diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:33:37 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:33:37 -0700 |
| commit | 547ee4a17cfe8cfeb7d5792a58f9764fa96ed4be (patch) | |
| tree | 5547dfad98eb3a966b22d2e6e0a8fa44a3202ec1 | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 9669-8.txt | 13392 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 9669-8.zip | bin | 0 -> 218123 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 9669.txt | 13392 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 9669.zip | bin | 0 -> 218051 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/7lbp310.txt | 13359 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/7lbp310.zip | bin | 0 -> 220443 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8lbp310.txt | 13359 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8lbp310.zip | bin | 0 -> 220509 bytes |
11 files changed, 53518 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9669-8.txt b/9669-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd157fe --- /dev/null +++ b/9669-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13392 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known +British Poets, Vol. 3, by George Gilfillan + +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: Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 3 + +Author: George Gilfillan + +Posting Date: November 25, 2011 [EBook #9669] +Release Date: January, 2006 +First Posted: October 14, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + + +SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. + +With an Introductory Essay, + +By + +THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN. + +IN THREE VOLS. + +VOL. III. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +THIRD PERIOD--FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER. + + +SIR CHARLES SEDLEY + To a very young Lady + Song + +JOHN POMFRET + The Choice + +THE EARL OF DORSET + Song + +JOHN PHILIPS + The Splendid Shilling + +WALSH, GOULD, &c. + +SIR SAMUEL GARTH + The Dispensary + +SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE + Creation + +ELIJAH FENTON + An Ode to the Right Hon. John Lord Gower + +ROBERT CRAWFORD + The Bush aboon Traquair + +THOMAS TICKELL + To the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr Addison + +JAMES HAMMOND + Elegy XIII + +SEWELL, VANBRUGH, &c. + +RICHARD SAVAGE + The Bastard + +THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER + An American Love Ode + +JONATHAN SWIFT + Baucis and Philemon + On Poetry + On the Death of Dr Swift + A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the Legion-Club,1736 + +ISAAC WATTS + Few Happy Matches + The Sluggard + The Rose + A Cradle Hymn + Breathing toward the Heavenly Country + To the Rev. Mr John Howe + +AMBROSE PHILIPS + A Fragment of Sappho + +WILLIAM HAMILTON + The Braes of Yarrow + +ALLAN RAMSAY + Lochaber no more + Tho Last Time I came o'er the Moor + From 'The Gentle Shepherd'--Act I., Scene II. + +DODSLEY, BROWN, &c + +ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE + Imitation of Thomson + Imitation of Pope + Imitation of Swift + +WILLIAM OLDYS + Song, occasioned by a Fly drinking out of a Cup of Ale + +ROBERT LLOYD + The Miseries of a Poet's Life + +HENRY CAREY + Sally in our Alley + +DAVID MALLETT + William and Margaret + The Birks of Invermay + +JAMES MERRICK + The Chameleon + +DR JAMES GRAINGER + Ode to Solitude + +MICHAEL BRUCE + To the Cuckoo + Elegy, written in Spring + +CHRISTOPHER SMART + Song to David + +THOMAS CHATTERTON + Bristowe Tragedy + Minstrel's Song + The Story of William Canynge + Kenrick + February, an Elegy + +LORD LYTTELTON + From the 'Monody' + +JOHN CUNNINGHAM + May-eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen + +ROBERT FERGUSSON + The Farmer's Ingle + +DR WALTER HARTE + +EDWARD LOVIBOND + The Tears of Old May-Day + +FRANCIS FAWKES + The Brown Jug + +JOHN LANGHORNE + From 'The Country Justice' + Gipsies + A Case where Mercy should have mitigated Justice + +SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE + The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse + +JOHN SCOTT + Ode on hearing the Drum + The Tempestuous Evening + +ALEXANDER ROSS + Woo'd, and Married, and a' + The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow + +RICHARD GLOVER + From 'Leonidas,' Book XII + Admiral Hosier's Ghost + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + Variety + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE + Cumnor Hall + The Mariner's Wife + +LORD NUGENT + Ode to Mankind + +JOHN LOGAN + The Lovers + Written in a Visit to the Country in Autumn + Complaint of Nature + +THOMAS BLACKLOCK + The Author's Picture + Ode to Aurora, on Melissa's Birthday + +MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN + The Flowers of the Forest + The Same + +SIR WILLIAM JONES + A Persian Song of Hafiz + +SAMUEL BISHOP + To Mrs Bishop + To the Same + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE + The Nabob + What Ails this Heart o' mine? + +JAMES MACPHERSON + Ossian's Address to the Sun + Desolation of Balclutha + Fingal and the Spirit of Loda + Address to the Moon + Fingal's Spirit-home + The Cave + +WILLIAM MASON + Epitaph on Mrs Mason + An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers + +JOHN LOWE + Mary's Dream + +JOSEPH WARTON + Ode to Fancy + +MISCELLANEOUS + Song + Verses, copied from the Window of an obscure Lodging-house, in the + neighbourhood of London + The Old Bachelor + Careless Content + A Pastoral + Ode to a Tobacco-pipe + Away! let nought to Love displeasing + Richard Bentley's sole Poetical Composition + Lines addressed to Pope + +INDEX + + + + +SPECIMENS, WITH MEMOIRS, OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. + + * * * * * + +THIRD PERIOD. + +FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER. + + * * * * * + + + +SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. + + +Sedley was one of those characters who exert a personal fascination over +their own age without leaving any works behind them to perpetuate the +charm to posterity. He was the son of Sir John Sedley of Aylesford, in +Kent, and was born in 1639. When the Restoration took place he repaired +to London, and plunged into all the licence of the time, shedding, +however, over the putrid pool the sheen of his wit, manners, and genius. +Charles was so delighted with him, that he is said to have asked him +whether he had not obtained a patent from Nature to be Apollo's viceroy. +He cracked jests, issued lampoons, wrote poems and plays, and, despite +some great blunders, was universally admired and loved. When his comedy +of 'Bellamira' was acted, the roof fell in, and a few, including the +author, were slightly injured. When a parasite told him that the fire of +the play had blown up the poet, house and all, Sedley replied, 'No; the +play was so heavy that it broke down the house, and buried the poet in +his own rubbish.' Latterly he sobered down, entered parliament, attended +closely to public business, and became a determined opponent of the +arbitrary measures of James II. To this he was stimulated by a personal +reason. James had seduced Sedley's daughter, and made her Countess of +Dorchester. 'For making my daughter a countess,' the father said, 'I +have helped to make his daughter' (Mary, Princess of Orange,) 'a queen.' +Sedley, thus talking, acting, and writing, lived on till he was sixty- +two years of age. He died in 1701. + +He has left nothing that the world can cherish, except such light and +graceful songs, sparkling rather with point than with poetry, as we +quote below. + + +TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. + +1 Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit + As unconcerned, as when + Your infant beauty could beget + No pleasure, nor no pain. + +2 When I the dawn used to admire, + And praised the coming day; + I little thought the growing fire + Must take my rest away. + +3 Your charms in harmless childhood lay, + Like metals in the mine, + Age from no face took more away, + Than youth concealed in thine. + +4 But as your charms insensibly + To their perfection pressed, + Fond Love as unperceived did fly, + And in my bosom rest. + +5 My passion with your beauty grew, + And Cupid at my heart, + Still as his mother favoured you, + Threw a new flaming dart. + +6 Each gloried in their wanton part, + To make a lover, he + Employed the utmost of his art, + To make a Beauty, she. + +7 Though now I slowly bend to love, + Uncertain of my fate, + If your fair self my chains approve, + I shall my freedom hate. + +8 Lovers, like dying men, may well + At first disordered be, + Since none alive can truly tell + What fortune they must see. + + +SONG. + +1 Love still has something of the sea, + From whence his mother rose; + No time his slaves from doubt can free, + Nor give their thoughts repose. + +2 They are becalmed in clearest days, + And in rough weather tossed; + They wither under cold delays, + Or are in tempests lost. + +3 One while they seem to touch the port, + Then straight into the main + Some angry wind, in cruel sport, + The vessel drives again. + +4 At first Disdain and Pride they fear, + Which if they chance to 'scape, + Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, + In a more cruel shape. + +5 By such degrees to joy they come, + And are so long withstood; + So slowly they receive the sum, + It hardly does them good. + +6 'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; + And to defer a joy, + Believe me, gentle Celemene, + Offends the winged boy. + +7 An hundred thousand oaths your fears, + Perhaps, would not remove; + And if I gazed a thousand years, + I could not deeper love. + + + + +JOHN POMFRET, + + +The author of the once popular 'Choice,' was born in 1667. He was the +son of the rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire, and, after attending +Queen's College, Cambridge, himself entered the Church. He became +minister of Malden, which is also situated in Bedfordshire, and there he +wrote and, in 1699, published a volume of poems, including some Pindaric +essays, in the style of Cowley and 'The Choice.' He might have risen +higher in his profession, but Dr Compton, Bishop of London, was +prejudiced against him on account of the following lines in the +'Choice:'-- + + 'And as I near approached the verge of life, + Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) + Should take upon him all my worldly care, + Whilst I did for a better state prepare.' + +The words in the second line, coupled with a glowing description, in a +previous part of the poem, of his ideal of an 'obliging modest fair' +one, near whom he wished to live, led to the suspicion that he preferred +a mistress to a wife. In vain did he plead that he was actually a +married man. His suit for a better living made no progress, and while +dancing attendance on his patron in London he caught small-pox, and died +in 1703, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. + +His Pindaric odes, &c., are feeble spasms, and need not detain us. His +'Reason' shews considerable capacity and common sense. His 'Choice' +opens up a pleasing vista, down which our quiet ancestors delighted to +look, but by which few now can be attracted. We quote a portion of what +a biographer calls a 'modest' preface, which Pomfret prefixed to his +poems:--'To please every one would be a new thing, and to write so as to +please nobody would be as new; for even Quarles and Withers have their +admirers. It is not the multitude of applauses, but the good sense of +the applauders which establishes a valuable reputation; and if a Rymer +or a Congreve say it is well, he will not be at all solicitous how great +the majority be to the contrary.' How strangely are opinions now +altered! Rymer was some time ago characterised by Macaulay as the worst +critic that ever lived, and Quarles and Withers have now many admirers, +while 'The Choice' and its ill-fated author are nearly forgotten. + + +THE CHOICE. + +If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, +That I might choose my method how to live, +And all those hours propitious fate should lend, +In blissful ease and satisfaction