder than the bright moonbeam.
+
+    It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
+      It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
+    'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
+      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
+
+    Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
+      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
+    Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
+      Sheathed in his iron panoply.
+
+    Seem'd all on fire within, around,
+      Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
+    Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
+      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
+
+    Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
+      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
+    So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
+      The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
+
+    There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold--
+      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
+    Each one the holy vault doth hold--
+      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
+
+    And each Saint Clair was buried there,
+      With candle, with book, and with knell;
+    But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
+      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXXII
+
+_ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN_
+
+    I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+    A curious frame of Nature's work;
+    A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
+    A nameless piece of Babyhood,
+    Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+    Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+    So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
+    For darker closets of the tomb!
+    She did but ope an eye, and put
+    A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+    For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+    Through glasses of mortality.
+    Riddle of destiny, who can show
+    What thy short visit meant, or know
+    What thy errand here below?
+    Shall we say, that Nature blind
+    Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
+    Just when she had exactly wrought
+    A finish'd pattern without fault?
+    Could she flag, or could she tire,
+    Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+    (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+    That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+    Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+    Life of health, and days mature:
+    Woman's self in miniature!
+    Limbs so fair, they might supply
+    (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+    The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+    Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
+    That babe or mother, one must die;
+    So in mercy left the stock
+    And cut the branch; to save the shock
+    Of young years widow'd, and the pain
+    When Single State comes back again
+    To the lone man who, reft of wife,
+    Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
+    The economy of Heaven is dark,
+    And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark
+    Why human buds, like this, should fall,
+    More brief than fly ephemeral
+    That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+    Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+    And crabbed use the conscience sears
+    In sinners of an hundred years.
+    --Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+    Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
+    Rites, which custom does impose,
+    Silver bells, and baby clothes;
+    Coral redder than those lips
+    Which pale death did late eclipse;
+    Music framed for infants' glee,
+    Whistle never tuned for thee;
+    Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+    Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+    Let not one be missing; nurse,
+    See them laid upon the hearse
+    Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+    Why should kings and nobles have
+    Pictured trophies to their grave,
+    And we, churls, to thee deny
+    Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--
+    A more harmless vanity?
+
+_C. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXXIII
+
+_IN MEMORIAM_
+
+    A child's a plaything for an hour;
+      Its pretty tricks we try
+    For that or for a longer space,--
+      Then tire, and lay it by.
+
+    But I knew one that to itself
+      All seasons could control;
+    That would have mock'd the sense of pain
+      Out of a grieved soul.
+
+    Thou straggler into loving arms,
+      Young climber up of knees,
+    When I forget thy thousand ways
+      Then life and all shall cease!
+
+_M. Lamb_
+
+
+CCLXXXIV
+
+_THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET_
+
+    Where art thou, my beloved Son,
+    Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
+    Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
+    Or if the grave be now thy bed,
+    Why am I ignorant of the same
+    That I may rest; and neither blame
+    Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
+
+    Seven years, alas! to have received
+    No tidings of an only child--
+    To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
+    And been for evermore beguiled,--
+    Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
+    I catch at them, and then I miss;
+    Was ever darkness like to this?
+
+    He was among the prime in worth,
+    An object beauteous to behold;
+    Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
+    Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
+    If things ensued that wanted grace
+    As hath been said, they were not base;
+    And never blush was on my face.
+
+    Ah! little doth the young-one dream
+    When full of play and childish cares,
+    What power is in his wildest scream
+    Heard by his mother unawares!
+    He knows it not, he cannot guess;
+    Years to a mother bring distress;
+    But do not make her love the less.
+
+    Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
+    From that ill thought; and being blind
+    Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:
+    Kind mother have I been, as kind
+    As ever breathed:' and that is true;
+    I've wet my path with tears like dew,
+    Weeping for him when no one knew.
+
+    My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
+    Hopeless of honour and of gain,
+    Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
+    Think not of me with grief and pain:
+    I now can see with better eyes;
+    And worldly grandeur I despise
+    And fortune with her gifts and lies.
+
+    Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
+    And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
+    They mount--how short a voyage brings
+    The wanderers back to their delight!
+    Chains tie us down by land and sea;
+    And wishes, vain as mine, may be
+    All that is left to comfort thee.
+
+    Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan
+    Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
+    Or thou upon a desert thrown
+    Inheritest the lion's den;
+    Or hast been summon'd to the deep
+    Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
+    An incommunicable sleep.
+
+    I look for ghosts: but none will force
+    Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
+    That there was ever intercourse
+    Between the living and the dead;
+    For surely then I should have sight
+    Of him I wait for day and night
+    With love and longings infinite.
+
+    My apprehensions come in crowds;
+    I dread the rustling of the grass;
+    The very shadows of the clouds
+    Have power to shake me as they pass:
+    I question things, and do not find
+    One that will answer to my mind;
+    And all the world appears unkind.
+
+    Beyond participation lie
+    My troubles, and beyond relief:
+    If any chance to heave a sigh
+    They pity me, and not my grief.
+    Then come to me, my Son, or send
+    Some tidings that my woes may end!
+    I have no other earthly friend.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXV
+
+_HUNTING SONG_
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    On the mountain dawns the day;
+    All the jolly chase is here
+    With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
+    Hounds are in their couples yelling,
+    Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
+    Merrily merrily mingle they,
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    The mist has left the mountain gray,
+    Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
+    Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
+    And foresters have busy been
+    To track the buck in thicket green;
+    Now we come to chant our lay
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+    To the greenwood haste away;
+    We can show you where he lies,
+    Fleet of foot and tall of size;
+    We can show the marks he made
+    When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
+    You shall see him brought to bay;
+    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
+
+    Louder, louder chant the lay
+    Waken, lords and ladies gay!
+    Tell them youth and mirth and glee
+    Run a course as well as we;
+    Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
+    Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;
+    Think of this, and rise with day,
+    Gentle lords and ladies gay!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCLXXXVI
+
+_TO THE SKYLARK_
+
+    Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
+    Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
+    Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
+    Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
+    Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
+    Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
+
+    To the last point of vision, and beyond
+    Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain
+    --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--
+    Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
+    Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
+    All independent of the leafy Spring.
+
+    Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
+    A privacy of glorious light is thine,
+    Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
+    Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
+    Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam--
+    True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXVII
+
+_TO A SKYLARK_
+
+        Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+          Bird thou never wert,
+        That from heaven, or near it
+          Pourest thy full heart
+    In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
+
+        Higher still and higher
+          From the earth thou springest,
+        Like a cloud of fire,
+          The blue deep thou wingest,
+    And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
+
+        In the golden lightning
+          Of the sunken sun
+        O'er which clouds are brightening,
+          Thou dost float and run,
+    Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
+
+        The pale purple even
+          Melts around thy flight;
+        Like a star of heaven
+          In the broad daylight
+    Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
+
+        Keen as are the arrows
+          Of that silver sphere,
+        Whose intense lamp narrows
+          In the white dawn clear
+    Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
+
+        All the earth and air
+          With thy voice is loud,
+        As, when night is bare,
+          From one lonely cloud
+    The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
+
+        What thou art we know not;
+          What is most like thee?
+        From rainbow clouds there flow not
+          Drops so bright to see
+    As from thy presence showers a rain of melody;--
+
+        Like a poet hidden
+          In the light of thought,
+        Singing hymns unbidden,
+          Till the world is wrought
+    To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
+
+        Like a high-born maiden
+          In a palace tower,
+        Soothing her love-laden
+          Soul in secret hour
+    With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
+
+        Like a glow-worm golden
+          In a dell of dew,
+        Scattering unbeholden
+          Its aerial hue
+    Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
+
+        Like a rose embower'd
+          In its own green leaves,
+        By warm winds deflower'd,
+          Till the scent it gives
+    Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
+
+        Sound of vernal showers
+          On the twinkling grass,
+        Rain-awaken'd flowers,
+          All that ever was
+    Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
+
+        Teach us, sprite or bird,
+          What sweet thoughts are thine:
+        I have never heard
+          Praise of love or wine
+    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
+
+        Chorus hymeneal
+          Or triumphal chaunt
+        Match'd with thine, would be all
+          But an empty vaunt--
+    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
+
+        What objects are the fountains
+          Of thy happy strain?
+        What fields, or waves, or mountains?
+          What shapes of sky or plain?
+    What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
+
+        With thy clear keen joyance
+          Languor cannot be:
+        Shadow of annoyance
+          Never came near thee:
+    Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
+
+        Waking or asleep
+          Thou of death must deem
+        Things more true and deep
+          Than we mortals dream,
+    Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
+
+        We look before and after,
+          And pine for what is not:
+        Our sincerest laughter
+          With some pain is fraught;
+    Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
+
+        Yet if we could scorn
+          Hate, and pride, and fear;
+        If we were things born
+          Not to shed a tear,
+    I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
+
+        Better than all measures
+          Of delightful sound,
+        Better than all treasures
+          That in books are found,
+    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
+
+        Teach me half the gladness
+          That thy brain must know,
+        Such harmonious madness
+          From my lips would flow,
+    The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCLXXXVIII
+
+_THE GREEN LINNET_
+
+    Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+    Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
+    With brightest sunshine round me spread
+    Of Spring's unclouded weather,
+    In this sequester'd nook how sweet
+    To sit upon my orchard-seat!
+    And flowers and birds once more to greet,
+    My last year's friends together.
+
+    One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
+    In all this covert of the blest:
+    Hail to Thee, far above the rest
+    In joy of voice and pinion!
+    Thou, Linnet! in thy green array
+    Presiding Spirit here to-day
+    Dost lead the revels of the May;
+    And this is thy dominion.
+
+    While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
+    Make all one band of paramours,
+    Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
+    Art sole in thy employment;
+    A Life, a Presence like the air,
+    Scattering thy gladness without care,
+    Too blest with any one to pair;
+    Thyself thy own enjoyment.
+
+    Amid yon tuft of hazel trees
+    That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
+    Behold him perch'd in ecstasies
+    Yet seeming still to hover;
+    There! where the flutter of his wings
+    Upon his back and body flings
+    Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
+    That cover him all over.
+
+    My dazzled sight he oft deceives--
+    A brother of the dancing leaves;
+    Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
+    Pours forth his song in gushes;
+    As if by that exulting strain
+    He mock'd and treated with disdain
+    The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
+    While fluttering in the bushes.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCLXXXIX
+
+_TO THE CUCKOO_
+
+    O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
+    I hear thee and rejoice:
+    O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
+    Or but a wandering Voice?
+
+    While I am lying on the grass
+    Thy twofold shout I hear;
+    From hill to hill it seems to pass,
+    At once far off and near.
+
+    Though babbling only to the vale
+    Of sunshine and of flowers,
+    Thou bringest unto me a tale
+    Of visionary hours.
+
+    Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
+    Even yet thou art to me
+    No bird, but an invisible thing,
+    A voice, a mystery;
+
+    The same whom in my school-boy days
+    I listen'd to; that Cry
+    Which made me look a thousand ways
+    In bush, and tree, and sky.
+
+    To seek thee did I often rove
+    Through woods and on the green;
+    And thou wert still a hope, a love;
+    Still long'd for, never seen!
+
+    And I can listen to thee yet;
+    Can lie upon the plain
+    And listen, till I do beget
+    That golden time again.
+
+    O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
+    Again appears to be
+    An unsubstantial, faery place,
+    That is fit home for Thee!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXC
+
+_ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE_
+
+    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
+    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
+      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
+    'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
+      But being too happy in thine happiness,--
+        That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
+              In some melodious plot
+      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
+        Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
+
+    O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
+      Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
+    Tasting of Flora and the country green,
+      Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
+    O for a beaker full of the warm South,
+      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
+        With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
+              And purple-stained mouth;
+      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
+        And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
+
+    Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
+      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
+    The weariness, the fever, and the fret
+      Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
+    Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
+      Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies
+        Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
+              And leaden-eyed despairs;
+      Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
+        Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
+
+    Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
+      Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
+    But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
+      Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
+    Already with thee! tender is the night,
+      And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
+        Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
+              But here there is no light,
+      Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
+        Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
+
+    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
+      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
+    But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
+      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
+    The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
+      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
+        Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
+              And mid-May's eldest child,
+      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
+        The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
+
+    Darkling I listen; and for many a time
+      I have been half in love with easeful Death,
+    Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
+      To take into the air my quiet breath;
+    Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
+      To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
+        While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
+              In such an ecstasy!
+      Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
+        To thy high requiem become a sod.
+
+    Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
+      No hungry generations tread thee down;
+    The voice I hear this passing night was heard
+      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
+    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
+      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
+        She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
+              The same that oft-times hath
+      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
+        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
+
+    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
+      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
+    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
+      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
+    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
+      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
+        Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep
+              In the next valley-glades:
+      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
+        Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXCI
+
+_UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802_
+
+    Earth has not anything to show more fair:
+    Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
+    A sight so touching in its majesty:
+    This City now doth like a garment wear
+
+    The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
+    Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
+    Open unto the fields, and to the sky,--
+    All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
+
+    Never did sun more beautifully steep
+    In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
+    Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
+
+    The river glideth at his own sweet will:
+    Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
+    And all that mighty heart is lying still!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCII
+
+    To one who has been long in city pent,
+    'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
+    And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer
+    Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
+
+    Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
+    Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
+    Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
+    And gentle tale of love and languishment?
+
+    Returning home at evening, with an ear
+    Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye
+    Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
+
+    He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
+    E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
+    That falls through the clear ether silently.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCXCIII
+
+_OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT_
+
+    I met a traveller from an antique land
+    Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
+    Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
+    Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
+    And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
+    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
+    Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
+    The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
+    And on the pedestal these words appear:
+    'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
+    Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
+    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
+    Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
+    The lone and level sands stretch far away.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCXCIV
+
+_COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY, 1803_
+
+    Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!
+    Whom mere despite of heart could so far please
+    And love of havoc, (for with such disease
+    Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
+
+    To level with the dust a noble horde,
+    A brotherhood of venerable trees,
+    Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
+    Beggar'd and outraged!--Many hearts deplored
+
+    The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
+    The traveller at this day will stop and gaze
+    On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
+
+    For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
+    And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
+    And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCV
+
+_THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION_
+
+    O leave this barren spot to me!
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+    Though bush or floweret never grow
+    My dark unwarming shade below;
+    Nor summer bud perfume the dew
+    Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
+    Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
+    My green and glossy leaves adorn;
+    Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
+    Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
+    Yet leave this barren spot to me:
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+
+        Thrice twenty summers I have seen
+    The sky grow bright, the forest green;
+    And many a wintry wind have stood
+    In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
+    Since childhood in my pleasant bower
+    First spent its sweet and sportive hour;
+    Since youthful lovers in my shade
+    Their vows of truth and rapture made,
+    And on my trunk's surviving frame
+    Carved many a long-forgotten name.
+    Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
+    First breathed upon this sacred ground;
+    By all that Love has whisper'd here,
+    Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
+    As Love's own altar honour me:
+    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCXCVI
+
+_ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER_
+
+    Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+    --The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
+    Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
+    Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
+
+    But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh
+    As many do, repining while they look;
+    Intruders--who would tear from Nature's book
+    This precious leaf with harsh impiety.
+
+    --Think what the home must be if it were thine,
+    Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window,
+    door,
+    The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
+
+    The roses to the porch which they entwine:
+    Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
+    On which it should be touch'd, would melt away!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCVII
+
+_TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE_
+
+    Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+    Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
+    Twice seven consenting years have shed
+    Their utmost bounty on thy head:
+    And these gray rocks, that household lawn,
+    Those trees--a veil just half withdrawn,
+    This fall of water that doth make
+    A murmur near the silent lake,
+    This little bay, a quiet road
+    That holds in shelter thy abode;
+    In truth together ye do seem
+    Like something fashion'd in a dream;
+    Such forms as from their covert peep
+    When earthly cares are laid asleep!
+    But O fair Creature! in the light
+    Of common day, so heavenly bright,
+    I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
+    I bless thee with a human heart:
+    God shield thee to thy latest years!
+    Thee neither know I nor thy peers:
+    And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
+
+    With earnest feeling I shall pray
+    For thee when I am far away;
+    For never saw I mien or face
+    In which more plainly I could trace
+    Benignity and home-bred sense
+    Ripening in perfect innocence.
+    Here scatter'd, like a random seed,
+    Remote from men, Thou dost not need
+    The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
+    And maidenly shamefacedness:
+    Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
+    The freedom of a Mountaineer:
+    A face with gladness overspread;
+    Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
+    And seemliness complete, that sways
+    Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
+    With no restraint, but such as springs
+    From quick and eager visitings
+    Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
+    Of thy few words of English speech:
+    A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
+    That gives thy gestures grace and life!
+    So have I, not unmoved in mind,
+    Seen birds of tempest-loving kind--
+    Thus beating up against the wind.
+
+    What hand but would a garland cull
+    For thee who art so beautiful?
+    O happy pleasure! here to dwell
+    Beside thee in some heathy dell;
+    Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
+    A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
+    But I could frame a wish for thee
+    More like a grave reality:
+    Thou art to me but as a wave
+    Of the wild sea: and I would have
+    Some claim upon thee, if I could,
+    Though but of common neighbourhood.
+    What joy to hear thee, and to see!
+    Thy elder brother I would be,
+    Thy father--anything to thee.
+
+    Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
+    Hath led me to this lonely place:
+    Joy have I had; and going hence
+    I bear away my recompence.
+    In spots like these it is we prize
+    Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
+    Then why should I be loth to stir?
+    I feel this place was made for her;
+    To give new pleasure like the past,
+    Continued long as life shall last.
+    Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
+    Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
+    For I, methinks, till I grow old
+    As fair before me shall behold
+    As I do now, the cabin small,
+    The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
+    And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCVIII
+
+_THE REAPER_
+
+    Behold her, single in the field,
+    Yon solitary Highland Lass!
+    Reaping and singing by herself;
+    Stop here, or gently pass!
+    Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
+    And sings a melancholy strain;
+    O listen! for the vale profound
+    Is overflowing with the sound.
+
+    No nightingale did ever chaunt
+    More welcome notes to weary bands
+    Of travellers in some shady haunt,
+    Among Arabian sands:
+    A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
+    In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
+    Breaking the silence of the seas
+    Among the farthest Hebrides.
+
+    Will no one tell me what she sings?
+    Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
+    For old, unhappy, far-off things,
+    And battles long ago:
+    Or is it some more humble lay,
+    Familiar matter of to-day?
+    Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
+    That has been, and may be again!
