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diff --git a/32373-0.txt b/32373-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..641e33a --- /dev/null +++ b/32373-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17630 @@ +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. 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