spend, +Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, +Built uniform, not little, nor too great: +Better, if on a rising ground it stood, +On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. +It should within no other things contain, +But what are useful, necessary, plain: +Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, +The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. +A little garden, grateful to the eye; +And a cool rivulet run murmuring by, +On whose delicious banks, a stately row +Of shady limes or sycamores should grow. +At the end of which a silent study placed, +Should be with all the noblest authors graced: +Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines +Immortal wit and solid learning shines; +Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too, +Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew; +He that with judgment reads his charming lines, +In which strong art with stronger nature joins, +Must grant his fancy does the best excel; +His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well; +With all those moderns, men of steady sense, +Esteemed for learning and for eloquence. +In some of these, as fancy should advise, +I'd always take my morning exercise; +For sure no minutes bring us more content, +Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent. +I'd have a clear and competent estate, +That I might live genteelly, but not great; +As much as I could moderately spend, +A little more sometimes t' oblige a friend. +Nor should the sons of poverty repine +Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine; +And all that objects of true pity were, +Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; +For that our Maker has too largely given, +Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven. + + + + +THE EARL OF DORSET. + + +This noble earl was rather a patron of poets than a poet, and possessed +more wit than genius. Charles Sackville was born on the 24th January +1637. He was descended directly from the famous Thomas, Lord Buckhurst. +He was educated under a private tutor, travelled in Italy, and returned +in time to witness the Restoration. In the first parliament thereafter, +he sat for East Grinstead, in Surrey, and might have distinguished +himself, had he not determined, in common with almost all the wits of +the time, to run a preliminary career of dissipation. What a proof of +the licentiousness of these times is to be found in the fact, that young +Lord Buckhurst, Sir Charles Sedley, and Sir Thomas Ogle were fined for +exposing themselves, drunk and naked, in indecent postures on the public +street! In 1665, the erratic energies of Buckhurst found a more +legitimate vent in the Dutch war. He attended the Duke of York in the +great sea-fight of the 3d June, in which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was, +with all his crew, blown up. He is said to have composed the song, +quoted afterwards, 'To all you ladies now at land,' on the evening +before the battle, although Dr Johnson (who observes that seldom any +splendid story is wholly true) maintains that its composition cost him +a whole week, and that he only retouched it on that remarkable evening. +Buckhurst was soon after made a gentleman of the bed-chamber, and +despatched on short embassies to France. In 1674, his uncle, James +Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex, died, and left him his estate, and +the next year the title, too, was conferred on him. In 1677, he became, +by the death of his father, Earl of Dorset, and inherited the family +estate. In 1684, his wife, whose name was Bagot, and by whom he had no +children, died, and he soon after married a daughter of the Earl of +Northampton, who is said to have been celebrated both for understanding +and beauty. Dorset was courted by James, but found it impossible to +coincide with his violent measures, and when the bishops were tried +at Westminster Hall, he, along with some other lords, appeared to +countenance them. He concurred with the Revolution settlement, and, +after William's accession, was created lord chamberlain of the +household, and received the Order of the Garter. His attendance on the +king, however, eventually cost him his life, for having been tossed with +him in an open boat on the coast of Holland for sixteen hours, in very +rough weather, he caught an illness from which he never recovered. On +19th January 1705-6, he died at Bath. + +During his life, Dorset was munificent in his kindness to such men of +genius as Prior and Dryden, who repaid him in the current coin of the +poor Parnassus of their day--gross adulation. He is now remembered +mainly for his spirited war-song, and for such pointed lines in his +satire on Edward Howard, the notorious author of 'British Princes,' as +the following:-- + + 'They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren, + When deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion; + Thy stumbling, foundered jade can trot as high + As any other Pegasus can fly. + So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud + Than all the swift-finned racers of the flood. + As skilful divers to the bottom fall + Sooner than those who cannot swim at all, + So in this way of writing without thinking, + Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking.' + +This last line has not only become proverbial, but forms the distinct +germ of 'The Dunciad.' + + +SONG. + +WRITTEN AT SEA, IN THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, +THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. + +1 To all you ladies now at land, + We men at sea indite; + But first would have you understand + How hard it is to write; + The Muses now, and Neptune too, + We must implore to write to you, + With a fa, la, la, la, la. + +2 For though the Muses should prove kind, + And fill our empty brain; + Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, + To wave the azure main, + Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, + Roll up and down our ships at sea. + With a fa, &c. + +3 Then if we write not by each post, + Think not we are unkind; + Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, + By Dutchmen, or by wind; + Our tears we'll send a speedier way, + The tide shall bring them twice a-day. + With a fa, &c. + +4 The king, with wonder and surprise, + Will swear the seas grow bold; + Because the tides will higher rise + Than e'er they used of old: + But let him know, it is our tears + Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. + With a fa, &c. + +5 Should foggy Opdam chance to know + Our sad and dismal story, + The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, + And quit their fort at Goree: + For what resistance can they find + From men who've left their hearts behind? + With a fa, &c. + +6 Let wind and weather do its worst, + Be you to us but kind; + Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, + No sorrow we shall find: + 'Tis then no matter how things go, + Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. + With a fa, &c. + +7 To pass our tedious hours away, + We throw a merry main; + Or else at serious ombre play: + But why should we in vain + Each other's ruin thus pursue? + We were undone when we left you. + With a fa, &c. + +8 But now our fears tempestuous grow, + And cast our hopes away; + Whilst you, regardless of our woe, + Sit careless at a play: + Perhaps, permit some happier man + To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. + With a fa, &c. + +9 When any mournful tune you hear, + That dies in every note, + As if it sighed with each man's care, + For being so remote, + Think how often love we've made + To you, when all those tunes were played. + With a fa, &c. + +10 In justice you can not refuse + To think of our distress, + When we for hopes of honour lose + Our certain happiness; + All those designs are but to prove + Ourselves more worthy of your love. + With a fa, &c. + +11 And now we've told you all our loves, + And likewise all our fears, + In hopes this declaration moves + Some pity from your tears; + Let's hear of no inconstancy, + We have too much of that at sea. + With a fa, la, la, la, la. + + + + +JOHN PHILIPS. + + +Bampton in Oxfordshire was the birthplace of this poet. He was born +on the 30th of December 1676. His father, Dr Stephen Philips, was +archdeacon of Salop, as well as minister of Bampton. John, after some +preliminary training at home, was sent to Winchester, where he +distinguished himself by diligence and good-nature, and enjoyed two +great luxuries,--the reading of Milton, and the having his head combed +by some one while he sat still and in rapture for hours together. This +pleasure he shared with Vossius, and with humbler persons of our +acquaintance; the combing of whose hair, they tell us, + + 'Dissolves them into ecstasies, + And brings all heaven before their eyes.' + +In 1694, he entered Christ Church, Cambridge. His intention was to +prosecute the study of medicine, and he took great delight in the +cognate pursuits of natural history and botany. His chief friend was +Edmund Smith, (Rag Smith, as he was generally called,) a kind of minor +Savage, well known in these times as the author of 'Phaedra and +Hippolytus,' and for his cureless dissipation. In 1703, Philips produced +'The Splendid Shilling,' which proved a hit, and seems to have diverted +his aspirations from the domains of Aesculapius to those of Apollo. +Bolingbroke sought him out, and employed him, after the battle of +Blenheim, to sing it in opposition to Addison, the laureate of the +Whigs. At the house of the magnificent but unprincipled St John, Philips +wrote his 'Blenheim,' which was published in 1705. The year after, his +'Cider,' a poem in two books, appeared, and was received with great +applause. Encouraged by this, he projected a poem on the Last Day, +which all who are aware of the difficulties of the subject, and the +limitations of the author's genius, must rejoice that he never wrote. +Consumption and asthma removed him prematurely on the 15th of February +1708, ere he had completed his thirty-third year. He was buried in +Hereford Cathedral, and Sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards Lord Chancellor, +erected a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey. + +Bulwer somewhere records a story of John Martin in his early days. He +was, on one occasion, reduced to his last shilling. He had kept it, out +of a heap, from a partiality to its appearance. It was very bright. He +was compelled, at last, to part with it. He went out to a baker's shop +to purchase a loaf with his favourite shilling. He had got the loaf into +his hands, when the baker discovered that the shilling was a bad one, +and poor Martin had to resign the loaf, and take back his dear, bright, +bad shilling once more. Length of time and cold criticism in like manner +have reduced John Philips to his solitary 'Splendid Shilling.' But, +though bright, it is far from bad. It is one of the cleverest of +parodies, and is perpetrated against one of those colossal works which +the smiles of a thousand caricatures were unable to injure. No great or +good poem was ever hurt by its parody:--the 'Paradise Lost' was not by +'The Splendid Shilling'--'The Last Man' of Campbell was not by 'The Last +Man' of Hood--nor the 'Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore' by their +witty, well-known caricature; and if 'The Vision of Judgment' by Southey +was laughed into oblivion by Byron's poem with the same title, it was +because Southey's original was neither good nor great. Philip's poem, +too, is the first of the kind; and surely we should be thankful to the +author of the earliest effort in a style which has created so much +innocent amusement. Dr Johnson speaks as if the pleasure arising from +such productions implied a malignant 'momentary triumph over that +grandeur which had hitherto held its captives in admiration.' We think, +on the contrary, that it springs from our deep interest in the original +production, making us alive to the strange resemblance the caricature +bears to it. It is our love that provokes our laughter, and hence the +admirers