+
+    Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
+    As if her song could have no ending;
+    I saw her singing at her work,
+    And o'er the sickle bending;--
+    I listen'd, motionless and still;
+    And, as I mounted up the hill,
+    The music in my heart I bore
+    Long after it was heard no more.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCXCIX
+
+_THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN_
+
+    At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
+    Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
+    Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
+    In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
+
+    'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
+    A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
+    Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
+    And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
+
+    Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
+    Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
+    And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
+    The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
+
+    She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
+    The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
+    The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
+    And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCC
+
+_TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR_
+
+    Ariel to Miranda:--Take
+    This slave of music, for the sake
+    Of him, who is the slave of thee;
+    And teach it all the harmony
+    In which thou canst, and only thou,
+    Make the delighted spirit glow,
+    Till joy denies itself again
+    And, too intense, is turn'd to pain.
+    For by permission and command
+    Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
+    Poor Ariel sends this silent token
+    Of more than ever can be spoken;
+    Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
+    From life to life must still pursue
+    Your happiness, for thus alone
+    Can Ariel ever find his own.
+    From Prospero's enchanted cell,
+    As the mighty verses tell,
+    To the throne of Naples he
+    Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
+    Flitting on, your prow before,
+    Like a living meteor.
+    When you die, the silent Moon
+    In her interlunar swoon
+    Is not sadder in her cell
+    Than deserted Ariel:--
+    When you live again on earth,
+    Like an unseen Star of birth
+    Ariel guides you o'er the sea
+    Of life from your nativity:--
+    Many changes have been run
+    Since Ferdinand and you begun
+    Your course of love, and Ariel still
+    Has track'd your steps and served your will.
+    Now in humbler, happier lot,
+    This is all remember'd not;
+    And now, alas! the poor Sprite is
+    Imprison'd for some fault of his
+    In a body like a grave--
+    From you he only dares to crave,
+    For his service and his sorrow
+    A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
+
+    The artist who this idol wrought
+    To echo all harmonious thought,
+    Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
+    The woods were in their winter sleep,
+    Rock'd in that repose divine
+    On the wind-swept Apennine;
+    And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
+    And some of Spring approaching fast,
+    And some of April buds and showers,
+    And some of songs in July bowers,
+    And all of love: And so this tree,--
+    Oh that such our death may be!--
+    Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
+    To live in happier form again:
+    From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,
+    The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
+    And taught it justly to reply
+    To all who question skilfully
+    In language gentle as thine own;
+    Whispering in enamour'd tone
+    Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
+    And summer winds in sylvan cells:
+    --For it had learnt all harmonies
+    Of the plains and of the skies,
+    Of the forests and the mountains,
+    And the many-voiced fountains;
+    The clearest echoes of the hills,
+    The softest notes of falling rills,
+    The melodies of birds and bees,
+    The murmuring of summer seas,
+    And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
+    And airs of evening; and it knew
+    That seldom-heard mysterious sound
+    Which, driven on its diurnal round,
+    As it floats through boundless day,
+    Our world enkindles on its way:
+    --All this it knows, but will not tell
+    To those who cannot question well
+    The Spirit that inhabits it;
+    It talks according to the wit
+    Of its companions; and no more
+    Is heard than has been felt before
+    By those who tempt it to betray
+    These secrets of an elder day.
+    But, sweetly as its answers will
+    Flatter hands of perfect skill,
+    It keeps its highest holiest tone
+    For our beloved Friend alone.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCI
+
+_THE DAFFODILS_
+
+    I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
+    When all at once I saw a crowd,
+    A host of golden daffodils,
+    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
+    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
+
+    Continuous as the stars that shine
+    And twinkle on the milky way,
+    They stretch'd in never-ending line
+    Along the margin of a bay:
+    Ten thousand saw I at a glance
+    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
+
+    The waves beside them danced, but they
+    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
+    A Poet could not but be gay
+    In such a jocund company!
+    I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
+    What wealth the show to me had brought;
+
+    For oft, when on my couch I lie
+    In vacant or in pensive mood,
+    They flash upon that inward eye
+    Which is the bliss of solitude;
+    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
+    And dances with the daffodils.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCII
+
+_TO THE DAISY_
+
+    With little here to do or see
+    Of things that in the great world be,
+    Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
+          For thou art worthy,
+    Thou unassuming Common-place
+    Of Nature, with that homely face,
+    And yet with something of a grace
+          Which Love makes for thee!
+
+    Oft on the dappled turf at ease
+    I sit and play with similes,
+    Loose types of things through all degrees,
+          Thoughts of thy raising;
+    And many a fond and idle name
+    I give to thee, for praise or blame
+    As is the humour of the game,
+          While I am gazing.
+
+    A nun demure, of lowly port;
+    Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
+    In thy simplicity the sport
+          Of all temptations;
+    A queen in crown of rubies drest;
+    A starveling in a scanty vest;
+    Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
+          Thy appellations.
+
+    A little Cyclops, with one eye
+    Staring to threaten and defy,
+    That thought comes next--and instantly
+          The freak is over,
+    The shape will vanish, and behold!
+    A silver shield with boss of gold
+    That spreads itself, some faery bold
+          In fight to cover.
+
+    I see thee glittering from afar--
+    And then thou art a pretty star,
+    Not quite so fair as many are
+          In heaven above thee!
+    Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
+    Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
+    May peace come never to his nest
+          Who shall reprove thee!
+
+    Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
+    When all my reveries are past
+    I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
+          Sweet silent Creature!
+    That breath'st with me in sun and air,
+    Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
+    My heart with gladness, and a share
+          Of thy meek nature!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCIII
+
+_ODE TO AUTUMN_
+
+    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
+    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
+    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
+    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
+    To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
+    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
+    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
+    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
+    And still more, later flowers for the bees,
+    Until they think warm days will never cease;
+    For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
+
+    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
+    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
+    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
+    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
+    Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
+    Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
+    Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
+    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
+    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
+    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
+    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
+
+    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
+    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
+    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
+    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
+    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
+    Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
+    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
+    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
+    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
+    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
+    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCIV
+
+_ODE TO WINTER_
+
+_Germany, December, 1800_
+
+    When first the fiery-mantled Sun
+    His heavenly race began to run,
+    Round the earth and ocean blue
+    His children four the Seasons flew.
+      First, in green apparel dancing,
+    The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
+      Rosy Summer next advancing,
+    Rush'd into her sire's embrace--
+    Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
+      For ever nearest to his smiles,
+    On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
+      Or India's citron-cover'd isles:
+    More remote, and buxom-brown,
+      The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
+    A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
+      A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
+
+    But howling Winter fled afar
+    To hills that prop the polar star;
+    And loves on deer-borne car to ride
+    With barren darkness by his side,
+    Round the shore where loud Lofoden
+      Whirls to death the roaring whale;
+    Round the hall where Runic Odin
+      Howls his war-song to the gale;
+    Save when adown the ravaged globe
+      He travels on his native storm,
+    Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
+      And trampling on her faded form:--
+    Till light's returning Lord assume
+      The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
+    Of power to pierce his raven plume
+      And crystal-cover'd shield.
+
+    Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
+    The Lapland drum delights to hear,
+    When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
+    Implores thy dreadful deity--
+    Archangel! Power of desolation!
+      Fast descending as thou art,
+    Say, hath mortal invocation
+      Spells to touch thy stony heart?
+    Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
+    And gently rule the ruin'd year;
+    Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
+    Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
+    To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
+      Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
+    And gently on the orphan head
+      Of Innocence descend.
+
+    But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
+    The sailor on his airy shrouds,
+    When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
+    And spectres walk along the deep.
+    Milder yet thy snowy breezes
+      Pour on yonder tented shores,
+    Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
+      Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
+    Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there
+      To many a deep and dying groan?
+    Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
+      At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
+    Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath
+      May spare the victim fallen low;
+    But Man will ask no truce to death,--
+      No bounds to human woe.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCV
+
+_YARROW UNVISITED_
+
+_1803_
+
+    From Stirling Castle we had seen
+    The mazy Forth unravell'd,
+    Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
+    And with the Tweed had travell'd;
+    And when we came to Clovenford,
+    Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
+    'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
+    And see the Braes of Yarrow.'
+
+    'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
+    Who have been buying, selling,
+    Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
+    Each maiden to her dwelling!
+    On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
+    Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;
+    But we will downward with the Tweed,
+    Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
+
+    'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,
+    Both lying right before us;
+    And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
+    The lintwhites sing in chorus;
+    There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
+    Made blithe with plough and harrow:
+    Why throw away a needful day
+    To go in search of Yarrow?
+
+    'What's Yarrow but a river bare
+    That glides the dark hills under?
+    There are a thousand such elsewhere
+    As worthy of your wonder.'
+    --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
+    My True-love sigh'd for sorrow,
+    And look'd me in the face, to think
+    I thus could speak of Yarrow!
+
+    'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,
+    And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
+    Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
+    But we will leave it growing.
+    O'er hilly path and open strath
+    We'll wander Scotland thorough;
+    But, though so near, we will not turn
+    Into the dale of Yarrow.
+
+    'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
+    The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
+    The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
+    Float double, swan and shadow!
+    We will not see them; will not go
+    To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
+    Enough if in our hearts we know
+    There's such a place as Yarrow.
+
+    'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
+    It must, or we shall rue it:
+    We have a vision of our own,
+    Ah! why should we undo it?
+    The treasured dreams of times long past,
+    We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
+    For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
+    'Twill be another Yarrow!
+
+    'If Care with freezing years should come
+    And wandering seem but folly,--
+    Should we be loth to stir from home,
+    And yet be melancholy;
+    Should life be dull, and spirits low,
+    'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
+    That earth has something yet to show,
+    The bonny holms of Yarrow!'
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCVI
+
+_YARROW VISITED_
+
+_September, 1814_
+
+    And is this--Yarrow?--This the stream
+    Of which my fancy cherish'd
+    So faithfully, a waking dream,
+    An image that hath perish'd?
+    O that some minstrel's harp were near
+    To utter notes of gladness
+    And chase this silence from the air,
+    That fills my heart with sadness!
+
+    Yet why?--a silvery current flows
+    With uncontroll'd meanderings;
+    Nor have these eyes by greener hills
+    Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
+    And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
+    Is visibly delighted;
+    For not a feature of those hills
+    Is in the mirror slighted.
+
+    A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
+    Save where that pearly whiteness
+    Is round the rising sun diffused,
+    A tender hazy brightness;
+    Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
+    All profitless dejection;
+    Though not unwilling here to admit
+    A pensive recollection.
+
+    Where was it that the famous Flower
+    Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
+    His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
+    On which the herd is feeding:
+    And haply from this crystal pool,
+    Now peaceful as the morning,
+    The Water-wraith ascended thrice,
+    And gave his doleful warning.
+
+    Delicious is the lay that sings
+    The haunts of happy lovers,
+    The path that leads them to the grove,
+    The leafy grove that covers:
+    And pity sanctifies the verse
+    That paints, by strength of sorrow,
+    The unconquerable strength of love;
+    Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
+
+    But thou that didst appear so fair
+    To fond imagination,
+    Dost rival in the light of day
+    Her delicate creation:
+    Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
+    A softness still and holy:
+    The grace of forest charms decay'd,
+    And pastoral melancholy.
+
+    That region left, the vale unfolds
+    Rich groves of lofty stature,
+    With Yarrow winding through the pomp
+    Of cultivated nature;
+    And rising from those lofty groves
+    Behold a ruin hoary,
+    The shatter'd front of Newark's towers,
+    Renown'd in Border story.
+
+    Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
+    For sportive youth to stray in,
+    For manhood to enjoy his strength,
+    And age to wear away in!
+    Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
+    A covert for protection
+    Of tender thoughts that nestle there--
+    The brood of chaste affection.
+
+    How sweet on this autumnal day
+    The wild-wood fruits to gather,
+    And on my True-love's forehead plant
+    A crest of blooming heather!
+    And what if I enwreathed my own?
+    'Twere no offence to reason;
+    The sober hills thus deck their brows
+    To meet the wintry season.
+
+    I see--but not by sight alone,
+    Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
+    A ray of Fancy still survives--
+    Her sunshine plays upon thee!
+    Thy ever-youthful waters keep
+    A course of lively pleasure;
+    And gladsome notes my lips can breathe
+    Accordant to the measure.
+
+    The vapours linger round the heights,
+    They melt, and soon must vanish;
+    One hour is theirs, nor more is mine--
+    Sad thought! which I would banish,
+    But that I know, where'er I go,
+    Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
+    Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,
+    And cheer my mind in sorrow.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCVII
+
+_THE INVITATION_
+
+    Best and brightest, come away,--
+    Fairer far than this fair Day,
+    Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
+    Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
+    To the rough year just awake
+    In its cradle on the brake.
+    The brightest hour of unborn Spring
+    Through the winter wandering,
+    Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
+    To hoar February born;
+    Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,
+    It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,
+    And smiled upon the silent sea,
+    And bade the frozen streams be free,
+    And waked to music all their fountains,
+    And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
+    And like a prophetess of May
+    Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
+    Making the wintry world appear
+    Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
+
+      Away, away, from men and towns,
+    To the wild wood and the downs--
+    To the silent wilderness
+    Where the soul need not repress
+    Its music, lest it should not find
+    An echo in another's mind,
+    While the touch of Nature's art
+    Harmonizes heart to heart.
+
+      Radiant Sister of the Day
+    Awake! arise! and come away!
+    To the wild woods and the plains,
+    To the pools where winter rains
+    Image all their roof of leaves,
+    Where the pine its garland weaves
+    Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
+    Round stems that never kiss the sun;
+    Where the lawns and pastures be
+    And the sandhills of the sea;
+    Where the melting hoar-frost wets
+    The daisy-star that never sets,
+    And wind-flowers and violets
+    Which yet join not scent to hue
+    Crown the pale year weak and new;
+    When the night is left behind
+    In the deep east, dim and blind,
+    And the blue noon is over us,
+    And the multitudinous
+    Billows murmur at our feet,
+    Where the earth and ocean meet,
+    And all things seem only one
+    In the universal Sun.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCVIII
+
+_THE RECOLLECTION_
+
+    Now the last day of many days
+    All beautiful and bright as thou,
+    The loveliest and the last, is dead:
+    Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
+    Up--to thy wonted work! come, trace
+    The epitaph of glory fled,
+    For now the earth has changed its face,
+    A frown is on the heaven's brow.
+
+    We wander'd to the Pine Forest
+      That skirts the Ocean's foam;
+    The lightest wind was in its nest,
+      The tempest in its home.
+    The whispering waves were half asleep,
+      The clouds were gone to play,
+    And on the bosom of the deep
+      The smile of heaven lay;
+    It seem'd as if the hour were one
+      Sent from beyond the skies
+    Which scatter'd from above the sun
+      A light of Paradise!
+
+    We paused amid the pines that stood
+      The giants of the waste,
+    Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
+      As serpents interlaced,--
+    And soothed by every azure breath
+      That under heaven is blown,
+    To harmonies and hues beneath,
+      As tender as its own:
+    Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
+      Like green waves on the sea,
+    As still as in the silent deep
+      The ocean-woods may be.
+
+    How calm it was!--The silence there
+      By such a chain was bound,
+    That even the busy woodpecker
+      Made stiller with her sound
+    The inviolable quietness;
+      The breath of peace we drew
+    With its soft motion made not less
+      The calm that round us grew.
+    There seem'd, from the remotest seat
+      Of the white mountain waste
+    To the soft flower beneath our feet,
+      A magic circle traced,--
+    A spirit interfused around,
+      A thrilling silent life;
+    To momentary peace it bound
+      Our mortal nature's strife;--
+    And still I felt the centre of
+      The magic circle there
+    Was one fair form that fill'd with love
+      The lifeless atmosphere.
+
+    We paused beside the pools that lie
+      Under the forest bough;
+    Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky
+      Gulf'd in a world below;
+    A firmament of purple light
+      Which in the dark earth lay,
+    More boundless than the depth of night
+      And purer than the day--
+    In which the lovely forests grew
+      As in the upper air,
+    More perfect both in shape and hue
+      Than any spreading there.
+    There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
+      And through the dark-green wood
+    The white sun twinkling like the dawn
+      Out of a speckled cloud.
+    Sweet views which in our world above
+      Can never well be seen
+    Were imaged in the water's love
+      Of that fair forest green:
+    And all was interfused beneath
+      With an Elysian glow,
+    An atmosphere without a breath,
+      A softer day below.
+    Like one beloved, the scene had lent
+      To the dark water's breast
+    Its every leaf and lineament
+      With more than truth exprest;
+    Until an envious wind crept by,
+      Like an unwelcome thought
+    Which from the mind's too faithful eye
+      Blots one dear image out.
+    --Though thou art ever fair and kind,
+      The forests ever green,
+    Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind
+      Than calm in waters seen!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCIX
+
+_BY THE SEA_
+
+    It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
+    The holy time is quiet as a Nun
+    Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
+    Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
+
+    The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
+    Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
+    And doth with his eternal motion make
+    A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
+
+    Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
+    If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
+    Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
+
+    Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
+    And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
+    God being with thee when we know it not.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCX
+
+_SONG TO THE EVENING STAR_
+
+    Star that bringest home the bee,
+    And sett'st the weary labourer free!
+    If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
+      That send'st it from above,
+    Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
+      Are sweet as hers we love.
+
+    Come to the luxuriant skies,
+    Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
+    Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
+      And songs when toil is done,
+    From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
+      Curls yellow in the sun.
+
+    Star of love's soft interviews,
+    Parted lovers on thee muse;
+    Their remembrancer in Heaven
+      Of thrilling vows thou art,
+    Too delicious to be riven
+      By absence from the heart.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXI
+
+_DATUR HORA QUIETI_
+
+    The sun upon the lake is low,
+      The wild birds hush their song,
+    The hills have evening's deepest glow,
+      Yet Leonard tarries long.
+    Now all whom varied toil and care
+      From home and love divide,
+    In the calm sunset may repair
+      Each to the loved one's side.
+
+    The noble dame, on turret high,
+      Who waits her gallant knight,
+    Looks to the western beam to spy
+      The flash of armour bright.
+    The village maid, with hand on brow
+      The level ray to shade,
+    Upon the footpath watches now
+      For Colin's darkening plaid.
+
+    Now to their mates the wild swans row,
+      By day they swam apart,
+    And to the thicket wanders slow
+      The hind beside the hart.