of the parodied poem are more delighted than its enemies. At +all events, it is by 'The Splendid Shilling' alone--and that principally +from its connexion with Milton's great work--that Philips is memorable. +His 'Cider' has soured with age, and the loud echo of his Blenheim +battle-piece has long since died away. + + +THE SPLENDID SHILLING. + + "... Sing, heavenly Muse! +Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," +A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimeras dire. + +Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, +In silken or in leathern purse retains +A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain +New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; +But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, +To Juniper's Magpie or Town-Hall[1] repairs: +Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye +Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames, +Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass +Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. +Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, +Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. +But I, whom griping Penury surrounds, +And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, +With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, +(Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: +Then solitary walk, or doze at home +In garret vile, and with a warming puff +Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black +As winter-chimney, or well-polished jet, +Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent! +Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, +Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, +Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings +Full famous in romantic tale) when he +O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, +Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, +High over-shadowing rides, with a design +To vend his wares, or at the Arvonian mart, +Or Maridunum, or the ancient town +Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream +Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! +Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie +With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. + +Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, +With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, +Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, +To my aërial citadel ascends, +With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, +With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know +The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. +What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, +Confounded, to the dark recess I fly +Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect +Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews +My shuddering limbs, and, wonderful to tell! +My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; +So horrible he seems! His faded brow, +Entrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, +And spreading band, admired by modern saints, +Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand +Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, +With characters and figures dire inscribed, +Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods, avert +Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks +Another monster, not unlike himself, +Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called +A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, +With force incredible, and magic charms, +Erst have endued; if he his ample palm +Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay +Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch +Obsequious, as whilom knights were wont, +To some enchanted castle is conveyed, +Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, +In durance strict detain him, till, in form +Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. + +Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk, beware, +Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken +The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft +Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, +Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch +With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) +Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn +An everlasting foe, with watchful eye +Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, +Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice +Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web +Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads +Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands +Within her woven cell; the humming prey, +Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils +Inextricable, nor will aught avail +Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; +The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, +And butterfly, proud of expanded wings +Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, +Useless resistance make: with eager strides, +She towering flies to her expected spoils; +Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood +Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave +Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. + +So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades +This world envelop, and the inclement air +Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts +With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; +Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light +Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk +Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, +Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, +Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts +My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse +Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, +Or desperate lady near a purling stream, +Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. +Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, +And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat +Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: +But if a slumber haply does invade +My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, +Thoughtful of drink, and, eager, in a dream, +Tipples imaginary pots of ale, +In vain; awake I find the settled thirst +Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. + +Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, +Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays +Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, +Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, +Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; +Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: +My galligaskins, that have long withstood +The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, +By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) +An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice +Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds +Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force +Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, +Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, +Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, +Long sailed secure, or through the Aegean deep, +Or the Ionian, till cruising near +The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush +On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) +She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, +So fierce a shock unable to withstand, +Admits the sea; in at the gaping side +The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, +Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize +The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, +They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray; +Vain efforts! still the battering waves rush in, +Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, +The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. + +[1]'Magpie or Town-hall:' two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700. + + + + +We may here mention a name or two of poets from whose verses we can +afford no extracts,--such as Walsh, called by Pope 'knowing Walsh,' +a man of some critical discernment, if not of much genius; Gould, a +domestic of the Earl of Dorset, and afterwards a schoolmaster, from whom +Campbell quotes one or two tolerable songs; and Dr Walter Pope, a man of +wit and knowledge, who was junior proctor of Oxford, one of the first +chosen fellows of the Royal Society, and who succeeded Sir Christopher +Wren as professor of astronomy in Gresham College. He is the author of +a comico-serious song of some merit, entitled 'The Old Man's Wish.' + + + + +SIR SAMUEL GARTH. + + +Of Garth little is known, save that he was an eminent physician, a +scholar, a man of benevolence, a keen Whig, and yet an admirer of old +Dryden, and a patron of young Pope--a friend of Addison, and the author +of the 'Dispensary.' The College of Physicians had instituted a +dispensary, for the purpose of furnishing the poor with medicines +gratis. This measure was opposed by the apothecaries, who had an obvious +interest in the sale of drugs; and to ridicule their selfishness Garth +wrote his poem, which is mock-heroic, in six cantos, copied in form from +the 'Lutrin,' and which, though ingenious and elaborate, seems now +tedious, and on the whole uninteresting. It appeared in 1696, and the +author died in 1718. We extract some of the opening lines of the first +canto of the poem. + + +THE DISPENSARY. + +Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell +How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; +And why physicans were so cautious grown +Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; +How by a journey to the Elysian plain +Peace triumphed, and old Time returned again. +Not far from that most celebrated place, +Where angry Justice shows her awful face; +Where little villains must submit to fate, +That great ones may enjoy the world in state; +There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, +And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; +A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, +Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill: +This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, +Raised for a use as noble as its frame; +Nor did the learn'd society decline +The propagation of that great design; +In all her mazes, nature's face they viewed, +And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. +Wrapped in the shade of night the goddess lies, +Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, +But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. +Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife +Of infant atoms kindling into life; +How ductile matter new meanders takes, +And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; +And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, +By just degrees to harden into bone; +While the more loose flow from the vital urn, +And in full tides of purple streams return; +How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, +And dart in emanations through the eyes; +How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, +To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; +Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; +How great their force, how delicate their frame; +How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain +The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; +Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, +And floods of chyle in silver currents run; +How the dim speck of entity began +To extend its recent form, and stretch to man; +To how minute an origin we owe +Young Ammon, Caesar, and the great Nassau; +Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim, +And why chill virgins redden into flame; +Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise, +And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes; +All