+    The woodlark at his partner's side
+      Twitters his closing song--
+    All meet whom day and care divide,
+      But Leonard tarries long!
+
+_Sir W. Scott_
+
+
+CCCXII
+
+_TO THE MOON_
+
+        Art thou pale for weariness
+      Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
+        Wandering companionless
+      Among the stars that have a different birth,--
+    And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
+    That finds no object worth its constancy?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXIII
+
+_TO SLEEP_
+
+    A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+    One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
+    Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
+    Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:
+
+    I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
+    Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
+    Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
+    And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
+
+    Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
+    And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
+    So do not let me wear to-night away:
+
+    Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
+    Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
+    Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXIV
+
+_THE SOLDIER'S DREAM_
+
+    Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
+      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
+    And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
+      The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
+
+    When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
+      By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
+    At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
+      And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
+
+    Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
+      Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:
+    'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way
+      To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
+
+    I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
+      In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
+    I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
+      And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
+
+    Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
+      From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
+    My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
+      And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
+
+    'Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!'--
+      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;--
+    But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
+      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXV
+
+_A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN_
+
+    I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way
+      Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
+    And gentle odours led my steps astray,
+      Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
+    Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
+      Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
+    Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
+    But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.
+
+    There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
+      Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
+    The constellated flower that never sets;
+      Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
+    The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
+    Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
+    When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
+
+    And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
+      Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,
+    And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
+      Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;
+    And wild roses, and ivy serpentine
+      With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
+    And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,
+    Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
+
+    And nearer to the river's trembling edge
+      There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,
+    And starry river-buds among the sedge,
+      And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
+    Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
+      With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
+    And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
+    As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
+
+    Methought that of these visionary flowers
+      I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
+    That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
+      Were mingled or opposed, the like array
+    Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
+      Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay,
+    I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come
+    That I might there present it--O! to Whom?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXVI
+
+_KUBLA KHAN_
+
+    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
+    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
+    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
+    Through caverns measureless to man
+      Down to a sunless sea.
+    So twice five miles of fertile ground
+    With walls and towers were girdled round:
+    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
+    Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;
+    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
+    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
+
+      But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
+    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
+    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
+    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
+    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
+    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
+    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
+    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
+    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
+    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail.
+    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
+    And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
+    It flung up momently the sacred river.
+    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
+    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
+    Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
+    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
+    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
+    Ancestral voices prophesying war!
+
+        The shadow of the dome of pleasure
+      Floated midway on the waves;
+      Where was heard the mingled measure
+      From the fountain and the caves.
+    It was a miracle of rare device,
+    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
+      A damsel with a dulcimer
+      In a vision once I saw:
+      It was an Abyssinian maid,
+      And on her dulcimer she play'd,
+      Singing of Mount Abora.
+      Could I revive within me
+      Her symphony and song,
+    To such a deep delight 'twould win me
+    That with music loud and long,
+    I would build that dome in air,
+    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
+    And all who heard should see them there,
+    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
+    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
+    Weave a circle round him thrice,
+    And close your eyes with holy dread,
+    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
+    And drunk the milk of Paradise.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCCXVII
+
+_THE INNER VISION_
+
+    Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+    To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
+    While a fair region round the traveller lies
+    Which he forbears again to look upon;
+
+    Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
+    The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
+    Of meditation, slipping in between
+    The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
+
+    --If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
+    Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
+    With Thought and Love companions of our way--
+
+    Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,--
+    The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
+    Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXVIII
+
+_THE REALM OF FANCY_
+
+    Ever let the Fancy roam;
+    Pleasure never is at home:
+    At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
+    Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
+    Then let winged Fancy wander
+    Through the thought still spread beyond her:
+    Open wide the mind's cage-door,
+    She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
+    O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+    Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
+    And the enjoying of the Spring
+    Fades as does its blossoming;
+    Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
+    Blushing through the mist and dew,
+    Cloys with tasting: What do then?
+    Sit thee by the ingle, when
+    The sear faggot blazes bright,
+    Spirit of a winter's night;
+    When the soundless earth is muffled,
+    And the caked snow is shuffled
+    From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
+    When the Night doth meet the Noon
+    In a dark conspiracy
+    To banish Even from her sky.
+    Sit thee there, and send abroad,
+    With a mind self-overaw'd,
+    Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!
+    She has vassals to attend her:
+    She will bring, in spite of frost,
+    Beauties that the earth hath lost;
+    She will bring thee, all together,
+    All delights of summer weather;
+    All the buds and bells of May,
+    From dewy sward or thorny spray;
+    All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
+    With a still, mysterious stealth:
+    She will mix these pleasures up
+    Like three fit wines in a cup,
+    And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear
+    Distant harvest-carols clear;
+    Rustle of the reaped corn;
+    Sweet birds antheming the morn:
+    And, in the same moment--hark!
+    'Tis the early April lark,
+    Or the rooks, with busy caw,
+    Foraging for sticks and straw.
+    Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
+    The daisy and the marigold;
+    White-plumed lilies, and the first
+    Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
+    Shaded hyacinth, alway
+    Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
+    And every leaf, and every flower
+    Pearled with the self-same shower.
+    Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
+    Meagre from its celled sleep;
+    And the snake all winter-thin
+    Cast on sunny bank its skin;
+    Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
+    Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
+    When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
+    Quiet on her mossy nest;
+    Then the hurry and alarm
+    When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
+    Acorns ripe down-pattering,
+    While the autumn breezes sing.
+
+      Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+    Everything is spoilt by use:
+    Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
+    Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
+    Whose lip mature is ever new?
+    Where's the eye, however blue,
+    Doth not weary? Where's the face
+    One would meet in every place?
+    Where's the voice, however soft,
+    One would hear so very oft?
+    At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
+    Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
+    Let then winged Fancy find
+    Thee a mistress to thy mind:
+    Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
+    Ere the God of Torment taught her
+    How to frown and how to chide;
+    With a waist and with a side
+    White as Hebe's, when her zone
+    Slipt its golden clasp, and down
+    Fell her kirtle to her feet,
+    While she held the goblet sweet,
+    And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh
+    Of the Fancy's silken leash;
+    Quickly break her prison-string,
+    And such joys as these she'll bring.
+    --Let the winged Fancy roam,
+    Pleasure never is at home.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXIX
+
+_WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING_
+
+    I heard a thousand blended notes
+    While in a grove I sate reclined,
+    In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
+    Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
+
+    To her fair works did Nature link
+    The human soul that through me ran;
+    And much it grieved my heart to think
+    What Man has made of Man.
+
+    Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
+    The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
+    And 'tis my faith that every flower
+    Enjoys the air it breathes.
+
+    The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
+    Their thoughts I cannot measure,--
+    But the least motion which they made
+    It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
+
+    The budding twigs spread out their fan
+    To catch the breezy air;
+    And I must think, do all I can,
+    That there was pleasure there.
+
+    If this belief from heaven be sent,
+    If such be Nature's holy plan,
+    Have I not reason to lament
+    What Man has made of Man?
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXX
+
+_RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE_
+
+    When Ruth was left half desolate
+    Her father took another mate;
+    And Ruth, not seven years old,
+    A slighted child, at her own will
+    Went wandering over dale and hill,
+    In thoughtless freedom, bold.
+
+    And she had made a pipe of straw,
+    And music from that pipe could draw
+    Like sounds of winds and floods;
+    Had built a bower upon the green,
+    As if she from her birth had been
+    An infant of the woods.
+
+    Beneath her father's roof, alone
+    She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;
+    Herself her own delight:
+    Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay;
+    And passing thus the live-long day,
+    She grew to woman's height.
+
+    There came a youth from Georgia's shore--
+    A military casque he wore
+    With splendid feathers drest;
+    He brought them from the Cherokees;
+    The feathers nodded in the breeze
+    And made a gallant crest.
+
+    From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
+    But no! he spake the English tongue
+    And bore a soldier's name;
+    And, when America was free
+    From battle and from jeopardy,
+    He 'cross the ocean came.
+
+    With hues of genius on his cheek,
+    In finest tones the youth could speak:
+    --While he was yet a boy
+    The moon, the glory of the sun,
+    And streams that murmur as they run
+    Had been his dearest joy.
+
+    He was a lovely youth! I guess
+    The panther in the wilderness
+    Was not so fair as he;
+    And when he chose to sport and play,
+    No dolphin ever was so gay
+    Upon the tropic sea.
+
+    Among the Indians he had fought;
+    And with him many tales he brought
+    Of pleasure and of fear;
+    Such tales as, told to any maid
+    By such a youth, in the green shade,
+    Were perilous to hear.
+
+    He told of girls, a happy rout!
+    Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
+    Their pleasant Indian town,
+    To gather strawberries all day long;
+    Returning with a choral song
+    When daylight is gone down.
+
+    He spake of plants that hourly change
+    Their blossoms, through a boundless range
+    Of intermingling hues;
+    With budding, fading, faded flowers,
+    They stand the wonder of the bowers
+    From morn to evening dews.
+
+    He told of the magnolia, spread
+    High as a cloud, high over head!
+    The cypress and her spire;
+    --Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
+    Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
+    To set the hills on fire.
+
+    The youth of green savannahs spake,
+    And many an endless, endless lake
+    With all its fairy crowds
+    Of islands, that together lie
+    As quietly as spots of sky
+    Among the evening clouds.
+
+    'How pleasant,' then he said, 'it were
+    A fisher or a hunter there,
+    In sunshine or in shade
+    To wander with an easy mind,
+    And build a household fire, and find
+    A home in every glade!
+
+    'What days and what bright years! Ah me!
+    Our life were life indeed, with thee
+    So pass'd in quiet bliss;
+    And all the while,' said he, 'to know
+    That we were in a world of woe,
+    On such an earth as this!'
+
+    And then he sometimes interwove
+    Fond thoughts about a father's love,
+    'For there,' said he, 'are spun
+    Around the heart such tender ties,
+    That our own children to our eyes
+    Are dearer than the sun.
+
+    'Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
+    My helpmate in the woods to be,
+    Our shed at night to rear;
+    Or run, my own adopted bride,
+    A sylvan huntress at my side,
+    And drive the flying deer!
+
+    'Beloved Ruth!'--No more he said,
+    The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
+    A solitary tear:
+    She thought again--and did agree
+    With him to sail across the sea,
+    And drive the flying deer.
+
+    'And now, as fitting is and right,
+    We in the church our faith will plight,
+    A husband and a wife.'
+    Even so they did; and I may say
+    That to sweet Ruth that happy day
+    Was more than human life.
+
+    Through dream and vision did she sink,
+    Delighted all the while to think
+    That, on those lonesome floods
+    And green savannahs, she should share
+    His board with lawful joy, and bear
+    His name in the wild woods.
+
+    But, as you have before been told,
+    This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
+    And with his dancing crest
+    So beautiful, through savage lands
+    Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands
+    Of Indians in the West.
+
+    The wind, the tempest roaring high,
+    The tumult of a tropic sky
+    Might well be dangerous food
+    For him, a youth to whom was given
+    So much of earth--so much of heaven,
+    And such impetuous blood.
+
+    Whatever in those climes he found
+    Irregular in sight or sound
+    Did to his mind impart
+    A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
+    To his own powers, and justified
+    The workings of his heart.
+
+    Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
+    The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,--
+    Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
+    The breezes their own languor lent;
+    The stars had feelings, which they sent
+    Into those favour'd bowers.
+
+    Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
+    That sometimes there did intervene
+    Pure hopes of high intent:
+    For passions link'd to forms so fair
+    And stately, needs must have their share
+    Of noble sentiment.
+
+    But ill he lived, much evil saw,
+    With men to whom no better law
+    Nor better life was known;
+    Deliberately and undeceived
+    Those wild men's vices he received,
+    And gave them back his own.
+
+    His genius and his moral frame
+    Were thus impair'd, and he became
+    The slave of low desires:
+    A man who without self-control
+    Would seek what the degraded soul
+    Unworthily admires.
+
+    And yet he with no feign'd delight
+    Had woo'd the maiden, day and night
+    Had loved her, night and morn:
+    What could he less than love a maid
+    Whose heart with so much nature play'd--
+    So kind and so forlorn?
+
+    Sometimes most earnestly he said,
+    'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
+    False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
+    Encompass'd me on every side
+    When I, in confidence and pride,
+    Had cross'd the Atlantic main.
+
+    'Before me shone a glorious world
+    Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd
+    To music suddenly:
+    I look'd upon those hills and plains,
+    And seem'd as if let loose from chains
+    To live at liberty!
+
+    'No more of this--for now, by thee,
+    Dear Ruth! more happily set free,
+    With nobler zeal I burn;
+    My soul from darkness is released
+    Like the whole sky when to the east
+    The morning doth return.'
+
+    Full soon that better mind was gone;
+    No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,--
+    They stirr'd him now no more;
+    New objects did new pleasure give,
+    And once again he wish'd to live
+    As lawless as before.
+
+    Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
+    They for the voyage were prepared,
+    And went to the sea-shore:
+    But, when they thither came, the youth
+    Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
+    Could never find him more.
+
+    God help thee, Ruth!--Such pains she had
+    That she in half a year was mad
+    And in a prison housed;
+    And there, with many a doleful song
+    Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
+    She fearfully caroused.
+
+    Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
+    Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
+    Nor pastimes of the May,
+    --They all were with her in her cell;
+    And a clear brook with cheerful knell
+    Did o'er the pebbles play.
+
+    When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
+    There came a respite to her pain;
+    She from her prison fled;
+    But of the Vagrant none took thought;
+    And where it liked her best she sought
+    Her shelter and her bread.
+
+    Among the fields she breathed again:
+    The master-current of her brain
+    Ran permanent and free;
+    And, coming to the banks of Tone,
+    There did she rest; and dwell alone
+    Under the greenwood tree.
+
+    The engines of her pain, the tools
+    That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
+    And airs that gently stir
+    The vernal leaves--she loved them still,
+    Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
+    Which had been done to her.
+
+    A barn her Winter bed supplies;
+    But, till the warmth of Summer skies
+    And Summer days is gone,
+    (And all do in this tale agree)
+    She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
+    And other home hath none.
+
+    An innocent life, yet far astray!
+    And Ruth will, long before her day,
+    Be broken down and old.
+    Sore aches she needs must have! but less
+    Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
+    From damp, and rain, and cold.
+
+    If she is prest by want of food
+    She from her dwelling in the wood
+    Repairs to a road-side;
+    And there she begs at one steep place,
+    Where up and down with easy pace
+    The horsemen-travellers ride.
+
+    That oaten pipe of hers is mute
+    Or thrown away: but with a flute
+    Her loneliness she cheers;
+    This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
+    At evening in his homeward walk
+    The Quantock woodman hears.
+
+    I, too, have pass'd her on the hills
+    Setting her little water-mills
+    By spouts and fountains wild--
+    Such small machinery as she turn'd
+    Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,--
+    A young and happy child!
+
+    Farewell! and when thy days are told,
+    Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould
+    Thy corpse shall buried be;
+    For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
+    And all the congregation sing
+    A Christian psalm for thee.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXI
+
+_WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS_
+
+    Many a green isle needs must be
+    In the deep wide sea of Misery,
+    Or the mariner, worn and wan,
+    Never thus could voyage on
+    Day and night, and night and day,
+    Drifting on his dreary way,
+    With the solid darkness black
+    Closing round his vessel's track;
+    Whilst above, the sunless sky
+    Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
+    And behind the tempest fleet
+    Hurries on with lightning feet,
+    Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
+    Till the ship has almost drank
+    Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
+    And sinks down, down, like that sleep
+    When the dreamer seems to be
+    Weltering through eternity;
+    And the dim low line before
+    Of a dark and distant shore
+    Still recedes, as ever still
+    Longing with divided will,
+    But no power to seek or shun,
+    He is ever drifted on
+    O'er the unreposing wave,
+    To the haven of the grave.
+
+      Ah, many flowering islands lie
+    In the waters of wide Agony:
+    To such a one this morn was led
+    My bark, by soft winds piloted.
+    --'Mid the mountains Euganean
+    I stood listening to the paean
+    With which the legion'd rooks did hail
+    The Sun's uprise majestical:
+    Gathering round with wings all hoar,
+    Through the dewy mist they soar
+    Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
+    Bursts; and then,--as clouds of even
+    Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
+    In the unfathomable sky,--
+    So their plumes of purple grain
+    Starr'd with drops of golden rain
+    Gleam above the sunlight woods,
+    As in silent multitudes
+    On the morning's fitful gale
+    Through the broken mist they sail;
+    And the vapours cloven and gleaming
+    Follow down the dark steep streaming,
+    Till all is bright, and clear, and still
+    Round the solitary hill.
+
+      Beneath is spread like a green sea
+    The waveless plain of Lombardy,
+    Bounded by the vaporous air,
+    Islanded by cities fair;
+    Underneath Day's azure eyes,
+    Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,--
+    A peopled labyrinth of walls,
+    Amphitrite's destined halls,
+    Which her hoary sire now paves
+    With his blue and beaming waves.
+    Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
+    Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
+    On the level quivering line
+    Of the waters crystalline;
+    And before that chasm of light,
+    As within a furnace bright,
+    Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
+    Shine like obelisks of fire,
+    Pointing with inconstant motion
+    From the altar of dark ocean
+    To the sapphire-tinted skies;
+    As the flames of sacrifice
+    From the marble shrines did rise
+    As to pierce the dome of gold
+    Where Apollo spoke of old.
+
+      Sun-girt City! thou hast been
+    Ocean's child, and then his queen;
+    Now is come a darker day,
+    And thou soon must be his prey,
+    If the power that raised thee here
+    Hallow so thy watery bier.
+    A less drear ruin then than now,
+    With thy conquest-branded brow
+    Stooping to the slave of slaves
+    From thy throne among the waves
+    Wilt thou be,--when the sea-mew
+    Flies, as once before if flew,
+    O'er thine isles depopulate,
+    And all is in its ancient state,
+    Save where many a palace-gate
+    With green sea-flowers overgrown
+    Like a rock of ocean's own,
+    Topples o'er the abandon'd sea
+    As the tides change sullenly.
+    The fisher on his watery way
+    Wandering at the close of day,
+    Will spread his sail and seize his oar
+    Till he pass the gloomy shore,
+    Lest thy dead should, from their sleep,
+    Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
+    Lead a rapid masque of death
+    O'er the waters of his path.