ice, why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire; +Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire; +When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown, +Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; +How matter, by the varied shape of pores, +Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. + +Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, +How body acts upon impassive mind; +How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, +Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; +Why our complexions oft our soul declare, +And how the passions in the features are; +How touch and harmony arise between +Corporeal figure, and a form unseen; +How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, +And act at every summons of the will. +With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, +Which in the womb of distant causes lie. + +But now no grand inquiries are descried, +Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside, +Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside. +Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, +And for important nothings show a zeal: +The drooping sciences neglected pine, +And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. +No readers here with hectic looks are found, +Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching, drowned; +The lonely edifice in sweats complains +That nothing there but sullen silence reigns. + +This place, so fit for undisturbed repose, +The god of sloth for his asylum chose; +Upon a couch of down in these abodes, +Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods; +Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, +With murmurs of soft rills and whispering trees: +The poppy and each numbing plant dispense +Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence; +No passions interrupt his easy reign, +No problems puzzle his lethargic brain; +But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed, +And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head. + + + + +SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE. + + +Our next name is that of one who, like the former, was a knight, a +physician, and (in a manner) a poet. Blackmore was the son of Robert +Blackmore of Corsham, in Wiltshire, who is styled by Wood _gentleman_, +and is believed to have been an attorney. He took his degree of M.A. at +Oxford, in June 1676. He afterwards travelled, was made Doctor of Physic +at Padua, and, when he returned home, began to practise in London with +great success. In 1695, he tried his hand at poetry, producing an epic +entitled 'King Arthur,' which was followed by a series on 'King Alfred,' +'Queen Elizabeth,' 'Redemption,' 'The Creation,' &c. Some of these +productions were popular; one, 'The Creation,' has been highly praised +by Dr Johnson; but most of them were heavy. Matthew Henry has preserved +portions in his valuable Commentary. Blackmore, a man of excellent +character and of extensive medical practice, was yet the laughingstock +of the wits, perhaps as much for his piety as for his prosiness. Old, +rich, and highly respected, he died on the 8th of October 1729, while +some of his poetic persecutors came to a disgraceful or an early end. + +We quote the satire of John Gay, as one of the cleverest and best +conditioned, although one of the coarsest of the attacks made on poor +Sir Richard:-- + + +VERSES TO BE PLACED UNDER THE PICTURE OF SIR R. BLACKMORE, +CONTAINING A COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF HIS WORKS. + +See who ne'er was, nor will be half read, +Who first sang Arthur, then sang Alfred; +Praised great Eliza in God's anger, +Till all true Englishmen cried, Hang her; +Mauled human wit in one thick satire, +Next in three books spoiled human nature; +Undid Creation at a jerk, +And of Redemption made ---- work; +Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her +Full in the middle of the Scripture; +What wonders there the man grown old did, +Sternhold himself he out Sternholded; +Made David seem so mad and freakish, +All thought him just what thought King Achish; +No mortal read his Solomon +But judged Reboam his own son; +Moses he served as Moses Pharaoh, +And Deborah as she Sisera; +Made Jeremy full sore to cry, +And Job himself curse God and die. + +What punishment all this must follow? +Shall Arthur use him like King Tollo? +Shall David as Uriah slay him? +Or dext'rous Deborah Sisera him? +Or shall Eliza lay a plot +To treat him like her sister Scot? +No, none of these; Heaven save his life, +But send him, honest Job, thy wife! + + +CREATION. + +No more of courts, of triumphs, or of arms, +No more of valour's force, or beauty's charms; +The themes of vulgar lays, with just disdain, +I leave unsung, the flocks, the amorous swain, +The pleasures of the land, and terrors of the main. +How abject, how inglorious 'tis to lie +Grovelling in dust and darkness, when on high +Empires immense and rolling worlds of light, +To range their heavenly scenes the muse invite; +I meditate to soar above the skies, +To heights unknown, through ways untried, to rise; +I would the Eternal from his works assert, +And sing the wonders of creating art. +While I this unexampled task essay, +Pass awful gulfs, and beat my painful way, +Celestial Dove! divine assistance bring, +Sustain me on thy strong extended wing, +That I may reach the Almighty's sacred throne, +And make his causeless power, the cause of all things, known. +Thou dost the full extent of nature see, +And the wide realms of vast immensity; +Eternal Wisdom thou dost comprehend, +Rise to her heights, and to her depths descend; +The Father's sacred counsels thou canst tell, +Who in his bosom didst for ever dwell; +Thou on the deep's dark face, immortal Dove! +Thou with Almighty energy didst move +On the wild waves, incumbent didst display +Thy genial wings, and hatch primeval day. +Order from thee, from thee distinction came, +And all the beauties of the wondrous frame. +Hence stamped on nature we perfection find, +Fair as the idea in the Eternal Mind. +See, through this vast extended theatre +Of skill divine, what shining marks appear! +Creating power is all around expressed, +The God discovered, and his care confessed. +Nature's high birth her heavenly beauties show; +By every feature we the parent know. +The expanded spheres, amazing to the sight! +Magnificent with stars and globes of light, +The glorious orbs which heaven's bright host compose, +The imprisoned sea, that restless ebbs and flows, +The fluctuating fields of liquid air, +With all the curious meteors hovering there, +And the wide regions of the land, proclaim +The Power Divine, that raised the mighty frame. +What things soe'er are to an end referred, +And in their motions still that end regard, +Always the fitness of the means respect, +These as conducive choose, and those reject, +Must by a judgment foreign and unknown +Be guided to their end, or by their own; +For to design an end, and to pursue +That end by means, and have it still in view, +Demands a conscious, wise, reflecting cause, +Which freely moves, and acts by reason's laws; +That can deliberate, means elect, and find +Their due connexion with the end designed. +And since the world's wide frame does not include +A cause with such capacities endued, +Some other cause o'er nature must preside, +Which gave her birth, and does her motions guide; +And here behold the cause, which God we name, +The source of beings, and the mind supreme; +Whose perfect wisdom, and whose prudent care, +With one confederate voice unnumbered worlds declare. + + + + +ELIJAH FENTON. + + +This author, who was very much respected by his contemporaries, and who +translated a portion of the Odyssey in conjunction with Pope, was born +May 20, 1683, at Newcastle, in Staffordshire; studied at Cambridge, +which, owing to his nonjuring principles, he had to leave without a +degree; and passed part of his life as a schoolmaster, and part of it +as secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery. By his tragedy of 'Mariamne' he +secured a moderate competence; and during his latter years, spent his +life comfortably as tutor in the house of Lady Trumbull. He died in +1730. His accomplishments were superior, and his character excellent. +Pope, who was indebted to him for the first, fourth, nineteenth, and +twentieth of the books of the Odyssey, mourns his loss in one of his +most sincere-seeming letters. Fenton edited Waller and Milton, wrote a +brief life of the latter poet,--with which most of our readers are +acquainted,--and indited some respectable verse. + + +AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER. + +WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716. + +1 O'er Winter's long inclement sway, + At length the lusty Spring prevails; + And swift to meet the smiling May, + Is wafted by the western gales. + Around him dance the rosy Hours, + And damasking the ground with flowers, + With ambient sweets perfume the morn; + With shadowy verdure flourished high, + A sudden youth the groves enjoy; + Where Philomel laments forlorn. + +2 By her awaked, the woodland choir + To hail the coming god prepares; + And tempts me to resume the lyre, + Soft warbling to the vernal airs. + Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign + For me, the meanest of your train, + Unblamed to approach your blest retreat: + Where Horace wantons at your spring, + And Pindar sweeps a bolder string; + Whose notes the Aonian hills repeat. + +3 Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, + Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; + Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, + Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; + Thither, indulgent to my prayer, + Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair, + To swell the notes I feebly raise: + So with aspiring ardours warmed + May Gower's propitious ear be charmed + To listen to my lays. + +4 Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, + Like Thracian Mars, the undaunted Swede[1] + To dint of sword defies the foe; + In fight unknowing to recede: + From Volga's banks, the imperious Czar + Leads forth his furry troops to war; + Fond of the softer southern sky: + The Soldan galls the Illyrian coast; + But soon, the miscreant Moony host + Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. + +5 But here, no clarion's shrilling note + The Muse's green retreat can pierce; + The grove, from noisy camps remote, + Is only vocal with my verse: + Here, winged with innocence and joy, + Let the soft hours that o'er me fly + Drop freedom, health, and gay desires: + While the bright Seine, to exalt the soul, + With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, + And wit and social mirth inspires. + +6 Enamoured of the Seine, celestial fair, + (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) + Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care, + Lashed his swift tigers to the Celtic plain: + There secret in her sapphire cell, + He with the Nais wont to dwell; + Leaving the nectared feasts of Jove: + And where her mazy waters flow + He gave the mantling vine to grow, + A trophy to his love. + +7 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, + With blind opinion for his guide; + And, rebel to her rightful sway, + Leave all her beauties unenjoyed? + Fool! Time no change of motion knows; + With equal speed the torrent flows, + To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: + The past is all by death possessed; + And frugal fate that guards the rest, + By giving, bids him live To-Day. + +8 O Gower! through all the destined space, + What breath the Powers allot to me + Shall sing the virtues of thy race, + United and complete in thee. + O flower of ancient English faith! + Pursue the unbeaten Patriot-path, + In which confirmed thy father shone: + The light his fair example gives, + Already from thy dawn receives + A lustre equal to its own. + +9 Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns reared, + Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume; + Loud Paeans echoing round the roof are heard + And clouds of incense all the void perfume. + There Phocion, Laelius, Capel, Hyde, + With