+
+      Noon descends around me now:
+    'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
+    When a soft and purple mist
+    Like a vaporous amethyst,
+    Or an air-dissolved star
+    Mingling light and fragrance, far
+    From the curved horizon's bound
+    To the point of heaven's profound,
+    Fills the overflowing sky;
+    And the plains that silent lie
+    Underneath; the leaves unsodden
+    Where the infant Frost has trodden
+    With his morning-winged feet
+    Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
+    And the red and golden vines
+    Piercing with their trellised lines
+    The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
+    The dun and bladed grass no less,
+    Pointing from this hoary tower
+    In the windless air; the flower
+    Glimmering at my feet; the line
+    Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine
+    In the south dimly islanded;
+    And the Alps, whose snows are spread
+    High between the clouds and sun;
+    And of living things each one;
+    And my spirit, which so long
+    Darken'd this swift stream of song,--
+    Interpenetrated lie
+    By the glory of the sky;
+    Be it love, light, harmony,
+    Odour, or the soul of all
+    Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
+    Or the mind which feeds this verse,
+    Peopling the lone universe.
+
+      Noon descends, and after noon
+    Autumn's evening meets me soon,
+    Leading the infantine moon
+    And that one star, which to her
+    Almost seems to minister
+    Half the crimson light she brings
+    From the sunset's radiant springs:
+    And the soft dreams of the morn
+    (Which like winged winds had borne
+    To that silent isle, which lies
+    'Mid remember'd agonies,
+    The frail bark of this lone being),
+    Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
+    And its ancient pilot, Pain,
+    Sits beside the helm again.
+
+      Other flowering isles must be
+    In the sea of Life and Agony:
+    Other spirits float and flee
+    O'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps,
+    On some rock the wild wave wraps,
+    With folded wings they waiting sit
+    For my bark, to pilot it
+    To some calm and blooming cove;
+    Where for me, and those I love,
+    May a windless bower be built,
+    Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
+    In a dell 'mid lawny hills
+    Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
+    And soft sunshine, and the sound
+    Of old forests echoing round,
+    And the light and smell divine
+    Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
+    --We may live so happy there,
+    That the Spirits of the Air
+    Envying us, may ev'n entice
+    To our healing paradise
+    The polluting multitude:
+    But their rage would be subdued
+    By that clime divine and calm,
+    And the winds whose wings rain balm
+    On the uplifted soul, and leaves
+    Under which the bright sea heaves;
+    While each breathless interval
+    In their whisperings musical
+    The inspired soul supplies
+    With its own deep melodies;
+    And the Love which heals all strife
+    Circling, like the breath of life,
+    All things in that sweet abode
+    With its own mild brotherhood:--
+    They, not it, would change; and soon
+    Every sprite beneath the moon
+    Would repent its envy vain,
+    And the Earth grow young again.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXII
+
+_ODE TO THE WEST WIND_
+
+    O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
+    Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
+    Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
+    Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
+    Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
+    Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
+    The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
+    Each like a corpse within its grave, until
+    Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
+    Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
+    (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
+    With living hues and odours plain and hill:
+    Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
+    Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!
+
+      Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
+    Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
+    Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
+    Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
+    On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
+    Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
+    Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
+    Of the horizon to the zenith's height--
+    The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
+    Of the dying year, to which this closing night
+    Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
+    Vaulted with all thy congregated might
+    Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
+    Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!
+
+      Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
+    The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
+    Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
+    Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
+    And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
+    Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
+    All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
+    So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
+    For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
+    Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
+    The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
+    The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
+    Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
+    And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!
+
+      If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
+    If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
+    A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
+    The impulse of thy strength, only less free
+    Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even
+    I were as in my boyhood, and could be
+    The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
+    As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
+    Scarce seem'd a vision,--I would ne'er have striven
+    As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
+    Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
+    I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
+    A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
+    One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud.
+
+      Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
+    What if my leaves are falling like its own!
+    The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
+    Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
+    Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
+    My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
+    Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
+    Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
+    And, by the incantation of this verse,
+    Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
+    Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
+    Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
+    The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
+    If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXIII
+
+_NATURE AND THE POET_
+
+_Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir
+George Beaumont_
+
+    I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+    Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
+    I saw thee every day; and all the while
+    Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
+
+    So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
+    So like, so very like, was day to day!
+    Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
+    It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
+
+    How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
+    No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
+    I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
+    Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
+
+    Ah! then--if mine had been the painter's hand
+    To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
+    The light that never was on sea or land,
+    The consecration, and the Poet's dream,--
+
+    I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,
+    Amid a world how different from this!
+    Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
+    On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
+
+    Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine
+    Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;--
+    Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
+    The very sweetest had to thee been given.
+
+    A picture had it been of lasting ease,
+    Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
+    No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;
+    Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
+
+    Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
+    Such picture would I at that time have made;
+    And seen the soul of truth in every part,
+    A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.
+
+    So once it would have been,--'tis so no more;
+    I have submitted to a new control:
+    A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
+    A deep distress hath humanized my soul.
+
+    Not for a moment could I now behold
+    A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
+    The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
+    This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
+
+    Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend
+    If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
+    This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
+    This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
+
+    O 'tis a passionate work!--yet wise and well,
+    Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
+    That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
+    This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
+
+    And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
+    I love to see the look with which it braves,
+    --Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time--
+    The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
+
+    --Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
+    Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
+    Such happiness, wherever it be known,
+    Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
+
+    But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
+    And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
+    Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:--
+    Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXIV
+
+_THE POET'S DREAM_
+
+    On a Poet's lips I slept
+    Dreaming like a love-adept
+    In the sound his breathing kept;
+    Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
+    But feeds on the aerial kisses
+    Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.
+    He will watch from dawn to gloom
+    The lake-reflected sun illume
+    The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
+      Nor heed nor see what things they be--
+    But from these create he can
+    Forms more real than living Man,
+      Nurslings of Immortality!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXV
+
+_GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN_
+
+    In this still place, remote from men,
+    Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;
+    In this still place, where murmurs on
+    But one meek streamlet, only one:
+    He sang of battles, and the breath
+    Of stormy war, and violent death;
+    And should, methinks, when all was past,
+    Have rightfully been laid at last
+    Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent
+    As by a spirit turbulent;
+    Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
+    And everything unreconciled;
+    In some complaining, dim retreat,
+    For fear and melancholy meet;
+    But this is calm; there cannot be
+    A more entire tranquillity.
+
+      Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
+    Or is it but a groundless creed?
+    What matters it?--I blame them not
+    Whose fancy in this lonely spot
+    Was moved; and in such way express'd
+    Their notion of its perfect rest.
+    A convent, even a hermit's cell,
+    Would break the silence of this Dell:
+    It is not quiet, is not ease;
+    But something deeper far than these;
+    The separation that is here
+    Is of the grave; and of austere
+    Yet happy feelings of the dead:
+    And, therefore, was it rightly said
+    That Ossian, last of all his race!
+    Lies buried in this lonely place.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVI
+
+    The World is too much with us; late and soon,
+    Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
+    Little we see in Nature that is ours;
+    We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
+
+    This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
+    The winds that will be howling at all hours
+    And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
+    For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
+
+    It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
+    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,--
+    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
+
+    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
+    Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
+    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVII
+
+_WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE_
+
+    Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
+    With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
+    (Albeit labouring for a scanty band
+    Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense
+
+    And glorious work of fine intelligence!
+    --Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
+    Of nicely-calculated less or more:--
+    So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
+
+    These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
+    Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
+    Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
+
+    Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die;
+    Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
+    That they were born for immortality.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXVIII
+
+_ODE ON A GRECIAN URN_
+
+    Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
+      Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
+    Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
+      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
+    What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
+      Of deities or mortals, or of both,
+        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
+    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
+      What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
+        What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
+
+    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
+      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
+    Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
+      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
+    Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
+      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
+        Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
+    Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
+      She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
+        For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
+
+    Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
+      Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
+    And, happy melodist, unwearied,
+      For ever piping songs for ever new;
+    More happy love! more happy, happy love!
+      For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
+        For ever panting, and for ever young;
+    All breathing human passion far above,
+      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
+        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
+
+    Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
+      To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
+    Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
+      And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
+    What little town by river or sea shore,
+      Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
+        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
+    And, little town, thy streets for evermore
+      Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
+        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
+
+    O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
+      Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
+    With forest branches and the trodden weed;
+      Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
+    As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
+      When old age shall this generation waste,
+        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
+    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
+      'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'--that is all
+        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXXIX
+
+_YOUTH AND AGE_
+
+    Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
+    Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee--
+    Both were mine! Life went a-maying
+          With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
+                When I was young!
+    When I was young?--Ah, woful when!
+    Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
+    This breathing house not built with hands,
+    This body that does me grievous wrong,
+    O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
+    How lightly then it flash'd along:
+    Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
+    On winding lakes and rivers wide,
+    That ask no aid of sail or oar,
+    That fear no spite of wind or tide!
+    Nought cared this body for wind or weather
+    When Youth and I lived in't together.
+
+      Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
+    Friendship is a sheltering tree;
+    O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
+    Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
+                Ere I was old!
+    Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
+    Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
+    O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
+    'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
+    I'll think it but a a fond conceit--
+    It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
+    Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:--
+    And thou wert aye a masker bold!
+    What strange disguise hast now put on
+    To make believe that Thou art gone?
+    I see these locks in silvery slips,
+    This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
+    But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
+    And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
+    Life is but Thought: so think I will
+    That Youth and I are house-mates still.
+
+      Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
+    But the tears of mournful eve!
+    Where no hope is, life's a warning
+    That only serves to make us grieve
+                When we are old:
+    --That only serves to make us grieve
+    With oft and tedious taking-leave,
+    Like some poor nigh-related guest
+    That may not rudely be dismist,
+    Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
+    And tells the jest without the smile.
+
+_S. T. Coleridge_
+
+
+CCCXXX
+
+_THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS_
+
+    We walked along, while bright and red
+    Uprose the morning sun;
+    And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said
+    'The will of God be done!'
+
+    A village schoolmaster was he,
+    With hair of glittering gray;
+    As blithe a man as you could see
+    On a spring holiday.
+
+    And on that morning, through the grass
+    And by the steaming rills
+    We travell'd merrily, to pass
+    A day among the hills.
+
+    'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun;
+    Then, from thy breast what thought,
+    Beneath so beautiful a sun,
+    So sad a sigh has brought?'
+
+    A second time did Matthew stop;
+    And fixing still his eye
+    Upon the eastern mountain-top,
+    To me he made reply:
+
+    'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
+    Brings fresh into my mind
+    A day like this, which I have left
+    Full thirty years behind.
+
+    'And just above yon slope of corn
+    Such colours, and no other,
+    Were in the sky that April morn,
+    Of this the very brother.
+
+    'With rod and line I sued the sport
+    Which that sweet season gave,
+    And to the church-yard come, stopp'd short
+    Beside my daughter's grave.
+
+    'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
+    The pride of all the vale;
+    And then she sang,--she would have been
+    A very nightingale.
+
+    'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
+    And yet I loved her more--
+    For so it seem'd,--than till that day
+    I e'er had loved before.
+
+    'And turning from her grave, I met,
+    Beside the churchyard yew,
+    A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
+    With points of morning dew.
+
+    'A basket on her head she bare;
+    Her brow was smooth and white:
+    To see a child so very fair,
+    It was a pure delight!
+
+    'No fountain from its rocky cave
+    E'er tripp'd with foot so free;
+    She seem'd as happy as a wave
+    That dances on the sea.
+
+    'There came from me a sigh of pain
+    Which I could ill confine;
+    I look'd at her, and look'd again:
+    And did not wish her mine!'
+
+    --Matthew is in his grave, yet now
+    Methinks I see him stand
+    As at that moment, with a bough
+    Of wilding in his hand.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXI
+
+_THE FOUNTAIN_
+
+_A Conversation_
+
+    We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+    Affectionate and true,
+    A pair of friends, though I was young,
+    And Matthew seventy-two.
+
+    We lay beneath a spreading oak,
+    Beside a mossy seat;
+    And from the turf a fountain broke
+    And gurgled at our feet.
+
+    'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us match
+    This water's pleasant tune
+    With some old border-song, or catch
+    That suits a summer's noon;
+
+    'Or of the church-clock and the chimes
+    Sing here beneath the shade
+    That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
+    Which you last April made!'
+
+    In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
+    The spring beneath the tree;
+    And thus the dear old man replied,
+    The gray-hair'd man of glee:
+
+    'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
+    How merrily it goes!
+    'Twill murmur on a thousand years
+    And flow as now it flows.
+
+    'And here, on this delightful day,
+    I cannot choose but think
+    How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
+    Beside this fountain's brink.
+
+    'My eyes are dim with childish tears,
+    My heart is idly stirr'd,
+    For the same sound is in my ears
+    Which in those days I heard.
+
+    'Thus fares it still in our decay:
+    And yet the wiser mind
+    Mourns less for what Age takes away,
+    Than what it leaves behind.
+
+    'The blackbird amid leafy trees,
+    The lark above the hill,
+    Let loose their carols when they please,
+    Are quiet when they will.
+
+    'With Nature never do they wage
+    A foolish strife; they see
+    A happy youth, and their old age
+    Is beautiful and free:
+
+    'But we are press'd by heavy laws;
+    And often, glad no more,
+    We wear a face of joy, because
+    We have been glad of yore.
+
+    'If there be one who need bemoan
+    His kindred laid in earth,
+    The household hearts that were his own,--
+    It is the man of mirth.
+
+    'My days, my friend, are almost gone,
+    My life has been approved,
+    And many love me; but by none
+    Am I enough beloved.'
+
+    'Now both himself and me he wrongs,
+    The man who thus complains!
+    I live and sing my idle songs
+    Upon these happy plains:
+
+    'And Matthew, for thy children dead
+    I'll be a son to thee!'
+    At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
+    'Alas! that cannot be.'
+
+    --We rose up from the fountain-side;
+    And down the smooth descent
+    Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
+    And through the wood we went;
+
+    And ere we came to Leonard's rock
+    He sang those witty rhymes
+    About the crazy old church-clock,
+    And the bewilder'd chimes.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXII
+
+_THE RIVER OF LIFE_
+
+    The more we live, more brief appear
+      Our life's succeeding stages:
+    A day to childhood seems a year,
+      And years like passing ages.
+
+    The gladsome current of our youth,
+      Ere passion yet disorders,
+    Steals lingering like a river smooth
+      Along its grassy borders.
+
+    But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
+      And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
+    Ye Stars, that measure life to man,
+      Why seem your courses quicker?
+
+    When joys have lost their bloom and breath
+      And life itself is vapid,
+    Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
+      Feel we its tide more rapid?
+
+    It may be strange--yet who would change
+      Time's course to slower speeding,
+    When one by one our friends have gone
+      And left our bosoms bleeding?
+
+    Heaven gives our years of fading strength
+      Indemnifying fleetness;
+    And those of youth, a seeming length,
+      Proportion'd to their sweetness.
+
+_T. Campbell_
+
+
+CCCXXXIII
+
+_THE HUMAN SEASONS_
+
+    Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
+    There are four seasons in the mind of man:
+    He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
+    Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
+
+    He has his Summer, when luxuriously
+    Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
+    To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
+    Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
+
+    His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
+    He furleth close; contented so to look
+    On mists in idleness--to let fair things
+    Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
+
+    He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
+    Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
+
+_J. Keats_
+
+
+CCCXXXIV
+
+_A DIRGE_
+
+    Rough wind, that meanest loud
+      Grief too sad for song;
+    Wild wind, when sullen cloud
+      Knells all the night long;
+    Sad storm whose tears are vain,
+    Bare woods whose branches stain,
+    Deep caves and dreary main,--
+      Wail for the world's wrong!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXXV
+
+_THRENOS_
+
+    O World! O Life! O Time!
+    On whose last steps I climb,
+      Trembling at that where I had stood before;
+    When will return the glory of your prime?
+        No more--Oh, never more!
+
+    Out of the day and night
+    A joy has taken flight:
+      Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
+    Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
+        No more--Oh, never more!
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+CCCXXXVI
+
+_THE TROSACHS_
+
+    There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
+    But were an apt confessional for One
+    Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
+    That Life is but a tale of morning grass
+
+    Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
+    That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
+    Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
+    Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
+
+    Untouch'd, unbreathed upon:--Thrice happy quest,
+    If from a golden perch of aspen spray
+    (October's workmanship to rival May),
+
+    The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
+    That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
+    Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXVII
+
+    My heart leaps up when I behold
+      A rainbow in the sky:
+    So was it when my life began,
+    So is it now I am a man,
+    So be it when I shall grow old
+        Or let me die!
+    The Child is father of the Man:
+    And I could wish my days to be
+    Bound each to each by natural piety.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXVIII
+
+_ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY
+CHILDHOOD_
+
+    There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
+    The earth, and every common sight
+                To me did seem
+            Apparell'd in celestial light,
+    The glory and the freshness of a dream.
+    It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
+            Turn wheresoe'er I may,
+                By night or day,
+    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
+
+            The rainbow comes and goes,
+            And lovely is the rose;
+            The moon doth with delight
+        Look round her when the heavens are bare;
+            Waters on a starry night
+            Are beautiful and fair;
+        The sunshine is a glorious birth;
+        But yet I know, where'er I go,
+    That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
+
+    Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
+        And while the young lambs bound
+            As to the tabor's sound,
+    To me alone there came a thought of grief:
+    A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
+            And I again am strong.
+    The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;--
+    No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
+    I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
+    The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
+            And all the earth is gay;
+                Land and sea
+        Give themselves up to jollity.
+            And with the heart of May
+        Doth every beast keep holiday;--
+                Thou child of joy
+    Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
+
+    Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
+        Ye to each other make; I see
+    The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
+        My heart is at your festival,
+          My head hath its coronal,
+    The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
+            Oh evil day! if I were sullen
+            While Earth herself is adorning
+                This sweet May-morning;
+            And the children are culling
+                On every side
+            In a thousand valleys far and wide,
+            Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm
+    And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:--
+            I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
+            --But there's a tree, of many, one,
+    A single field which I have look'd upon,
+    Both of them speak of something that is gone:
+                The pansy at my feet
+                Doth the same tale repeat:
+    Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
+    Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
+
+    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
+    The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
+            Hath had elsewhere its setting
+                And cometh from afar;
+            Not in entire forgetfulness,
+            And not in utter nakedness,
+    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
+                From God, who is our home:
+    Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
+    Shades of the prison-house begin to close
+                Upon the growing Boy,
+    But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
+                He sees it in his joy;
+    The Youth, who daily farther from the east
+        Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
+            And by the vision splendid
+            Is on his way attended;
+    At length the Man perceives it die away,
+    And fade into the light of common day.
+
+    Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
+    Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
+    And, even with something of a mother's mind
+                And no unworthy aim,
+            The homely nurse doth all she can
+    To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
+                Forget the glories he hath known,
+    And that imperial palace whence he came.
+
+    Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
+    A six years' darling of a pigmy size:
+    See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
+    Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
+    With light upon him from his father's eyes!
+    See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
+    Some fragment from his dream of human life,
+    Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
+            A wedding or a festival,
+            A mourning or a funeral;
+                And this hath now his heart,
+            And unto this he frames his song:
+                Then will he fit his tongue
+    To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
+            But it will not be long
+            Ere this be thrown aside,
+            And with new joy and pride
+    The little actor cons another part;
+    Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
+    With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
+    That life brings with her in her equipage;
+            As if his whole vocation
+            Were endless imitation.
+
+    Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
+            Thy soul's immensity;
+    Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
+    Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
+    That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
+    Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,--
+            Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
+            On whom those truths do rest
+    Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
+    In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave:
+    Thou, over whom thy Immortality
+    Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
+    A Presence which is not to be put by;
+    Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
+    Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
+    Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
+    The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
+    Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
+    Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
+    And custom lie upon thee with a weight
+    Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
+
+            O joy! that in our embers
+            Is something that doth live,
+            That Nature yet remembers
+            What was so fugitive!
+    The thought of our past years in me doth breed
+    Perpetual benediction: not indeed
+    For that which is most worthy to be blest,
+    Delight and liberty, the simple creed
+    Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
+    With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
+            --Not for these I raise
+            The song of thanks and praise;
+        But for those obstinate questionings
+        Of sense and outward things,
+        Fallings from us, vanishings;
+        Blank misgivings of a creature
+    Moving about in worlds not realized,
+    High instincts, before which our mortal nature
+    Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized:
+        But for those first affections,
+        Those shadowy recollections,
+            Which, be they what they may,
+    Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
+    Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
+        Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
+    Our noisy years seem moments in the being
+    Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
+                To perish never;
+    Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
+                Nor man nor boy
+    Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
+    Can utterly abolish or destroy!
+        Hence, in a season of calm weather
+            Though inland far we be,
+    Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
+                Which brought us hither;
+            Can in a moment travel thither--
+    And see the children sport upon the shore,
+    And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
+
+    Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
+            And let the young lambs bound
+            As to the tabor's sound!
+        We, in thought, will join your throng
+            Ye that pipe and ye that play,
+            Ye that through your hearts to-day
+            Feel the gladness of the May!
+    What though the radiance which was once so bright
+    Be now for ever taken from my sight,
+        Though nothing can bring back the hour
+    Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
+            We will grieve not, rather find
+            Strength in what remains behind;
+            In the primal sympathy
+            Which having been must ever be;
+            In the soothing thoughts that spring
+            Out of human suffering;
+            In the faith that looks through death,
+    In years that bring the philosophic mind.
+
+    And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
+    Forbode not any severing of our loves!
+    Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
+    I only have relinquish'd one delight
+    To live beneath your more habitual sway:
+    I love the brooks which down their channels fret
+    Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
+    The innocent brightness of a new-born day
+                Is lovely yet;
+    The clouds that gather round the setting sun
+    Do take a sober colouring from an eye
+    That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
+    Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
+    Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
+    Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
+    To me the meanest flower that blows can give
+    Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
+
+_W. Wordsworth_
+
+
+CCCXXXIX
+
+    Music, when soft voices die,
+    Vibrates in the memory--
+    Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
+    Live within the sense they quicken.
+
+    Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
+    Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
+    And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
+    Love itself shall slumber on.
+
+_P. B. Shelley_
+
+
+End of the Golden Treasury
+
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS
+
+AND
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES
+
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+(1861--1891)
+
+_Summary of Book First_
+
+
+The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the
+substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry
+VIII to Shakespeare midway through the reign of James I, and Drummond
+who carried on the early manner to a still later period. There is here
+a wide range of style;--from simplicity expressed in a language hardly
+yet broken-in to verse,--through the pastoral fancies and Italian
+conceits of the strictly Elizabethan time,--to the passionate reality
+of Shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few readers
+can fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the
+single-hearted straightforwardness of the thoughts:--nor less, the
+limitation of subject to the many phases of one passion, which then
+characterized our lyrical poetry,--unless when, as in especial with
+Shakespeare, the 'purple light of Love' is tempered by a spirit of
+sterner reflection. For the didactic verse of the century, although
+lyrical in form, yet very rarely rises to the pervading emotion, the
+golden cadence, proper to the lyric.
+
+It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in
+the main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its
+restriction to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative or historical
+Anthology has not been aimed at. Great excellence, in human art as in
+human character, has from the beginning of things been even more
+uniform than mediocrity, by virtue of the closeness of its approach to
+Nature:--and so far as the standard of Excellence kept in view has
+been attained in this volume, a comparative absence of extreme or
+temporary phases in style, a similarity of tone and manner, will be
+found throughout:--something neither modern nor ancient, but true and
+speaking to the heart of man alike throughout all ages.
+
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+2 3 _whist_: hushed, quieted.
+
+-- 4 _Rouse Memnon's mother_: Awaken the Dawn from the dark Earth and
+the clouds where she is resting. This is one of that limited class of
+early mythes which may be reasonably interpreted as representations of
+natural phenomena. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of Memnon
+(the East), and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and Sky
+during the last hours of Night). She leaves him every morning in
+renewed youth, to prepare the way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst
+Tithonus remains in perpetual old age and grayness.
+
+3 -- l. 23 _by Peneus' stream_: Phoebus loved the Nymph Daphne whom he
+met by the river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. L. 27 _Amphion's lyre_:
+He was said to have built the walls of Thebes to the sound of his
+music. L. 35 _Night like a drunkard reels_: Compare Romeo and Juliet,
+Act II, Scene 3: 'The grey-eyed morn smiles,' &c.--It should be added
+that three lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been
+omitted in this Poem.
+
+4 6 _Time's chest_: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up
+past treasures. So in Troilus, Act III, Scene 3, 'Time hath a wallet
+at his back' &c. In the _Arcadia_, _chest_ is used to signify _tomb_.
+
+5 7 A fine example of the high wrought and conventional Elizabethan
+Pastoralism, which it would be unreasonable to criticize on the ground
+of the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested.
+Stanza 6 was perhaps inserted by Izaak Walton.
+
+6 8 This beautiful lyric is one of several recovered from the very
+rare Elizabethan Song-books, for the publication of which our thanks
+are due to Mr. A. H. Bullen (1887, 1888).
+
+8 12 One stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with the
+principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in a few
+other poems. The more serious abbreviation by which it has been
+attempted to bring Crashaw's 'Wishes' and Shelley's 'Euganean Hills,'
+with one or two more, within the scheme of this selection, is
+commended with much diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted
+with the original pieces.
+
+9 13 Sidney's poetry is singularly unequal; his short life, his
+frequent absorption in public employment, hindered doubtless the
+development of his genius. His great contemporary fame, second only,
+it appears, to Spenser's, has been hence obscured. At times he is
+heavy and even prosaic; his simplicity is rude and bare; his verse
+unmelodious. These, however, are the 'defects of his merits.' In a
+certain depth and chivalry of feeling,--in the rare and noble quality
+of disinterestedness (to put it in one word),--he has no superior,
+hardly perhaps an equal, amongst our Poets; and after or beside
+Shakespeare's Sonnets, his _Astrophel and Stella_, in the Editor's
+judgment, offers the most intense and powerful picture of the passion
+of love in the whole range of our poetry.--_Hundreds of years_: 'The
+very rapture of love,' says Mr. Ruskin; 'A lover like this does not
+believe his mistress can grow old or die.'
+
+12 19 Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more than one
+picture by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure in
+its Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to 'the
+Islands of Terceras and the Canaries;' and he seems to have caught, in
+those southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked
+the almost contemporary Art of Venice,--the glory and the glow of
+Veronese, Titian, or Tintoret.--From the same romance is No. 71: a
+charming picture in the purest style of the later Italian Renaissance.
+
+_The clear_ (l. 1) is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old
+cosmography. _For a fair there's fairer none_: If you desire a Beauty,
+there is none more beautiful than Rosaline.
+
+14 22 Another gracious lyric from an Elizabethan Song-book, first
+reprinted (it is believed) in Mr. W. J. Linton's 'Rare Poems,' in
+1883.
+
+15 23 _that fair thou owest_: that beauty thou ownest.
+
+16 25 From one of the three Song-books of T. Campion, who appears to
+have been author of the words which he set to music. His merit as a
+lyrical poet (recognized in his own time, but since then forgotten)
+has been again brought to light by Mr. Bullen's taste and
+research:--_swerving_ (st. 2) is his conjecture for _changing_ in the
+text of 1601.
+
+20 31 _the star Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken_:
+apparently, Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his
+angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon
+used by astrologers has been determined.
+
+20 32 This lovely song appears, as here given, in Puttenham's 'Arte of
+English Poesie,' 1589. A longer and inferior form was published in the
+'Arcadia' of 1590: but Puttenham's prefatory words clearly assign his
+version to Sidney's own authorship.
+
+23 37 _keel_: keep cooler by stirring round.
+
+24 39 _expense_: loss.
+
+-- 40 _prease_: press.
+
+25 41 _Nativity, once in the main of light_: when a star has risen and
+entered on the full stream of light;--another of the astrological
+phrases no longer familiar.
+
+_Crooked_ eclipses: as coming athwart the Sun's apparent course.
+
+Wordsworth, thinking probably of the 'Venus' and the 'Lucrece,' said
+finely of Shakespeare: 'Shakespeare _could_ not have written an Epic;
+he would have died of plethora of thought.' This prodigality of nature
+is exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The copious selection here
+given (which from the wealth of the material, required greater
+consideration than any other portion of the Editor's task),--contains
+many that will not be fully felt and understood without some
+earnestness of thought on the reader's part. But he is not likely to
+regret the labour.
+
+26 42 _upon misprision growing_: either, granted in error, or, on the
+growth of contempt.
+
+-- 43 With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's 'Give me that man
+That is not passion's slave' &c. Shakespeare's writings show the
+deepest sensitiveness to passion:--hence the attraction he felt in the
+contrasting effects of apathy.
+
+26 44 _grame_: sorrow. Renaissance influences long impeded the return
+of English poets to the charming realism of this and a few other poems
+by Wyat.
+
+28 45 Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela.
+
+29 47 In the old legend it is now Philomela, now Procne (the swallow)
+who suffers violence from Tereus. This song has a fascination in its
+calm intensity of passion; that 'sad earnestness and vivid exactness'
+which Cardinal Newman ascribes to the master-pieces of ancient poetry.
+
+31 50 _proved_: approved.
+
+-- 51 _censures_: judges.
+
+-- 52 Exquisite in its equably-balanced metrical flow.
+
+32 53 Judging by its style, this beautiful example of old simplicity
+and feeling may, perhaps, be referred to the earlier years of
+Elizabeth. _Late_ forgot: lately.
+
+35 57 Printed in a little Anthology by Nicholas Breton, 1597. It is,
+however, a stronger and finer piece of work than any known to be
+his.--St. 1 _silly_: simple; _dole_: grief; _chief_: chiefly. St. 3
+_If there be_ ...: obscure: Perhaps, if there be any who speak harshly
+of thee, thy pain may plead for pity from Fate.
+
+This poem, with 60 and 143, are each graceful variations of a long
+popular theme.
+
+36 58 _That busy archer:_ Cupid. _Descries_: used actively; _points
+out_.--'The last line of this poem is a little obscured by
+transposition. He means, _Do they call ungratefulness there a
+virtue?_' (C. Lamb).
+
+37 59 _White Iope_: suggested, Mr. Bullen notes, by a passage in
+Propertius (iii, 20) describing Spirits in the lower world:
+
+    Vobiscum est Iope, vobiscum candida Tyro.
+
+38 62 _cypres_ or cyprus,--used by the old writers for _crape_:
+whether from the French _crespe_ or from the Island whence it was
+imported. Its accidental similarity in spelling to _cypress_ has, here
+and in Milton's Penseroso, probably confused readers.
+
+39 63 _ramage_: confused noise.
+
+41 66 'I never saw anything like this funeral dirge,' says Charles
+Lamb, 'except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father
+in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the
+earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to
+resolve itself into the element which it contemplates.'
+
+43 70 Paraphrased from an Italian madrigal
+
+    ... Non so conoscer poi
+    Se voi le rose, o sian le rose in voi.
+
+44 72 _crystal_: fairness.
+
+45 73 _stare_: starling.
+
+-- 74 This 'Spousal Verse' was written in honour of the Ladies
+Elizabeth and Katherine Somerset. Nowhere has Spenser more
+emphatically displayed himself as the very poet of Beauty: The
+Renaissance impulse in England is here seen at its highest and purest.
+
+The genius of Spenser, like Chaucer's, does itself justice only in
+poems of some length. Hence it is impossible to represent it in this
+volume by other pieces of equal merit, but of impracticable
+dimensions. And the same applies to such poems as the _Lover's Lament_
+or the _Ancient Mariner_.
+
+46 -- _entrailed_: twisted. Feateously: elegantly.
+
+48 -- _shend_: shame.
+
+49 -- _a noble peer_: Robert Devereux, second Lord Essex, then at the
+height of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz: hence the allusion
+following to the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient
+legend.
+
+-- -- _Elisa_: Elizabeth.
+
+50 -- _twins of Jove_: the stars Castor and Pollux: _baldric_, belt;
+the zodiac.
+
+52 79 This lyric may with very high probability be assigned to
+Campion, in whose first Book of Airs it appeared (1601). The evidence
+sometimes quoted ascribing it to Lord Bacon appears to be valueless.
+
+
+_Summary of Book Second._
+
+This division, embracing generally the latter eighty years of the
+Seventeenth century, contains the close of our Early poetical style
+and the commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master
+of the new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in
+the former book,--the crown and consummation of the early period.
+Their splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts,
+Spenser's excepted: they exhibit that wider and grander range which
+years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on
+Poetry. Our Muses now give expression to political feeling, to
+religious thought, to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such
+as Marvell, Herbert, and Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again,
+we find noble attempts, hitherto rare in our literature, at pure
+description of nature, destined in our own age to be continued and
+equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although before 1660
+often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought, and
+afterwards by levity and an artificial tone,--produced in Herrick and
+Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan:
+until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself,
+and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of
+Wither and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.--That the change
+from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of
+nature and simplicity is undeniable; yet the bolder and wider scope
+which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts
+then made to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results
+have been no slight compensation.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+58 85 l. 8 _whist_: hushed.
+
+-- -- l. 32 _than_: obsolete for _then_: _Pan_: used here for the Lord
+of all.
+
+59 -- l. 38 _consort_: Milton's spelling of this word, here and
+elsewhere, has been followed, as it is uncertain whether he used it in
+the sense of _accompanying_, or simply for _concert_.
+
+61 -- l. 21 _Lars and Lemures_: household gods and spirits of
+relations dead. _Flamens_ (l. 24) Roman priests. _That twice-batter'd
+god_ (l. 29) Dagon.
+
+62 -- l. 6 _Osiris_, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, perhaps by
+confusion with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by Typho and
+embalmed after death in a sacred chest. This mythe, reproduced in Syria
+and Greece in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, may
+have originally signified the annual death of the Sun or the Year under
+the influences of the winter darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the
+New Year, in his turn overcomes Typho. L. 8 _unshower'd_ grass: as watered
+by the Nile only. L. 33 _youngest-teemed_: last-born. _Bright-harness'd_
+(l. 37) armoured.
+
+64 87 _The Late Massacre_: the Vaudois persecution, carried on in 1655
+by the Duke of Savoy. No more mighty Sonnet than this 'collect in
+verse,' as it has been justly named, probably can be found in any
+language. Readers should observe that it is constructed on the
+original Italian or Provencal model. This form, in a language such as
+ours, not affluent in rhyme, presents great difficulties; the rhymes
+are apt to be forced, or the substance commonplace. But, when
+successfully handled, it has a unity and a beauty of effect which
+place the strict Sonnet above the less compact and less lyrical
+systems adopted by Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and other Elizabethan
+poets.
+
+65 88 Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650, and Marvell probably
+wrote his lines soon after, whilst living at Nunappleton in the
+Fairfax household. It is hence not surprising that (st. 21-24) he
+should have been deceived by Cromwell's professed submissiveness to
+the Parliament which, when it declined to register his decrees, he
+expelled by armed violence:--one despotism, by natural law, replacing
+another. The poet's insight has, however, truly prophesied that result
+in his last two lines.
+
+This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in
+Milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is
+occasionally obscure from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The
+meaning of st. 5 is 'rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty
+spirit, and limitation more hateful than opposition.' The allusion in
+st. 11 is to the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a
+vacuum and the impenetrability of matter:--in st. 17 to the omen
+traditionally connected with the foundation of the Capitol at
+Rome:--_forced_, fated. The ancient belief that certain years in life
+complete natural periods and are hence peculiarly exposed to death, is
+introduced in st. 26 by the word _climacteric_.
+
+68 89 _Lycidas_: The person here lamented is Milton's college
+contemporary, Edward King, drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from
+Chester to Ireland.
+
+Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian
+Greeks settled in Sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited
+more magnificently in _Lycidas_ than in any other pastoral, is
+apparently of Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom of a
+great artist, has here united ancient mythology, with what may be
+called the modern mythology of Camus and Saint Peter,--to direct
+Christian images. Yet the poem, if it gains in historical interest,
+suffers in poetry by the harsh intrusion of the writer's narrow and
+violent theological politics.--The metrical structure of this glorious
+elegy is partly derived from Italian models.
+
+69 -- l. 11 _Sisters of the sacred well_: the Muses, said to frequent
+the Pierian Spring at the foot of Mount Olympus.