Falkland seated near his side, + Fixed by the Muse, the temple grace; + Prophetic of thy happier fame, + She, to receive thy radiant name, + Selects a whiter space. + +[1] Charles XII. + + + +ROBERT CRAWFORD. + + +Robert Crawford, a Scotchman, is our next poet. Of him we know only that +he was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames; that he assisted +Allan Ramsay in the 'Tea-Table Miscellany;' and was drowned when coming +from France in 1733. Besides the popular song, 'The Bush aboon Traquair,' +which we quote, Crawford wrote also a lyric, called 'Tweedside,' and some +verses, mentioned by Burns, to the old tune of 'Cowdenknowes.' + + +THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. + +1 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, + I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; + Though thus I languish and complain, + Alas! she ne'er believes me. + My vows and sighs, like silent air, + Unheeded, never move her; + At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, + 'Twas there I first did love her. + +2 That day she smiled and made me glad, + No maid seemed ever kinder; + I thought myself the luckiest lad, + So sweetly there to find her; + I tried to soothe my amorous flame, + In words that I thought tender; + If more there passed, I'm not to blame-- + I meant not to offend her. + +3 Yet now she scornful flies the plain, + The fields we then frequented; + If e'er we meet she shows disdain, + She looks as ne'er acquainted. + The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, + Its sweets I'll aye remember; + But now her frowns make it decay-- + It fades as in December. + +4 Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, + Why thus should Peggy grieve me? + Oh, make her partner in my pains, + Then let her smiles relieve me! + If not, my love will turn despair, + My passion no more tender; + I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-- + To lonely wilds I'll wander. + + + + +THOMAS TICKELL. + + +Tickell is now chiefly remembered from his connexion with Addison. He +was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, near Carlisle. In April 1701, he became +a member of Queen's College in Oxford. In 1708, he was made M.A., and +two years after was chosen Fellow. He held his Fellowship till 1726, +when, marrying in Dublin, he necessarily vacated it. He attracted +Addison's attention first by some elegant lines in praise of Rosamond, +and then by the 'Prospect of Peace,' a poem in which Tickell, although +called by Swift Whiggissimus, for once took the Tory side. This poem +Addison, in spite of its politics, praised highly in the _Spectator_, +which led to a lifelong friendship between them. Tickell commenced +contributing to the _Spectator_, among other things publishing there a +poem entitled the 'Royal Progress.' Some time after, he produced a +translation of the first book of the Iliad, which Addison declared to be +superior to Pope's. This led the latter to imagine that it was Addison's +own, although it is now, we believe, certain, from the MS., which still +exists, that it was a veritable production of Tickell's. When Addison +went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied +him, and was employed in public business. When Addison became Secretary +of State, he made Tickell Under-Secretary; and when he died, he left him +the charge of publishing his works, with an earnest recommendation to +the care of Craggs. Tickell faithfully performed the task, prefixing to +them an elegy on his departed friend, which is now his own chief title +to fame. In 1725, he was made secretary to the Lords-Justices of +Ireland, a place of great trust and honour, and which he retained till +his death. This event happened at Bath, in the year 1740. + +His genius was not strong, but elegant and refined, and appears, as we +have just stated, to best advantage in his lines on Addison's death, +which are warm with genuine love, tremulous with sincere sorrow, and +shine with a sober splendour, such as Addison's own exquisite taste +would have approved. + + +TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR ADDISON. + +If, dumb too long, the drooping muse hath stayed, +And left her debt to Addison unpaid, +Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, +And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. +What mourner ever felt poetic fires! +Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: +Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, +Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. + +Can I forget the dismal night that gave +My soul's best part for ever to the grave? +How silent did his old companions tread, +By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, +Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, +Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! +What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; +The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; +The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid: +And the last words that dust to dust conveyed! +While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, +Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. +Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; +And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. +To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, +A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; +Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, +And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. +If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, +May shame afflict this alienated heart; +Of thee forgetful if I form a song, +My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, +My grief be doubled from thy image free, +And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee! + +Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, +Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, +Along the walls where speaking marbles show +What worthies form the hallowed mould belew; +Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; +In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; +Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; +Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; +Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; +And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven; +Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, +Since their foundation came a nobler guest; +Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed +A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. + +In what new region, to the just assigned, +What new employments please the embodied mind? +A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, +From world to world unwearied does he fly? +Or curious trace the long laborious maze +Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? +Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell +How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; +Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow +In hymns of love, not ill essayed below? +Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, +A task well suited to thy gentle mind? +Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, +To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! +When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, +When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, +In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, +And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; +Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, +Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. + +That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, +Must still be loved and still deplored by me, +In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, +Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. +If business calls, or crowded courts invite, +The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; +If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, +I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; +If pensive to the rural shades I rove, +His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; +'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, +Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: +There patient showed us the wise course to steer, +A candid censor, and a friend severe; +There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high +The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die. + +Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, +Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, +Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, +O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears? +How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, +Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! +How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, +Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze! +His image thy forsaken bowers restore; +Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; +No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, +Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. + +From other ills, however fortune frowned, +Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; +Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, +Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; +And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn, +Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. +Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, +And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,) +The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, +And weep a second in the unfinished song! + +These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, +To thee, O Craggs! the expiring sage conveyed, +Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, +Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. +Swift after him thy social spirit flies, +And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. +Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell +In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell! +Farewell! whom, joined in fame, in friendship tried, +No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. + + + + +JAMES HAMMOND. + + +This elegiast was the second son of Anthony Hammond, a brother-in-law of +Sir Robert Walpole, and a man of some note in his day. He was born in +1710; educated at Westminster school; became equerry to the Prince of +Wales; fell in love with a lady named Dashwood, who rejected him, and +drove him to temporary derangement, and then to elegy-writing; entered +parliament for Truro, in Cornwall, in 1741; and died the next year. His +elegies were published after his death, and, although abounding in +pedantic allusions and frigid conceits, became very popular. + + +ELEGY XIII. + +He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each other, +they are retired into the country. + +1 Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, + And view their fields, with waving plenty crowned, + Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, + And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound: + +2 While calmly poor I trifle life away, + Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, + No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, + But, cheaply blessed, I'll scorn each vain desire. + +3 With timely care I'll sow my little field, + And plant my orchard with its master's hand, + Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, + Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. + +4 If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, + I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, + Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, + And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. + +5 What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, + And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast! + Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain, + Secure and happy, sink at last to rest! + +6 Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride, + By shady