+
+70 -- l. 10 _Mona_: Anglesea, called by the Welsh poets, the Dark
+Island, from its dense forests. _Deva_ (l. 11) the Dee: a river which
+may have derived its magical character from Celtic traditions: it was
+long the boundary of Briton and English.--These places are introduced,
+as being near the scene of the shipwreck. _Orpheus_ (l. 14) was torn
+to pieces by Thracian women. _Amaryllis_ and _Neaera_ (l. 24, 25)
+names used here for the love-idols of poets: as _Damoetas_ previously
+for a shepherd. L. 31 _the blind Fury_: Atropos, fabled to cut the
+thread of life.
+
+71 89 _Arethuse_ (l. 1) and _Mincius_: Sicilian and Italian waters
+here alluded to as representing the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and
+Vergil. L. 4 _oat_: pipe, used here like Collins' _oaten stop_ l. 1,
+No. 186, for _Song_. L. 12 _Hippotades_: Aeolus, god of the Winds.
+_Panope_ (l. 15) a Nereid. Certain names of local deities in the
+Hellenic mythology render some feature in the natural landscape, which
+the Greeks studied and analysed with their usual unequalled insight
+and feeling. _Panope_ seems to express the boundlessness of the
+ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared with the limited
+sky-line of the land in hilly countries such as Greece or Asia Minor.
+_Camus_ (l. 19) the Cam: put for King's University. _The sanguine
+flower_ (l. 22) the Hyacinth of the ancients: probably our Iris. _The
+Pilot_ (l. 25) Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the
+Church on earth, to foretell 'the ruin of our corrupted clergy,' as
+Milton regarded them, 'then in their heighth' under Laud's primacy.
+
+72 -- l. 1 _scrannel_: screeching; apparently Milton's coinage
+(Masson). L. 5 _the wolf_: the Puritans of the time were excited to
+alarm and persecution by a few conversions to Roman Catholicism which
+had recently occurred. _Alpheus_ (l. 9) a stream in Southern Greece,
+supposed to flow underseas to join the Arethuse. _Swart star_ (l. 15)
+the Dog-star, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in ancient
+times occurred soon after midsummer: l. 19 _rathe_: early. L. 36
+_moist vows_: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea.
+_Bellerus_ (l. 37) a giant, apparently created here by Milton to
+personify Belerium, the ancient title of the Land's End. _The great
+Vision_:--the story was that the Archangel Michael had appeared on the
+rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name. Milton calls on
+him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to pity Lycidas, if
+his body has drifted into the troubled waters off the Land's End.
+Finisterre being the land due south of Marazion, two places in that
+district (then through our trade with Corunna probably less unfamiliar
+to English ears), are named,--_Namancos_ now Mujio in Galicia,
+_Bayona_ north of the Minho, or perhaps a fortified rock (one of the
+_Cies_ Islands) not unlike Saint Michael's Mount, at the entrance of
+Vigo Bay.
+
+73 89 l. 6 _ore_: rays of golden light. _Doric_ lay (l. 25) Sicilian,
+pastoral.
+
+75 93 _The assault_ was an attack on London expected in 1642, when the
+troops of Charles I reached Brentford. 'Written on his door' was in
+the original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in
+Aldersgate Street.
+
+_The Emathian Conqueror_: When Thebes was destroyed (B.C. 335) and the
+citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar
+to be spared.
+
+7 -- l. 2, _the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet_: Plutarch has a
+tale that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took Athens, a
+proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect produced on
+the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the _Electra_ of
+Euripides sung at a feast. There is however no apparent congruity
+between the lines quoted (167, 168 Ed. Dindorf) and the result
+ascribed to them.
+
+-- 95 A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry;--that written by
+thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Jeremy Taylor,
+Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay, have left similar
+specimens.
+
+78 98 These beautiful verses should be compared with Wordsworth's
+great Ode on _Immortality_: and a copy of Vaughan's very rare little
+volume appears in the list of Wordsworth's library.--In imaginative
+intensity, Vaughan stands beside his contemporary Marvell.
+
+79 99 _Favonius_: the spring wind.
+
+80 100 _Themis_: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grandson by his
+mother to Sir E. Coke:--hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley,
+Milton's allusion to the _bench_. L. 8: Sweden was then at war with
+Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands.
+
+82 103 l. 28 _Sidneian showers_: either in allusion to the
+conversations in the 'Arcadia,' or to Sidney himself as a model of
+'gentleness' in spirit and demeanour.
+
+85 105 Delicate humour, delightfully united to thought, at once simple
+and subtle. It is full of conceit and paradox, but these are
+imaginative, not as with most of our Seventeenth Century poets,
+intellectual only.
+
+88 110 _Elizabeth of Bohemia_: Daughter to James I, and ancestor of
+Sophia of Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant and
+courtly compliment.
+
+89 111 Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards Earl of
+Marlborough, who died March, 1629, coincidently with the dissolution
+of the third Parliament of Charles' reign. Hence Milton poetically
+compares his death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after
+Philip's victory in 328 B.C.
+
+93 118 A masterpiece of humour, grace, and gentle feeling, all, with
+Herrick's unfailing art, kept precisely within the peculiar key which
+he chose,--or Nature for him,--in his Pastorals. L. 2 _the god
+unshorn_: Imberbis Apollo. St. 2 _beads_: prayers.
+
+96 123 With better taste, and less diffuseness, Quarles might (one
+would think) have retained more of that high place which he held in
+popular estimate among his contemporaries.
+
+99 127 _From Prison_: to which his active support of Charles I twice
+brought the high-spirited writer. L. 7 _Gods_: thus in the original;
+Lovelace, in his fanciful way, making here a mythological allusion.
+_Birds_, commonly substituted, is without authority. St. 3, l. 1
+_committed_: to prison.
+
+100 128 St. 2 l. 4 _blue-god_: Neptune.
+
+104 133 _Waly waly_: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the
+pronunciation of which are preserved in the word _caterwaul_. _Brae_,
+hillside: _burn_, brook: _busk_, adorn. _Saint Anton's Well_: below
+Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh. _Cramasie_, crimson.
+
+105 134 This beautiful example of early simplicity is found in a
+Song-book of 1620.
+
+106 135 _burd_, maiden.
+
+107 136 _corbies_, crows: _fail_, turf: _hause_, neck: _theek_,
+thatch.--If not in their origin, in their present form this, with the
+preceding poem and 133, appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and
+have therefore been placed in Book II.
+
+108 137 The poetical and the prosaic, after Cowley's fashion, blend
+curiously in this deeply-felt elegy.
+
+112 141 Perhaps no poem in this collection is more delicately fancied,
+more exquisitely finished. By placing his description of the Fawn in a
+young girl's mouth, Marvell has, as it were, legitimated that
+abundance of 'imaginative hyperbole' to which he is always partial: he
+makes us feel it natural that a maiden's favourite should be whiter
+than milk, sweeter than sugar--'lilies without, roses within,' The
+poet's imagination is justified in its seeming extravagance by the
+intensity and unity with which it invests his picture.
+
+113 142 The remark quoted in the note to No. 65 applies equally to
+these truly wonderful verses. Marvell here throws himself into the
+very soul of the _Garden_ with the imaginative intensity of Shelley in
+his _West Wind_.--This poem appears also as a translation in Marvell's
+works. The most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is
+rare, answer more or less to stanzas 2 and 6:--
+
+    Alma Quies, teneo te! et te, germana Quietis,
+    Simplicitas! vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes
+    Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra:
+    Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe
+    Celarunt plantae virides, et concolor umbra.
+
+115 143 St. 3 _tutties_: nosegays. St. 4 _silly_: simple.
+
+_L'Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_. It is a striking proof of Milton's
+astonishing power, that these, the earliest great Lyrics of the
+Landscape in our language, should still remain supreme in their style
+for range, variety, and melodious beauty. The Bright and the
+Thoughtful aspects of Nature and of Life are their subjects: but each
+is preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixed Classical and
+Italian manner.--With that of _L'Allegro_ may be compared a similar
+mythe in the first Section of the first Book of S. Marmion's graceful
+_Cupid and Psyche_, 1637.
+
+116 144 _The mountain-nymph_; compare Wordsworth's Sonnet, No. 254. L.
+38 is in _apposition_ to the preceding, by a syntactical license not
+uncommon with Milton.
+
+118 -- l. 14 _Cynosure_; the Pole Star. _Corydon_, _Thyrsis_, &c.:
+Shepherd names from the old Idylls. _Rebeck_ (l. 28) an elementary
+form of violin.
+
+119 -- l. 24 _Jonson's learned sock_: His comedies are deeply coloured
+by classical study. L. 28 _Lydian airs_: used here to express a light
+and festive style of ancient music. The 'Lydian Mode,' one of the
+seven original Greek Scales, is nearly identical with our 'Major.'
+
+120 145 l. 3 _bestead_: avail. L. 10 _starr'd Ethiop queen_:
+Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and thence translated
+amongst the constellations.
+
+121 -- _Cynthia_: the Moon: Milton seems here to have transferred to
+her chariot the dragons anciently assigned to Demeter and to Medea.
+
+122 -- _Hermes_, called Trismegistus, a mystical writer of the
+Neo-Platonist school. L. 27 _Thebes_, &c.: subjects of Athenian
+Tragedy. _Buskin'd_ (l. 30) tragic, in opposition to sock above. L. 32
+_Musaeus_: a poet in Mythology. L. 37 _him that left half-told_:
+Chaucer in his incomplete 'Squire's Tale.'
+
+123 -- _great bards_: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are here presumably
+intended. L. 9 _frounced_: curled. _The Attic Boy_ (l. 10) Cephalus.
+
+124 146 Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by the
+government of Charles I.
+
+125 -- l. 9, 10. _But apples_, &c. A fine example of Marvell's
+imaginative hyperbole.
+
+-- 147 l. 6 _concent_: harmony.
+
+128 149 A lyric of a strange, fanciful, yet solemn beauty:--Cowley's
+style intensified by the mysticism of Henry More.--St. 2 _monument_:
+the World.
+
+129 151 Entitled 'A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day: 1697.'
+
+
+_Summary of Book Third_
+
+It is more difficult to characterize 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 absolute contrasts as distinguish 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 conventional and of common language, 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 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 many
+complex causes which made the Eighteenth century the turning-time in
+modern European civilization are also more or less reflected 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.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+134 153 We have no poet more marked by rapture, by the ecstasy which
+Plato held the note of genuine inspiration, than Collins. Yet but
+twice or thrice do his lyrics reach that simplicity, that _sinceram
+sermonis Attici gratiam_ to which this ode testifies his enthusiastic
+devotion. His style, as his friend Dr. Johnson truly remarks, was
+obscure; his diction often harsh and unskilfully laboured; he
+struggles nobly against the narrow, artificial manner of his age, but
+his too scanty years did not allow him to reach perfect mastery. St.
+3 _Hybla_: near Syracuse. _Her whose ... woe_: the nightingale, 'for
+which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness';
+Collins here refers to the famous chorus in the _Oedipus at Colonus_.
+St. 4 _Cephisus_: the stream encircling Athens on the north and west,
+passing Colonus. St. 6 _stay'd to sing_: stayed her song when Imperial
+tyranny was established at Rome. St. 7 refers to the Italian amourist
+poetry of the Renaissance: In Collins' day, Dante was almost unknown
+in England. St. 8 _meeting soul_: which moves sympathetically towards
+Simplicity as she comes to inspire the poet. St. 9 _Of these_: Taste
+and Genius.
+
+_The Bard._ In 1757, when this splendid ode was completed, so very
+little had been printed, whether in Wales or in England, in regard to
+Welsh poetry, that it is hard to discover whence Gray drew his Cymric
+allusions. The fabled massacre of the Bards (shown to be wholly
+groundless in Stephens' _Literature of the Kymry_) appears first in
+the family history of Sir John Wynn of Gwydir (cir. 1600), not
+published till 1773; but the story seems to have passed in MS. to
+Carte's History, whence it may have been taken by Gray. The references
+to _high-born Hoel_ and _soft Llewellyn_; to _Cadwallo_ and _Urien_;
+may, similarly, have been derived from the 'Specimens' of early Welsh
+poetry, by the Rev. E. Evans:--as, although not published till 1764,
+the MS., we learn from a letter to Dr. Wharton, was in Gray's hands by
+July 1760, and may have reached him by 1757. It is, however, doubtful
+whether Gray (of whose acquaintance with Welsh we have no evidence)
+must not have been also aided by some Welsh scholar. He is one of the
+poets least likely to scatter epithets at random: 'soft' or gentle is
+the epithet emphatically and specially given to Llewelyn in
+contemporary Welsh poetry, and is hence here used with particular
+propriety. Yet, without such assistance as we have suggested, Gray
+could hardly have selected the epithet, although applied to the King
+(p. 141-3) among a crowd of others, in Llygad Gwr's Ode, printed by
+Evans.--After lamenting his comrades (st. 2, 3) the Bard prophesies
+the fate of Edward II, and the conquests of Edward III (4): his death
+and that of the Black Prince (5): of Richard II, with the wars of York
+and Lancaster, the murder of Henry VI (_the meek usurper_), and of
+Edward V and his brother (6). He turns to the glory and prosperity
+following the accession of the Tudors (7), through Elizabeth's reign
+(8): and concludes with a vision of the poetry of Shakespeare and
+Milton.
+
+140 159 l. 13 _Glo'ster_: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward.
+_Mortimer_, one of the Lords Marchers of Wales.
+
+141 159 _High-born Hoel, soft Llewellyn_ (l. 15); the _Dissertatio de
+Bardis_ of Evans names the first as son to the King Owain Gwynedd:
+Llewelyn, last King of North Wales, was murdered 1282. L. 16
+_Cadwallo_: Cadwallon (died 631) and Urien Rheged (early kings of
+Gwynedd and Cumbria respectively) are mentioned by Evans (p. 78) as
+bards none of whose poetry is extant. L. 20 _Modred_: Evans supplies
+no _data_ for this name, which Gray (it has been supposed) uses for
+Merlin (Myrddin Wyllt), held prophet as well as poet.--The Italicized
+lines mark where the Bard's song is joined by that of his predecessors
+departed. L. 22 _Arvon_: the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite
+Anglesey. Whether intentionally or through ignorance of the real
+dates, Gray here seems to represent the _Bard_ as speaking of these
+poets, all of earlier days, Llewelyn excepted, as his own
+contemporaries at the close of the thirteenth century.
+
+Gray, whose penetrating and powerful genius rendered him in many ways
+an initiator in advance of his age, is probably the first of our poets
+who made some acquaintance with the rich and admirable poetry in which
+Wales from the Sixth Century has been fertile,--before and since his
+time so barbarously neglected, not in England only. Hence it has been
+thought worth while here to enter into a little detail upon his Cymric
+allusions.
+
+142 -- l. 5 _She-wolf_: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward
+II.--L. 35 _Towers of Julius_: the Tower of London, built in part,
+according to tradition, by Julius Caesar.
+
+143 -- l. 2 _bristled boar_: the badge of Richard III. L. 7 _Half of
+thy heart_: Queen Eleanor died soon after the conquest of Wales. L. 18
+_Arthur_: Henry VII named his eldest son thus, in deference to native
+feeling and story.
+
+144 161 The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Drumossie.
+
+145 162 _lilting_, singing blithely: _loaning_, broad lane: _bughts_,
+pens: _scorning_, rallying: _dowie_, dreary: _daffin'_ and _gabbin'_,
+joking and chatting: _leglin_, milkpail: _shearing_, reaping:
+_bandsters_, sheaf-binders: _lyart_, grizzled: _runkled_, wrinkled:
+_fleeching_, coaxing: _gloaming_, twilight: _bogle_, ghost: _dool_,
+sorrow.
+
+147 164 The Editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, to
+his mind superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. Part
+is probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a
+more modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan's poem
+(163) exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old
+verses,--_Hecht_, promised; the obsolete _hight_: _mavis_, thrush:
+_ilka_, every: _lav'rock_, lark: _haughs_, valley-meadows: _twined_,
+parted from: _marrow_, mate: _syne_, then.
+
+148 165 The Royal George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial
+careening at Spithead, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The
+total loss was believed to be nearly 1000 souls.--This little poem
+might be called one of our trial-pieces, in regard to taste. The
+reader who feels the vigour of description and the force of pathos
+underlying Cowper's bare and truly Greek simplicity of phrase, may
+assure himself _se valde profecisse_ in poetry.
+
+151 167 A little masterpiece in a very difficult style: Catullus
+himself could hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness,
+simplicity, and humour, it is worthy of the Ancients: and even more
+so, from the completeness and unity of the picture presented.
+
+155 172 Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the
+poetic nature has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet this
+song, with 'Rule Britannia' and a few others, must make us regret that
+he did not more seriously apply himself to lyrical writing.
+
+156 174 With what insight and tenderness, yet in how few words, has
+this painter-poet here himself told _Love's Secret!_
+
+157 177 l. 1 _Aeolian lyre_: the Greeks ascribed the origin of their
+Lyrical Poetry to the Colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor.
+
+158 -- _Thracia's hills_ (l. 9) supposed a favourite resort of Mars.
+_Feather'd king_ (l. 13) the Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by
+Pindar in a passage here imitated by Gray. _Idalia_ (l. 19) in Cyprus,
+where _Cytherea_ (Venus) was especially worshipped.
+
+159 -- l. 6 _Hyperion_: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets of the
+Islands and Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England.
+
+160 -- l. 27 _Theban Eagle_: Pindar.
+
+163 178 l. 5 _chaste-eyed Queen_: Diana.
+
+164 179 From that wild rhapsody of mingled grandeur, tenderness, and
+obscurity, that 'medley between inspiration and possession,' which
+poor Smart is believed to have written whilst in confinement for
+madness.
+
+165 181 _the dreadful light_: of life and experience.
+
+166 182 _Attic warbler_: the nightingale.
+
+168 184 _sleekit_, sleek: _bickering brattle_, flittering flight: _laith_,
+loth: _pattle_, ploughstaff: _whyles_, at times: _a daimenicker_, a
+corn-ear now and then: _thrave_, shock: _lave_, rest: _foggage_,
+after-grass: _snell_, biting: _but hald_, without dwelling-place: _thole_,
+bear: _cranreuch_, hoar-frost: _thy lane_, alone: _a-gley_, off the right
+line, awry.
+
+175 188 _stoure_, dust-storm; _braw_, smart.
+
+176 189 _scaith_, hurt: _tent_, guard: _steer_, molest.
+
+177 191 _drumlie_, muddy: _birk_, birch.
+
+178 192 _greet_, cry: _daurna_, dare not.--There can hardly exist a
+poem more truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, perhaps,
+Sappho excepted, has any Poetess equalled it.
+
+180 193 _fou_, merry with drink: _coost_, carried: _unco skeigh_, very
+proud: _gart_, forced: _abeigh_, aside: _Ailsa craig_, a rock in the Firth
+of Clyde: _grat his een bleert_, cried till his eyes were bleared:
+_lowpin_, leaping: _linn_, waterfall: _sair_, sore: _smoor'd_, smothered:
+_crouse_ and _canty_, blithe and gay.
+
+181 194 Burns justly named this 'one of the most beautiful songs in
+the Scots or any other language.' One stanza, interpolated by Beattie,
+is here omitted:--it contains two good lines, but is out of harmony
+with the original poem. _Bigonet_, little cap: probably altered from
+_beguinette_: _thraw_, twist: _caller_, fresh.
+
+182 195 Burns himself, despite two attempts, failed to improve this
+little absolute masterpiece of music, tenderness, and simplicity: this
+'Romance of a life' in eight lines.--_Eerie_: strictly, scared:
+uneasy.
+
+183 196 _airts_, quarters: _row_, roll: _shaw_, small wood in a
+hollow, spinney: _knowes_, knolls. The last two stanzas are not by
+Burns.
+
+184 197 _jo_, sweetheart: _brent_, smooth: _pow_, head.
+
+-- 198 _leal_, faithful. St. 3 _fain_, happy.
+
+185 199 Henry VI founded Eton.
+
+188 200 Written in 1773, towards the beginning of Cowper's second
+attack of melancholy madness--a time when he altogether gave up
+prayer, saying, 'For him to implore mercy would only anger God the
+more.' Yet had he given it up when sane, it would have been 'maior
+insania.'
+
+191 203 The Editor would venture to class in the very first rank this
+Sonnet, which, with 204, records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose
+affectionate care for many years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to
+a life radically wretched. Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal
+grace and a more perfect finish; Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's
+stand supreme in stateliness; Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But
+Cowper's unites with an exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the
+ancients would have called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness
+peculiar to his loving and ingenuous nature.--There is much mannerism,
+much that is unimportant or of now exhausted interest in his poems:
+but where he is great, it is with that elementary greatness which
+rests on the most universal human feelings. Cowper is our highest
+master in simple pathos.
+
+193 205 Cowper's last original poem, founded upon a story told in
+Anson's 'Voyages.' It was written March 1799; he died in next year's
+April.
+
+195 206 Very little except his name appears recoverable with regard
+to the author of this truly noble poem, which appeared in the
+'Scripscrapologia, or Collins' Doggerel Dish of All Sorts,' with three
+or four other pieces of merit, Birmingham, 1804.--_Everlasting_; used
+with side-allusion to a cloth so named, at the time when Collins
+wrote.
+
+
+_Summary of Book Fourth_
+
+It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry,
+that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard
+of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few
+exceptions composed during the first thirty years of the Nineteenth
+century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely
+sudden appearance of individual genius: that, however, which assigns
+the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry to an impulse
+from the France of the first Republic and Empire is inadequate. The
+first French Revolution was rather one result,--the most conspicuous,
+indeed, yet itself in great measure essentially retrogressive,--of
+that wider and more potent spirit which through enquiry and attempt,
+through strength and weakness, sweeps mankind round the circles (not,
+as some too confidently argue, of Advance, but) of gradual
+Transformation: and it is to this that we must trace the literature of
+Modern Europe. But, without attempting discussion on the motive causes
+of Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley, and others, we may observe that these
+Poets carried to further perfection the later tendencies of the
+Century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human
+Passion and Character in every sphere, and love of Nature for
+herself:--that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art
+made since the Restoration, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and
+depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan writers:--that,
+lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in language
+and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a tenderness
+and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the Soul
+and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger sense of
+Humanity,--hitherto scarcely attained, and perhaps unattainable even
+by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the
+Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, may fairly claim that
+during six centuries it has proved itself the most richly gifted of
+all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
+and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to
+itself--hence the many phases of thought and style they present:--to
+sympathize with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and
+without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of
+the soul. For purity in taste is absolutely proportionate to
+strength--and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to
+delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most
+wisely.
+
+But the gallery which this Book offers to the reader will aid him more
+than any preface. It is a royal Palace of Poetry which he is invited
+to enter:
+
+    Adparet domus intus, et atria longa patescunt--
+
+though it is, indeed, to the sympathetic eye only that its treasures
+will be visible.
+
+PAGE NO.
+
+197 208 This beautiful lyric, printed in 1783, seems to anticipate in
+its imaginative music that return to our great early age of song,
+which in Blake's own lifetime was to prove,--how gloriously! that the
+English Muses had resumed their 'ancient melody':--Keats, Shelley,
+Byron,--he overlived them all.
+
+199 210 _stout Cortez_: History would here suggest _Balboa_: (A.T.) It
+may be noticed, that to find in Chapman's Homer the 'pure serene' of
+the original, the reader must bring with him the imagination of the
+youthful poet;--he must be 'a Greek himself,' as Shelley finely said
+of Keats.
+
+202 212 The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems.
+
+203 213 This poem exemplifies the peculiar skill with which Scott
+employs proper names:--a rarely misleading sign of true poetical
+genius.
+
+213 226 Simple as _Lucy Gray_ seems, a mere narrative of what 'has
+been, and may be again,' yet every touch in the child's picture is
+marked by the deepest and purest ideal character. Hence, pathetic as
+the situation is, this is not strictly a pathetic poem, such as
+Wordsworth gives us in 221, Lamb in 264, and Scott in his _Maid of
+Neidpath_,--'almost more pathetic,' as Tennyson once remarked, 'than a
+man has the right to be.' And Lyte's lovely stanzas (224) suggest,
+perhaps, the same remark.
+
+222 235 In this and in other instances the addition (or the change) of
+a Title has been risked, in hope that the aim of the piece following
+may be grasped more clearly and immediately.
+
+228 242 This beautiful Sonnet was the last word of a youth, in whom,
+if the fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise,
+England lost one of the most rarely gifted in the long roll of her
+poets. Shakespeare and Milton, had their lives been closed at
+twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less
+excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the
+London surgery, passed at once to a place with them of 'high
+collateral glory.'
+
+230 245 It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so
+little in this sweet and genuinely national style.
+
+231 246 A masterly example of Byron's command of strong thought and
+close reasoning in verse:--as the next is equally characteristic of
+Shelley's wayward intensity.
+
+240 253 Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in
+Chillon on the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of his
+country against the tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during
+the first half of the Seventeenth century.--This noble Sonnet is
+worthy to stand near Milton's on the Vaudois massacre.
+
+241 254 Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon in 1800:
+Venice in 1797 (255).
+
+243 259 This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians
+under Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near
+Munich. _Hohen Linden_ means _High Limetrees_.
+
+247 262 After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. Moore
+retreated before Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst
+covering the embarkation of his troops.
+
+257 272 The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and
+other choice spirits of that age.
+
+258 273 _Maisie_: Mary.--Scott has given us nothing more complete and
+lovely than this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic
+power to a wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn,
+far less any conscious analysis of feeling attempted:--the pathetic
+meaning is left to be suggested by the mere presentment of the
+situation. A narrow criticism has often named this, which maybe called
+the Homeric manner, superficial, from its apparent simple facility;
+but first-rate excellence in it is in truth one of the least common
+triumphs of Poetry.--This style should be compared with what is not
+less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner feeling, the
+expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart of Nature
+and of the Soul within the Soul,--the analytical method, in
+short,--most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shelley.
+
+263 277 Wolfe resembled Keats, not only in his early death by
+consumption and the fluent freshness of his poetical style, but in
+beauty of character:--brave, tender, energetic, unselfish, modest. Is
+it fanciful to find some reflex of these qualities in the _Burial_ and
+_Mary_? Out of the abundance of the _heart_ ...
+
+264 278 _correi_: covert on a hillside. _Cumber_: trouble.
+
+265 250 This book has not a few poems of greater power and more
+perfect execution than _Agnes_ and the extract which we have ventured
+to make from the deep-hearted author's _Sad Thoughts_ (No. 224). But
+none are more emphatically marked by the note of exquisiteness.
+
+266 281 st. 3 _inch_: island.
+
+270 283 From _Poetry for Children_ (1809), by Charles and
+Mary Lamb. This tender and original little piece seems clearly to
+reveal the work of that noble-minded and afflicted sister, who was at
+once the happiness, the misery, and the life-long blessing of her
+equally noble-minded brother.
+
+278 289 This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an
+exquisiteness of expression, which place it in the highest rank among
+the many masterpieces of its illustrious Author.
+
+289 300 _interlunar swoon_: interval of the moon's invisibility.
+
+294 304 _Calpe_: Gibraltar. _Lofoden_: the Maelstrom whirlpool off the
+N.W. coast of Norway.
+
+295 305 This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by Hamilton
+on the subject better treated in 163 and 164.
+
+307 315 _Arcturi_: seemingly used for _northern stars_. _And wild
+roses, &c._ Our language has perhaps no line modulated with more
+subtle sweetness.
+
+308 316 Coleridge describes this poem as the fragment of a
+dream-vision,--perhaps, an opium-dream?--which composed itself in his
+mind when fallen asleep after reading a few lines about 'the Khan
+Kubla' in Purchas' _Pilgrimage_.
+
+312 318 _Ceres' daughter_: Proserpine. _God of Torment_: Pluto.
+
+320 321 The leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's
+landscape in Italy appears to be--On the voyage of life are many
+moments of pleasure, given by the sight of Nature, who has power to
+heal even the worldliness and the uncharity of man.
+
+321 -- l. 23 Amphitrite was daughter to Ocean.
+
+325 322 l. 21 _Maenad_: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on Dionysos in the
+Greek mythology. May we not call this the most vivid, sustained, and
+impassioned amongst all Shelley's magical personifications of Nature?
+
+326 -- l. 5 Plants under water sympathize with the seasons of the
+land, and hence with the winds which affect them.
+
+327 323 Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's
+brother John. This poem may be profitably compared with Shelley's
+following it. Each is the most complete expression of the innermost
+spirit of his art given by these great Poets:--of that Idea which, as
+in the case of the true Painter, (to quote the words of Reynolds,)
+'subsists only in the mind: The sight never beheld it, nor has the
+hand expressed it: it is an idea residing in the breast of the artist,
+which he is always labouring to impart, and which he dies at last
+without imparting.'
+
+328 -- _the Kind_: the human race.
+
+331 327 _the Royal Saint_: Henry VI.
+
+331 328 st. 4 _this_ folk: _its_ has been here plausibly but, perhaps,
+unnecessarily, conjectured.--Every one knows the general story of the
+Italian Renaissance, of the Revival of Letters.--From Petrarch's day
+to our own, that ancient world has renewed its youth: Poets and
+artists, students and thinkers, have yielded themselves wholly to its
+fascination, and deeply penetrated its spirit. Yet perhaps no one more
+truly has vivified, whilst idealizing, the picture of Greek country
+life in the fancied Golden Age, than Keats in these lovely (if
+somewhat unequally executed) stanzas:--his quick imagination, by a
+kind of 'natural magic,' more than supplying the scholarship which his
+youth had no opportunity of gaining.
+
+105 134 These stanzas are by Richard Verstegan (--c. 1635), a poet and
+antiquarian, published in his rare Odes (1601), under the title _Our
+Blessed Ladies Lullaby_, and reprinted by Mr. Orby Shipley in his
+beautiful _Carmina Mariana_ (1893). The four stanzas here given form
+the opening of a hymn of twenty-four.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX OF WRITERS
+
+WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH
+
+
+ALEXANDER, William (1580-1640)           29
+
+BARBAULD, Anna Laetitia (1743-1825)     207
+BARNEFIELD, Richard (16th Century)       45
+BEAUMONT, Francis (1586-1616)            90
+BLAKE, William (1757-1827)              174, 180, 181, 208
+BURNS, Robert (1759-1796)               161, 168, 176, 184, 188, 189, 190,
+                                        191, 193, 196, 197
+BYRON, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824)   212, 214, 216, 234, 246,
+                                        253, 266, 275
+
+CAMPBELL, Thomas (1777-1844)            225, 231, 241, 250, 251, 259, 295,
+                                        304, 310, 314, 332
+CAMPION, Thomas (c. 1567-1620)           25, 26, 50, 52, 55, 59, 76, 79,
+                                        101, 143
+CAREW, Thomas (1589-1639)               112
+CAREY, Henry (---- -1743)               167
+CIBBER, Colley (1671-1757)              155
+COLERIDGE, Hartley (1796-1849)          218
+COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834)    211, 316, 329
+COLLINS, John (18th Century)            206
+COLLINS, William (1720-1756)            153, 160, 178, 186
+COWLEY, Abraham (1618-1667)             130, 137
+COWPER, William (1731-1800)             165, 170, 183, 200, 202, 203, 204,
+                                        205
+CRASHAW, Richard (1615?-1652)           103
+CUNNINGHAM, Allan (1784-1842)           249
+
+DANIEL, Samuel (1562-1619)               46
+DEKKER, Thomas (---- -1638?)             75
+DEVEREUX, Robert (1567-1601)             83
+DONNE, John (1573-1631)                  12
+DRAYTON, Michael (1563-1631)             49
+DRUMMOND, William (1585-1649)             4, 61, 63, 77, 80, 81, 84
+DRYDEN, John (1631-1700)                 86, 151
+
+ELLIOTT, Jane (18th Century)            162
+
+FLETCHER, John (1576-1625)              132
+
+GAY, John (1685-1732)                   166
+GOLDSMITH, Oliver (1728-1774)           175
+GRAHAM, Robert (1735-1797)              169
+GRAY, Thomas (1716-1771)                152, 156, 159, 177, 182, 187, 199,
+                                        201
+GREENE, Robert (1561?-1592)              60
+
+HABINGTON, William (1605-1645)          148
+HERBERT, George (1593-1632)              97
+HERRICK, Robert (1591-1674?)            108, 113, 118, 119, 120, 124, 139,
+                                        140
+HEYWOOD, Thomas (---- -1649?)            73
+HOOD, Thomas (1798-1845)                268, 274, 279
+
+JONSON, Ben (1574-1637)                  96, 102, 116
+
+KEATS, John (1795-1821)                 209, 210, 235, 237, 242, 243,
+                                        272, 290, 292, 303, 318, 328, 333
+
+LAMB, Charles (1775-1835)               264, 276, 282
+LAMB, Mary (1764-1847)                  283
+LINDSAY, Anne (1750-1825)               192
+LODGE, Thomas (1556-1625)                19, 71
+LOGAN, John (1748-1788)                 163
+LOVELACE, Richard (1618-1658)           109, 127, 128
+LYLYE, John (1554-1600)                  72
+LYTE, Henry Francis (1793-1847)         224, 280
+
+MARLOWE, Christopher (1562-1593)          7
+MARVELL, Andrew (1620-1678)              88, 105, 141, 142, 146
+MICKLE, William Julius (1734-1788)      194
+MILTON, John (1608-1674)                 85, 87, 89, 93, 94, 99, 100, 111,
+                                        144, 145, 147
+MOORE, Thomas (1780-1852)               229, 245, 261, 265, 269
+
+NAIRN, Carolina (1766-1845)             198
+NASH, Thomas (1567-1601?)                 1
+NORRIS, John (1657-1711)                149
+
+PHILIPS, Ambrose (1671-1749)            157
+POPE, Alexander (1688-1744)             154
+PRIOR, Matthew (1662-1721)              173
+
+QUARLES, Francis (1592-1644)            123
+
+ROGERS, Samuel (1762-1855)              171, 185
+
+SCOTT, Walter (1771-1832)               213, 227, 230, 236, 238, 240, 248,
+                                        273, 278, 281, 285, 311
+SEDLEY, Charles (1639-1701)             106, 126
+SHAKESPEARE, William (1564-1616)          2, 3, 5, 6, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15,
+                                         16, 17, 18, 23, 24, 27, 31, 35,
+                                         37, 38, 39, 41, 42, 43, 48, 51,
+                                         56, 62, 64, 65, 67, 68, 69, 78, 82
+SHELLEY, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)       215, 219, 228, 232, 239, 247, 270,
+                                        287, 293, 300, 307, 308, 312, 315,
+                                        321, 322, 324, 334, 335, 339
+SHIRLEY, James (1596-1666)               91, 92
+SIDNEY, Philip (1554-1586)               13, 32, 40, 47, 58
+SMART, Christopher (1722-1770)          179
+SOUTHEY, Robert (1774-1843)             260, 271
+SPENSER, Edmund (1553-1598-9)            74
+SUCKLING, John (1608-9-1641)            129
+SYLVESTER, Joshua (1563-1618)            34
+
+THOMSON, James (1700-1748)              158, 172
+
+VAUGHAN, Henry (1621-1695)               98, 138, 150
+
+WALLER, Edmund (1605-1687)              115, 122
+WEBSTER, John (---- -1638?)              66
+WILMOT, John (1647-1680)                107
+WITHER, George (1588-1667)              131
+WOLFE, Charles (1791-1823)              262, 277
+WORDSWORTH, William (1770-1850)         217, 220, 221, 222, 223, 226, 233,
+                                        244, 252, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258,
+                                        263, 267, 284, 286, 288, 289, 291,
+                                        294, 296, 297, 298, 299, 301, 302,
+                                        305, 306, 309, 313, 317, 319, 320,
+                                        323, 325, 326, 327, 330, 331, 336,
+                                        337, 338
+WOTTON, Henry (1568-1639)                95, 110
+WYAT, Thomas (1503-1542)                 28, 44
+
+ANONYMOUS,                                8, 20, 21, 22, 30, 33, 36, 53,
+                                         54, 57, 70, 104, 114, 117, 121,
+                                        125, 133, 135, 136, 164, 195
+
+134 is by Richard Verstegan (-c. 1635).