rivers indolently stray, + And with my Delia, walking side by side, + Hear how they murmur as they glide away! + +7 What joy to wind along the cool retreat, + To stop and gaze on Delia as I go! + To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, + And teach my lovely scholar all I know! + +8 Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, + In silent happiness I rest unknown; + Content with what I am, not what I seem, + I live for Delia and myself alone. + + * * * * * + +9 Hers be the care of all my little train, + While I with tender indolence am blest, + The favourite subject of her gentle reign, + By love alone distinguished from the rest. + +10 For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough, + In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock; + For her, a goat-herd, climb the mountain's brow, + And sleep extended on the naked rock: + +11 Ah, what avails to press the stately bed, + And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, + By marble fountains lay the pensive head, + And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep! + +12 Delia alone can please, and never tire, + Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; + With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, + And equal rapture glows through every night: + +13 Beauty and worth in her alike contend, + To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; + In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, + I taste the joys of sense and reason joined. + +14 On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er, + And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-- + Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, + Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. + +15 Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, + Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, + Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, + Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still: + +16 Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed, + Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart; + Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, + These weeping friends will do thy mournful part: + +17 Let them, extended on the decent bier, + Convey the corse in melancholy state, + Through all the village spread the tender tear, + While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate. + + + + +We may here mention Dr George Sewell, author of a Life of Sir Walter +Haleigh, a few papers in the _Spectator_, and some rather affecting +verses written on consumption, where he says, in reference to his +garden-- + + 'Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, + (For vanity's in little seen,) + All must be left when death appears, + In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; + Not one of all thy plants that grow, + But rosemary, will with thee go;'-- + + +Sir John Vanbrugh, best known as an architect, but who also wrote +poetry;--Edward Ward (more commonly called Ned Ward), a poetical +publican, who wrote ten thick volumes, chiefly in Hudibrastic verse, +displaying a good deal of coarse cleverness;--Barton Booth, the famous +actor, author of a song which closes thus-- + + 'Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, + Twin-born, from heaven together came; + Love will the universe control, + When dying seasons lose their name. + Divine abodes shall own his power, + When time and death shall be no more;'-- + + +Oldmixon, one of the heroes of the 'Dunciad,' famous in his day as a +party historian;--Richard West, a youth of high promise, the friend of +Gray, and who died in his twenty-sixth year;--James Eyre Weekes, an +Irishman, author of a clever copy of love verses, called 'The Five +Traitors;'--Bramston, an Oxford man, who wrote a poem called 'The Man of +Taste;'--and William Meston, an Aberdonian, author of a set of burlesque +poems entitled 'Mother Grim's Tales.' + + + + +RICHARD SAVAGE. + + +The extreme excellence, fulness, and popularity of Johnson's Life of +Savage must excuse our doing more than mentioning the leading dates of +his history. He was the son of the Earl of Rivers and the Countess of +Macclesfield, and was born in London, 1698. His mother, who had begot +him in adultery after having openly avowed her criminality, in order to +obtain a divorce from her husband, placed the boy under the care of a +poor woman, who brought him up as her son. His maternal grandmother, +Lady Mason, however, took an interest him and placed him at a grammar +school at St Alban's. He was afterwards apprenticed to a shoemaker. On +the death of his nurse, he found some letters which led to the discovery +of his real parent. He applied to her, accordingly, to be acknowledged +as her son; but she repulsed his every advance, and persecuted him with +unrelenting barbarity. He found, however, some influential friends, such +as Steele, Fielding, Aaron Hill, Pope, and Lord Tyrconnell. He was, +however, his own worst enemy, and contracted habits of the most +irregular description. In a tavern brawl he killed one James Sinclair, +and was condemned to die; but, notwithstanding his mother's interference +to prevent the exercise of the royal clemency, he was pardoned by the +queen, who afterwards gave him a pension of £50 a-year. He supported +himself in a precarious way by writing poetical pieces. Lord Tyrconnell +took him for a while into his house, and allowed him £200 a-year, but he +soon quarrelled with him, and left. When the queen died he lost his +pension, but his friends made it up by an annuity to the same amount. He +went away to reside at Swansea, but on occasion of a visit he made to +Bristol he was arrested for a small debt, and in the prison he sickened, +and died on the 1st of August 1743. He was only forty-five years of age. + +After all, Savage, in Johnson's Life, is just a dung-fly preserved in +amber. His 'Bastard,' indeed, displays considerable powers, stung by a +consciousness of wrong into convulsive action; but his other works are +nearly worthless, and his life was that of a proud, passionate, selfish, +and infatuated fool, unredeemed by scarcely one trait of genuine +excellence in character. We love and admire, even while we deeply blame, +such men as Burns; but for Savage our feeling is a curious compost of +sympathy with his misfortunes, contempt for his folly, and abhorrence +for the ingratitude, licentiousness, and other coarse and savage sins +which characterised and prematurely destroyed him. + + +THE BASTARD. + +INSCRIBED, WITH ALL DUE REVERENCE, TO MRS BRETT, +ONCE COUNTESS OF MACCLESFIELD. + +In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, +The Muse exulting, thus her lay began: +'Blest be the Bastard's birth! through wondrous ways, +He shines eccentric like a comet's blaze! +No sickly fruit of faint compliance he! +He! stamped in nature's mint of ecstasy! +He lives to build, not boast a generous race: +No tenth transmitter of a foolish face: +His daring hope no sire's example bounds; +His first-born lights no prejudice confounds. +He, kindling from within, requires no flame; +He glories in a Bastard's glowing name. + +'Born to himself, by no possession led, +In freedom fostered, and by fortune fed; +Nor guides, nor rules his sovereign choice control, +His body independent as his soul; +Loosed to the world's wide range, enjoined no aim, +Prescribed no duty, and assigned no name: +Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone, +His heart unbiased, and his mind his own. + +'O mother, yet no mother! 'tis to you +My thanks for such distinguished claims are due; +You, unenslaved to Nature's narrow laws, +Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause, +From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, +From ties maternal, moral, and divine, +Discharged my grasping soul; pushed me from shore, +And launched me into life without an oar. + +'What had I lost, if, conjugally kind, +By nature hating, yet by vows confined, +Untaught the matrimonial bonds to slight, +And coldly conscious of a husband's right, +You had faint-drawn me with a form alone, +A lawful lump of life by force your own! +Then, while your backward will retrenched desire, +And unconcurring spirits lent no fire, +I had been born your dull, domestic heir, +Load of your life, and motive of your care; +Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great, +The slave of pomp, a cipher in the state; +Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, +And slumbering in a seat by chance my own. + +'Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; +Conceived in rapture, and with fire begot! +Strong as necessity, he starts away, +Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.' +Thus unprophetic, lately misinspired, +I sung: gay fluttering hope my fancy fired: +Inly secure, through conscious scorn of ill, +Nor taught by wisdom how to balance will, +Rashly deceived, I saw no pits to shun, +But thought to purpose and to act were one; +Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way, +Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray; +But now exposed, and shrinking from distress, +I fly to shelter while the tempests press; +My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone, +The raptures languish, and the numbers groan. + +O Memory! thou soul of joy and pain! +Thou actor of our passions o'er again! +Why didst thou aggravate the wretch's woe? +Why add continuous smart to every blow? +Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot! +On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not; +While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall, +Yet thou repeat'st and multipli'st them all. + +Is chance a guilt? that my disastrous heart, +For mischief never meant; must ever smart? +Can self-defence be sin?--Ah, plead no more! +What though no purposed malice stained thee o'er? +Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side, +Thou hadst not been provoked--or thou hadst died. + +Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all +On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall! +Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, +To me! through Pity's eye condemned to see. +Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; +Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. +Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, +What ripening virtues might have made their way? +He might have lived till folly died in shame, +Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. +He might perhaps his country's friend have proved; +Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved, +He might have saved some worth, now doomed to fall; +And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all. + +O fate of late repentance! always vain: +Thy remedies but lull undying pain. +Where shall my hope find rest?--No mother's care +Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: +No father's guardian hand my youth maintained, +Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained. +Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, +First to advance, then screen from future harm? +Am I returned from death to live in pain? +Or would imperial Pity save in vain? +Distrust it not--What blame can mercy find, +Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind? + +Mother, miscalled, farewell--of soul severe, +This sad reflection yet may force one tear: +All I was wretched by to you I owed, +Alone from strangers every comfort flowed! + +Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, +And now adopted, who was doomed before; +New-born, I may a nobler mother claim, +But dare not whisper her immortal name; +Supremely lovely, and serenely great! +Majestic mother of a kneeling state! +Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before +Agreed--yet now with one consent adore! +One contest yet remains in this desire, +Who most shall give applause, where all admire. + + + + +THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER. + + +The Wartons were a poetical race. The father of Thomas and Joseph, names +so intimately associated with English poetry, was himself a poet. He was +of Magdalene College in Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and +twice chosen poetry professor. He was born in 1687, and died in 1745. +Besides the little American ode quoted below, we are tempted to give the +following + + +VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE. + +From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, +Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls, +To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, +Pleased I return, unenvious of the great. +So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes +Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens; +Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, +Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill; +Now haunts old hollowed oaks, deserted cells, +Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells; +Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, +And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;-- +At length returning to the wonted comb, +Prefers to all his little straw-built home. + +This seems sweet and simple poetry. + + +AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE. + +FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS. + +Stay, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake, +Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake: +But let me oft thy charms review, +Thy glittering scales, and golden hue; +From these a chaplet shall be wove, +To grace the youth I dearest love. + +Then ages hence, when thou no more +Shalt creep along the sunny shore, +Thy copied beauties shall be seen; +Thy red and azure mixed with green, +In mimic folds thou shalt display;-- +Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay. + + + + +JONATHAN SWIFT. + + +In contemplating the lives and works of the preceding poets in this +third volume of 'Specimens,' we have been impressed with a sense, if not +of their absolute, yet of their comparative mediocrity. Beside such +neglected giants as Henry More, Joseph Beaumont, and Andrew Marvell, the +Pomfrets, Sedleys, Blackmores, and Savages sink into insignificance. But +when we come to the name of Swift, we feel ourselves again approaching +an Alpine region. The air of a stern mountain-summit breathes chill +around our temples, and we feel that if we have no amiability to melt, +we have altitude at least to measure, and strange profound secrets of +nature, like the ravines of lofty hills, to explore. The men of the +sixteenth and seventeenth centuries may be compared to Lebanon, or +Snowdown, or Benlomond towering grandly over fertile valleys, on which +they smile--Swift to the tremendous Romsdale Horn in Norway, shedding +abroad, from a brow of four thousand feet high, what seems a scowl of +settled indignation, as if resolved not to rejoice even over the wide- +stretching deserts which, and nothing but which, it everlastingly +beholds. Mountains all of them, but what a difference between such a +mountain as Shakspeare, and such a mountain as Swift! + +Instead of going minutely over a path so long since trodden to mire as +the life of Swift, let us expend a page or two in seeking to form some +estimate of his character and genius. It is refreshing to come upon a +new thing in the world, even though it be a strange or even a bad thing; +and certainly, in any age and country, such a being as Swift must have +appeared an anomaly, not for his transcendent goodness, not for his +utter badness, but because the elements of good and evil were mixed in +him into a medley so astounding, and in proportions respectively so +large, yet unequal, that the analysis of the two seemed to many +competent only to the Great Chymist, Death, and that a sense of the +disproportion seems to have moved the man himself to inextinguishable +laughter,--a laughter which, radiating out of his own singular heart as +a centre, swept over the circumference of all beings within his reach, +and returned crying, 'Give, give,' as if he were demanding a universal +sphere for the exercise of the savage scorn which dwelt within him, and +as if he laughed not more 'consumedly' at others than he did at himself. + +Ere speaking of Swift as a man, let us say something about his genius. +That, like his character, was intensely peculiar. It was a compound of +infinite ingenuity, with very little poetical imagination--of gigantic +strength, with a propensity to incessant trifling--of passionate +purpose, with the clearest and coldest expression, as though a furnace +were fuelled with snow. A Brobdignagian by size, he was for ever toying +with Lilliputian slings and small craft. One of the most violent of +party men, and often fierce as a demoniac in temper, his favourite motto +was _Vive la bagatelle_. The creator of entire new worlds, we doubt if +his works contain more than two or three lines of genuine poetry. He may +be compared to one of the locusts of the Apocalypse, in that he had a +tail like unto a scorpion, and a sting in his tail; but his 'face is not +as the face of man, his hair is not as the hair of women, and on his +head there is no crown like gold.' All Swift's creations are more or +less disgusting. Not one of them is beautiful. His Lilliputians are +amazingly life-like, but compare them to Shakspeare's fairies, such +as Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Mustardseed; his Brobdignagians are +excrescences like enormous warts; and his Yahoos might have been spawned +in the nightmare of a drunken butcher. The same coarseness characterises +his poems and his 'Tale of a Tub.' He might well, however, in his old +age, exclaim, in reference to the latter, 'Good God! what a genius I +had when I wrote that book!' It is the wildest, wittiest, wickedest, +wealthiest book of its size in the English language. Thoughts and +figures swarm in every corner of its pages, till you think of a +disturbed nest of angry ants, for all the figures and thoughts are black +and bitter. One would imagine the book to have issued from a mind that +had been gathering gall as well as sense in an antenatal state of being. + +Swift, in all his writings--sermons, political tracts, poems, and +fictions--is essentially a satirist. He consisted originally of three +principal parts,--sense, an intense feeling of the ludicrous, and +selfish passion; and these were sure, in certain circumstances, to +ferment into a spirit of satire, 'strong as death, and cruel as the +grave.' Born with not very much natural benevolence, with little purely +poetic feeling, with furious passions and unbounded ambition, he was +entirely dependent for his peace of mind upon success. Had he become, as +by his talents he was entitled to be, the prime minister of his day, he +would have figured as a greater tyrant in the cabinet than even Chatham. +But as he was prevented from being the first statesman, he became the +first satirist of his time. From vain efforts to grasp supremacy for +himself and his party, he retired growling to his Dublin den; and there, +as Haman thought scorn to lay his hand on Mordecai, but extended his +murderous purpose to all the people of the Jews,--and as Nero wished +that Rome had one neck, that he might destroy it at a blow,--so Swift +was stung by his personal disappointment to hurl out scorn at man and +suspicion at his Maker. It was not, it must be noticed, the evil which +was in man which excited his hatred and contempt; it was man himself. He +was not merely, as many are, disgusted with the selfish and malignant +elements which are mingled in man's nature and character, and disposed +to trace them to any cause save a Divine will, but he believed man to +be, as a whole, the work and child of the devil; and he told the +imaginary creator and creature to their face, what he thought the +truth,--'The devil is an ass.' His was the very madness of Manichaeism. +That heresy held that the devil was one of two aboriginal creative +powers, but Swift seemed to believe at times that he was the only God. +From a Yahoo man, it was difficult to avoid the inference of a demon +deity. It is very laughable to find writers in _Blackwood_ and elsewhere +striving to prove Swift a Christian, as if, whatever were his +professions, and however sincere he might be often in these, the whole +tendency of his writings, his perpetual and unlimited abuse of man's +body and soul, his denial of every human virtue, the filth he pours upon +every phase of human nature, and the doctrine he insinuates--that man +has fallen indeed, but fallen, not from the angel, but from the animal, +or, rather, is just a bungled brute,--were not enough to shew that +either his notions were grossly erroneous and perverted, or that he +himself deserved, like another Nebuchadnezzar, to be driven from men, +and to have a beast's heart given unto him. Sometimes he reminds us of +an impure angel, who has surprised man naked and asleep, looked at him +with microscopic eyes, ignored all his peculiar marks of fallen dignity +and incipient godhood, and in heartless rhymes reported accordingly. + +Swift belonged to the same school as Pope, although the feminine element +which was in the latter modified and mellowed his feelings. Pope was a +more successful and a happier man than Swift. He was much smaller, too, +in soul as well as in body, and his gall-organ was proportionably less. +Pope's feeling to humanity was a tiny malice; Swift's became, at length, +a black malignity. Pope always reminds us of an injured and pouting hero +of Lilliput, 'doing well to be angry' under the gourd of a pocket-flap, +or squealing out his griefs from the centre of an empty snuff-box; Swift +is a man, nay, monster of misanthropy. In minute and microscopic vision +of human infirmities, Pope excels even Swift; but then you always +conceive Swift leaning down a giant, though gnarled, stature to behold +them, while Pope is on their level, and has only to look straight before +him. Pope's wrath is always measured; Swift's, as in the 'Legion-Club' +is a whirlwind of 'black fire and horror,' in the breath of which no +flesh can live, and against which genius and virtue themselves furnish +no shield. + +After all, Swift might, perhaps, have put in the plea of Byron-- + + 'All my faults perchance thou knowest, + All my madness none can know.' + +There was a black spot of madness in his brain, and another black spot +in his heart; and the two at last met, and closed up his destiny in +night. Let human nature forgive its most determined and systematic +reviler, for the sake of the wretchedness in which he was involved all +his life long. He was born (in 1667) a posthumous child; he was brought +up an object of charity; he spent much of his youth in dependence; he +had to leave his Irish college without a degree; he was flattered with +hopes from King William and the Whigs, which were not fulfilled; he was +condemned to spend a great part of his life in Ireland, a country he +detested; he was involved--partly, no doubt, through his own blame--in +a succession of fruitless and miserable intrigues, alike of love and +politics; he was soured by want of success in England, and spoiled by +enormous popularity in Ireland; he was tried by a kind of religious +doubts, which would not go out to prayer or fasting; he was haunted by +the fear of the dreadful calamity which at last befell him; his senses +and his soul left him one by one; he became first giddy, then deaf, and +then mad; his madness was of the most terrible sort--it was a 'silent +rage;' for a year or two he lay dumb; and at last, on the 19th of +October 1745, + + 'Swift expired, a driveller and a show,' + +leaving his money to found a lunatic asylum, and his works as a many- +volumed legacy of curse to mankind. + +[Note: It has been asserted that there were circumstances in extenuation +of Swift's conduct, particularly in reference to the ladies whose names +were connected with his, which _cannot be publicly brought forward_.] + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. + +In ancient times, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + +It happened on a winter night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Disguised in tattered