+
+
+
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES
+
+PAGE
+
+A Chieftain to the Highlands bound                          211
+A child's a plaything for an hour                           270
+A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by                     305
+A slumber did my spirit seal                                210
+A sweet disorder in the dress                                95
+A weary lot is thine, fair maid                             225
+A wet sheet and a flowing sea                               235
+Absence, hear thou this protestation                          8
+Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit                             86
+Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh                            217
+All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd                       149
+All thoughts, all passions, all delights                    199
+And are ye sure the news is true                            181
+And is this--Yarrow?--This the Stream                       297
+And thou art dead, as young and fair                        231
+And wilt thou leave me thus                                  26
+Ariel to Miranda:--Take                                     288
+Art thou pale for weariness                                 305
+Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers                 50
+As it fell upon a day                                        27
+As I was walking all alane                                  107
+As slow our ship her foamy track                            251
+At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears         288
+At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly     230
+Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones          64
+Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake                                  157
+Awake, awake, my Lyre                                       101
+
+Bards of Passion and of Mirth                               197
+Beauty sat bathing by a spring                               13
+Behold her, single in the field                             287
+Being your slave, what should I do but tend                   9
+Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed                   277
+Best and brightest, come away                               299
+Bid me to live, and I will live                              97
+Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy               125
+Blow, blow, thou winter wind                                 34
+Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art             228
+
+Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren                    41
+Calm was the day, and through the trembling air              45
+Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms                       75
+Care-charmer Sleep, son of the Sable Night                   28
+Come away, come away, Death                                  38
+Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me                    51
+Come little babe, come silly soul                            35
+Come live with me and be my Love                              5
+Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace              24
+Come unto these yellow sands                                  2
+Crabbed Age and Youth                                         6
+Cupid and my Campaspe play'd                                 44
+Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench                 80
+
+Daughter of Jove, relentless power                          188
+Daughter to that good Earl, once President                   89
+Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord                   283
+Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move              54
+Down in yon garden sweet and gay                            147
+Drink to me only with thine eyes                             92
+Duncan Gray cam here to woo                                 180
+
+Earl March look'd on his dying child                        228
+Earth has not anything to show more fair                    281
+E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks                    96
+Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind                        240
+Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky                       273
+Ever let the Fancy roam                                     310
+
+Fain would I change that note                                 6
+Fair Daffodils, we weep to see                              111
+Fair pledges of a fruitful tree                             110
+Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing                25
+Fear no more the heat o' the sun                             40
+Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new         22
+Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow                          30
+For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove                          155
+Forget not yet the tried intent                              18
+Four Seasons fill the measure of the year                   339
+From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony                          63
+From Stirling Castle we had seen                            295
+Full fathom five thy father lies                             40
+
+Gather ye rose-buds while ye may                             87
+Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even                            218
+Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn                  93
+Go fetch to me a pint o' wine                               152
+Go, lovely Rose                                              91
+
+Hail thou most sacred venerable thing                       128
+Hail to thee, blithe Spirit                                 274
+Happy the man, whose wish and care                          136
+Happy those early days, when I                               78
+Happy were he could finish forth his fate                    55
+He that loves a rosy cheek                                   90
+He is gone on the mountain                                  264
+Hence, all you vain delights                                103
+Hence, loathed Melancholy                                   116
+Hence, vain deluding Joys                                   120
+He sang of God, the mighty source                           164
+High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be                     9
+How happy is he born and taught                              76
+How like a winter hath my absence been                       10
+How sleep the brave who sink to rest                        144
+How sweet the answer Echo makes                             217
+How vainly men themselves amaze                             113
+
+I am monarch of all I survey                                190
+I arise from dreams of Thee                                 205
+I cannot change, as others do                                87
+I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way                     307
+I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden                            208
+I have had playmates, I have had companions                 250
+I have no name                                              165
+I heard a thousand blended notes                            312
+I meet thy pensive, moonlight face                          211
+I met a traveller from an antique land                      282
+I remember, I remember                                      254
+I saw Eternity the other night                              129
+I saw her in childhood                                      265
+I saw my lady weep                                           19
+I saw where in the shroud did lurk                          268
+I travell'd among unknown men                               208
+I wander'd lonely as a cloud                                291
+I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile                  327
+I wish I were where Helen lies                              106
+If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song                     170
+If doughty deeds my lady please                             153
+If I had thought thou couldst have died                     263
+If Thou survive my well-contented day                        41
+If to be absent were to be                                  100
+I'm wearing awa', Jean                                      184
+In a drear-nighted December                                 222
+In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining          195
+In the sweet shire of Cardigan                              248
+In this still place, remote from men                        329
+In Xanadu did Kubla Khan                                    308
+It is a beauteous evening, calm and free                    303
+It is not growing like a tree                                77
+It was a dismal and a fearful night                         108
+It was a lover and his lass                                   8
+It was a summer evening                                     244
+I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking                  145
+
+Jack and Joan, they think no ill                            115
+John Anderson my jo, John                                   185
+
+Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting                      43
+Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son                    79
+Let me not to the marriage of true minds                     20
+Life! I know not what thou art                              196
+Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore             25
+Like to the clear in highest sphere                          12
+Love in my bosom, like a bee                                 43
+Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise                        90
+Love not me for comely grace                                 98
+Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours                            166
+
+Many a green isle needs must be                             320
+Mary! I want a lyre with other strings                      191
+Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour                242
+Mine be a cot beside the hill                               169
+Mortality, behold and fear                                   73
+Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes                       309
+Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold                 199
+Music, when soft voices die                                 346
+My days among the Dead are past                             257
+My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains                 279
+My heart leaps up when I behold                             341
+My Love in her attire doth shew her wit                      96
+My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow                39
+My thoughts hold mortal strife                               38
+My true-love hath my heart, and I have his                   20
+
+Never love unless you can                                    16
+Never seek to tell thy love                                 156
+No longer mourn for me when I am dead                        42
+Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note                    247
+Not, Celia, that I juster am                                 98
+Now the golden Morn aloft                                   133
+Now the last day of many days                               301
+
+O blithe new-comer! I have heard                            278
+O Brignall banks are wild and fair                          203
+O Friend! I know not which way I must look                  242
+O happy shades! to me unblest                               188
+O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm                 18
+O leave this barren spot to me                              283
+O listen, listen, ladies gay                                266
+O lovers' eyes are sharp to see                             227
+O Mary, at thy window be                                    175
+O me! what eyes hath love put in my head                     31
+O Mistress mine, where are you roaming                       22
+O my Luve's like a red, red rose                            177
+O never say that I was false of heart                        11
+O saw ye bonnie Lesley                                      176
+O say what is that thing call'd Light                       136
+O talk not to me of a name great in story                   202
+O Thou, by Nature taught                                    134
+O waly waly up the bank                                     104
+O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms                         224
+O wild West Wind, thou breath Of Autumn's being             325
+O World! O Life! O Time                                     340
+Obscurest night involved the sky                            193
+Of all the girls that are so smart                          151
+Of a' the airts the wind can blaw                           183
+Of Nelson and the North                                     237
+Of Neptune's empire let us sing                              80
+Of this fair volume which we World do name                   53
+Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray                                213
+Oft in the stilly night                                     255
+Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom                          262
+On a day, alack the day                                      17
+On a Poet's lips I slept                                    329
+Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee                  241
+One more Unfortunate                                        259
+One word is too often profaned                              233
+On Linden, when the sun was low                             243
+Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd      306
+Over the mountains      84
+
+Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day                          45
+Phoebus, arise                                                2
+Pibroch of Donuil Dhu                                       233
+Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth                     52
+Proud Maisie is in the wood                                 258
+
+Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair                          81
+
+Rough Wind, that moanest loud                               339
+Ruin seize thee, ruthless King                              140
+
+Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness                      293
+See with what simplicity                                     85
+Shall I compare thee to a summer's day                       15
+Shall I, wasting in despair                                 102
+She dwelt among the untrodden ways                          208
+She is not fair to outward view                             207
+She walks in beauty, like the night                         206
+She was a Phantom of delight                                206
+Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea          4
+Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part             30
+Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me                   31
+Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile                        154
+Sleep, sleep, beauty bright                                 165
+Souls of Poets dead and gone                                257
+Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king         1
+Star that bringest home the bee                             304
+Stern Daughter of the Voice of God                          239
+Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind                     230
+Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes                        90
+Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower                          285
+Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory              14
+Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade               154
+Swiftly walk over the western wave                          219
+
+Take, O take those lips away                                 29
+Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense                   331
+Tell me not, Sweet, I an unkind                              88
+Tell me where is Fancy bred                                  42
+That time of year thou may'st in me behold                   23
+That which her slender waist confined                        96
+The curfew tolls the knell of parting day                   172
+The forward youth that would appear                          65
+The fountains mingle with the river                         216
+The glories of our blood and state                           74
+The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King                55
+The lovely lass o' Inverness                                144
+The man of life upright                                      52
+The merchant, to secure his treasure                        155
+The more we live, more brief appear                         338
+The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth                   28
+The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade               167
+There be none of Beauty's daughters                         204
+There is a flower, the lesser Celandine                     253
+There is a garden in her face                                92
+There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 252
+There's not a nook within this solemn Pass                  340
+There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream             341
+The sea hath many thousand sands                             33
+The sun is warm, the sky is clear                           256
+The sun upon the lake is low                                304
+The twentieth year is well-nigh past                        192
+The world is too much with us; late and soon                330
+They are all gone into the world of light                   109
+They that have power to hurt, and will do none               26
+This is the month, and this the happy morn                   56
+This Life, which seems so fair                               51
+Though others may her brow adore                             21
+Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white                 34
+Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness                    331
+Three years she grew in sun and shower                      209
+Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream                         146
+Timely blossom, Infant fair                                 138
+Tired with all these, for restful death I cry                54
+Toll for the Brave                                          148
+To me, fair Friend, you never can be old                     11
+To one who has been long in city pent                       282
+Turn back, you wanton flyer                                  16
+'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won                     129
+'Twas on a lofty vase's side                                137
+Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea                     241
+
+Under the greenwood tree                                      7
+Upon my lap my sovereign sits                               105
+
+Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying                      333
+Victorious men of earth, no more                             74
+
+Waken, lords and ladies gay                                 272
+Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie                    168
+Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee                      37
+Weep you no more, sad fountains                              14
+Were I as base as is the lowly plain                         21
+We talk'd with open heart, and tongue                       336
+We walk'd along, while bright and red                       334
+We watch'd her breathing thro' the night                    265
+Whenas in silks my Julia goes                                95
+When Britain first at Heaven's command                      139
+When first the fiery-mantled Sun                            294
+When God at first made Man                                   78
+When he who adores thee has left but the name               246
+When icicles hang by the wall                                23
+When I consider how my light is spent                        76
+When I have borne in memory what has tamed                  243
+When I have fears that I may cease to be                    229
+When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced                  4
+When I survey the bright                                    126
+When I think on the happy days                              182
+When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes                 10
+When in the chronicle of wasted time                         15
+When lovely woman stoops to folly                           156
+When Love with unconfined wings                              99
+When maidens such as Hester die                             262
+When Music, heavenly maid, was young                        161
+When Ruth was left half desolate                            313
+When the lamp is shatter'd                                  226
+When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame        178
+When thou must home to shades of underground                 37
+When to the sessions of sweet silent thought                 24
+When we two parted                                          221
+Where art thou, my beloved Son                              270
+Where shall the lover rest                                  222
+Where the bee sucks, there suck I                             2
+Where the remote Bermudas ride                              124
+Whether on Ida's shady brow                                 197
+While that the sun with his beams hot                        32
+Whoe'er she be                                               82
+Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant                    220
+Why so pale and wan, fond lover                             100
+Why weep ye by the tide, ladie                              215
+With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies          36
+With little here to do or see                               291
+With sweetest milk and sugar first                          112
+
+Ye banks and braes and streams around                       177
+Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon                           157
+Ye distant spires, ye antique towers                        185
+Ye Mariners of England                                      235
+Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye                    284
+Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more                   68
+You meaner beauties of the night                             88
+
+
+RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
+
+LONDON AND BUNGAY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
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+THE GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.
+
+     Uniformly printed, with Vignette Titles by Sir J. E.
+     MILLAIS, Sir NOEL PATON, T. WOOLNER, W. HOLMAN HUNT, ARTHUR
+     HUGHES, &c., engraved on Steel. In uniform binding. Pott
+     8vo, 2s. 6d. net each.
+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL
+
+Poems in the English Language. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by
+Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE. The First and Second Series, separately, or 2
+Vols. in box, 5s. net.
+
+
+POET'S WALK. An Introduction to English Poetry, chosen and arranged by
+MOWBRAY MORRIS. New and Revised Edition.
+
+LYRIC LOVE: An Anthology. Edited by WILLIAM WATSON.
+
+THE CHILDREN'S GARLAND FROM THE BEST POETS. Selected by COVENTRY
+PATMORE.
+
+CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF LYRICAL POETRY. Arranged by F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+THE FAIRY BOOK. The Best Popular Fairy Stories. Selected by Mrs.
+CRAIK.
+
+THE JEST BOOK. The Choicest Anecdotes and Sayings. Arranged by MARK
+LEMON.
+
+A BOOK OF GOLDEN THOUGHTS. By HENRY ATTWELL.
+
+THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY FOR THE YOUNG. Selected by C. F. ALEXANDER.
+
+GOLDEN TREASURY PSALTER. The Student's Edition. Being an Edition with
+briefer Notes of "The Psalms Chronologically arranged by Four
+Friends."
+
+THE BOOK OF PRAISE. From the best English Hymn Writers. Selected by
+ROUNDELL, EARL OF SELBORNE.
+
+THEOLOGIA GERMANICA. Translated by S. WINKWORTH. Preface by C.
+KINGSLEY.
+
+THE BALLAD BOOK. A Selection of the Choicest British Ballads. Edited
+by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
+
+THE SONG BOOK. Words and Tunes selected and arranged by JOHN HULLAH.
+
+LA LYRE FRANCAISE. Selected and arranged with Notes by G. MASSON.
+
+BALLADEN UND ROMANZEN. Being a Selection of the Best German Ballads
+and Romances. Edited with Introduction and Notes by Dr. BUCHHEIM.
+
+DEUTSCHE LYRIK. The Golden Treasury of the best German Lyrical Poems.
+Selected by Dr. BUCHHEIM.
+
+HEINRICH HEINE'S LIEDER UND GEDICHTE. Selected and arranged, with
+Notes and a Literary Introduction, by C. A. BUCHHEIM, Ph.D. With
+Portrait.
+
+THE ESSAYS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. Edited by J. R. GREEN.
+
+SELECTED POEMS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+BACON'S ESSAYS, AND COLOURS OF GOOD AND EVIL. With Notes and
+Glossarial Index by W. ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.
+
+SIR THOMAS BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI; LETTER TO A Friend, &c., and
+Christian Morals. Edited by W. A. GREENHILL, M.D.
+
+HYDRIOTAPHIA, AND THE GARDEN OF CYRUS. Edited by W. A. GREENHILL, M.D.
+
+THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT which is to come. By
+JOHN BUNYAN.
+
+POETRY OF BYRON. Chosen and arranged by MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+SELECTED POEMS OF A. H. CLOUGH.
+
+TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS. By AN OLD BOY.
+
+LETTERS OF WILLIAM COWPER. Edited, with Introduction, by Rev. W.
+BENHAM.
+
+SELECTIONS FROM COWPER'S POEMS. With an Introduction by Mrs. OLIPHANT.
+
+THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. Edited by J. W. CLARK, M.A.
+
+BALTHASAR GRACIAN. Art of Worldly Wisdom. Translated by J. JACOBS.
+
+CHRYSOMELA. A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick. By
+Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS. Edited by Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+KEBLE. The Christian Year. Edited by C. M. YONGE.
+
+LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. Edited by Rev. ALFRED AINGER, M.A.
+
+SELECTIONS FROM WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Edited by SIDNEY COLVIN.
+
+THE SPEECHES AND TABLE TALK OF THE PROPHET MOHAMMAD. Translated by
+STANLEY LANE-POOLE.
+
+THE CAVALIER AND HIS LADY. Selections from the Works of the first Duke
+and Duchess of Newcastle. With an Introductory Essay by EDWARD
+JENKINS.
+
+RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. The Astronomer-Poet of Persia. Rendered into
+English Verse.
+
+MISCELLANIES (including Euphranor, Polonius, etc.). By EDWARD
+FITZGERALD.
+
+TWO ESSAYS ON OLD AGE AND FRIENDSHIP. Translated from the Latin of
+Cicero, with Introduction, by E. S. SHUCKBURGH.
+
+MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS TO HIMSELF. An English Version of the Works
+of Marcus Aurelius. By Rev. Dr. G. H. RENDALL.
+
+THE HOUSE OF ATREUS: being the Agamemnon, Libation-Bearers, and Furies
+of AEschylus. Translated into English verse by E. D. A. MORSHEAD, M.A.
+
+THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. Translated by J. LL. DAVIES, M.A., and D. J.
+VAUGHAN.
+
+THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. Being the Euthyphron, Apology, Crito,
+and Phaedo of Plato. Translated by F. J. CHURCH.
+
+PHAEDRUS, LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS OF PLATO. A New Translation by J.
+WRIGHT.
+
+SHAKESPEARE'S SONGS AND SONNETS. Edited with Notes, by F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+POEMS OF SHELLEY. Edited by S. A. BROOKE.
+
+SOUTHEY. POEMS. Chosen and arranged by E. DOWDEN.
+
+LYRICAL POEMS. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. Selected and Annotated by $1
+
+IN MEMORIAM. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
+
+THE PRINCESS. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
+
+THEOCRITUS, BION, AND MOSCHUS. Rendered into English Prose by ANDREW
+LANG.
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+POEMS, RELIGIOUS AND DEVOTIONAL. By J. G. WHITTIER.
+
+POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. Edited by MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS OF ALL TIMES AND ALL COUNTRIES. By C. M. YONGE.
+
+A BOOK OF WORTHIES. By C. M. YONGE.
+
+THE STORY OF THE CHRISTIANS AND MOORS IN SPAIN. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.
+
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+MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED, LONDON.
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+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
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