habits went +To a small village down in Kent, +Where, in the strollers' canting strain, +They begged from door to door in vain, +Tried every tone might pity win; +But not a soul would let them in. +Our wandering saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having through all the village passed, +To a small cottage came at last, +Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, +Called in the neighbourhood Philemon; +Who kindly did these saints invite +In his poor hut to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +While he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fried; +Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, +Filled a large jug up to the brink, +And saw it fairly twice go round; +Yet (what is wonderful!) they found +'Twas still replenished to the top, +As if they ne'er had touched a drop. +The good old couple were amazed, +And often on each other gazed; +For both were frightened to the heart, +And just began to cry,--'What art!' +Then softly turned aside to view +Whether the lights were burning blue. +The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't, +Told them their calling, and their errand: +'Good folks, you need not be afraid, +We are but saints,' the hermits said; +'No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their houses shall be drowned; +Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes.' + +They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose every beam and rafter; +The heavy wall climbed slowly after. + +The chimney widened, and grew higher, +Became a steeple with a spire. + +The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fastened to a joist; +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below; +In vain; for a superior force, +Applied at bottom, stops its course: +Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + +A wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increased by new intestine wheels; +And, what exalts the wonder more +The number made the motion slower; +The flier, though't had leaden feet, +Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't; +But, slackened by some secret power, +Now hardly moves an inch an hour. +The jack and chimney, near allied, +Had never left each other's side: +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But up against the steeple reared, +Became a clock, and still adhered; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon declares, +Warning the cook-maid not to burn +That roast meat which it cannot turn. + +The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like a huge snail, along the wall; +There stuck aloft in public view, +And with small change a pulpit grew. + +The porringers, that in a row +Hung high, and made a glittering show, +To a less noble substance changed, +Were now but leathern buckets ranged. + +The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Joan of France, and English Moll, +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Now seemed to look abundance better, +Improved in picture, size, and letter; +And, high in order placed, describe +The heraldry of every tribe. + +A bedstead, of the antique mode, +Compact of timber many a load, +Such as our ancestors did use, +Was metamorphosed into pews; +Which still their ancient nature keep, +By lodging folks disposed to sleep. + +The cottage, by such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees; +The hermits then desired their host +To ask for what he fancied most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Returned them thanks in homely style; +Then said, 'My house is grown so fine, +Methinks I still would call it mine; +I'm old, and fain would live at ease; +Make me the parson, if you please.' + +He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat fall down his heels: +He sees, yet hardly can believe, +About each arm a pudding-sleeve; +His waistcoat to a cassock grew, +And both assumed a sable hue; +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +His talk was now of tithes and dues; +He smoked his pipe, and read the news; +Knew how to preach old sermons next, +Vamped in the preface and the text; +At christenings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wished women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrowed last; +Against Dissenters would repine, +And stood up firm for right divine; +Found his head filled with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er missed 'em. + +Thus, having furbished up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they played their farce on; +Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edged with colberteen; +Her petticoat, transformed apace, +Became black satin flounced with lace. +Plain 'Goody' would no longer down; +'Twas 'Madam' in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes, +Amazed to see her look so prim; +And she admired as much at him. + +Thus happy in their change of life +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which proved their last, +Discoursing on old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +To the churchyard to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cried out, +'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!' +'Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true; +And, really, yours is budding too; +Nay, now I cannot stir my foot-- +It feels as if 'twere taking root.' + +Description would but tire my Muse; +In short, they both were turned to yews. + +Old Goodman Dobson of the green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folks to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening-prayer, +He gathers all the parish there, +Points out the place of either yew: +'Here Baucis, there Philemon grew; +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn cut Baucis down. +At which 'tis hard to be believed +How much the other tree was grieved, +Grew scrubby, died atop, was stunted; +So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.' + + +ON POETRY. + +All human race would fain be wits, +And millions miss for one that hits. +Young's Universal Passion, pride, +Was never known to spread so wide. +Say, Britain, could you ever boast +Three poets in an age at most? +Our chilling climate hardly bears +A sprig of bays in fifty years; +While every fool his claim alleges, +As if it grew in common hedges. +What reason can there be assigned +For this perverseness in the mind? +Brutes find out where their talents lie: +A bear will not attempt to fly; +A foundered horse will oft debate +Before he tries a five-barred gate; +A dog by instinct turns aside, +Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;-- +But man we find the only creature, +Who, led by folly, combats nature; +Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, +With obstinacy fixes there; +And, where his genius least inclines, +Absurdly bends his whole designs. + +Not empire to the rising sun +By valour, conduct, fortune won; +Not highest wisdom in debates +For framing laws to govern states; +Not skill in sciences profound +So large to grasp the circle round, +Such heavenly influence require, +As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + +Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; +Not bastard of a pedlar Scot; +Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, +The spawn of Bridewell or the stews; +Not infants dropped, the spurious pledges +Of gipsies littering under hedges, +Are so disqualified by fate +To rise in church, or law, or state, +As he whom Phoebus in his ire +Hath blasted with poetic fire. +What hope of custom in the fair, +While not a soul demands your ware? +Where you have nothing to produce +For private life or public use? +Court, city, country, want you not; +You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. +For poets, law makes no provision; +The wealthy have you in derision; +Of state affairs you cannot smatter, +Are awkward when you try to flatter; +Your portion, taking Britain round, +Was just one annual hundred pound; +Now not so much as in remainder, +Since Gibber brought in an attainder, +For ever fixed by right divine, +(A monarch's right,) on Grub Street line. + +Poor starveling bard, how small thy gains! +How unproportioned to thy pains! +And here a simile comes pat in: +Though chickens take a month to fatten, +The guests in less than half an hour +Will more than half a score devour. +So, after toiling twenty days +To earn a stock of pence and praise, +Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, +Are swallowed o'er a dish of tea; +Gone to be never heard of more, +Gone where the chickens went before. +How shall a new attempter learn +Of different spirits to discern, +And how distinguish which is which, +The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? +Then hear an old experienced sinner +Instructing thus a young beginner: +Consult yourself; and if you find +A powerful impulse urge your mind, +Impartial judge within your breast +What subject you can manage best; +Whether your genius most inclines +To satire, praise, or humorous lines, +To elegies in mournful tone, +Or prologues sent from hand unknown; +Then, rising with Aurora's light, +The Muse invoked, sit down to write; +Blot out, correct, insert, refine, +Enlarge, diminish, interline; +Be mindful, when invention fails, +To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + +Your poem finished, next your care +Is needful to transcribe it fair. +In modern wit, all printed trash is +Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + +To statesmen would you give a wipe, +You print it in italic type; +When letters are in vulgar shapes, +'Tis ten to one the wit escapes; +But when in capitals expressed, +The dullest reader smokes the jest; +Or else, perhaps, he may invent +A better than the poet meant; +As learned commentators view +In Homer, more than Homer knew. + +Your poem in its modish dress, +Correctly fitted for the press, +Convey by penny-post to Lintot; +But let no friend alive look into 't. +If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, +You need not fear your labour lost: +And how agreeably surprised +Are you to see it advertised! +The hawker shows you one in print, +As fresh as farthings from a mint: +The product of your toil and sweating, +A bastard of your own begetting. + +Be sure at Will's the following day, +Lie snug, and hear what critics say; +And if you find the general vogue +Pronounces you a stupid rogue, +Damns all your thoughts as low and little, +Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; +Be silent as a politician, +For talking may beget suspicion; +Or praise the judgment of the town, +And help yourself to run it down; +Give up your fond paternal pride, +Nor argue on the weaker side; +For poems read without a name +We justly praise, or justly blame; +And critics have no partial views, +Except they know whom they abuse; +And since you ne'er provoked their spite, +Depend upon 't, their judgment's right. +But if you blab, you are undone: +Consider what a risk you run: +You lose your credit all at once; +The town will mark you for a dunce; +The vilest doggrel Grub Street sends +Will pass for yours with foes and friends; +And you must bear the whole disgrace, +Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + +Your secret kept, your poem sunk, +And sent in quires to line a trunk, +If still you be disposed to rhyme, +Go try your hand a second time. +Again you fail: yet safe's the word; +Take courage, and attempt a third. +But just with care employ your thoughts, +Where critics marked your former faults; +The trivial turns, the borrowed wit, +The similes that nothing fit; +The cant which every fool repeats, +Town jests and coffee-house conceits; +Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, +And introduced the Lord knows why: +Or where we find your fury set +Against the harmless alphabet; +On A's and B's your malice vent, +While readers wonder what you meant: +A public or a private robber, +A statesman, or a South-Sea jobber; +A prelate who no God believes; +A parliament, or den of thieves; +A pick-purse at the bar or bench; +A duchess, or a suburb wench: +Or oft, when epithets you link +In gaping lines to fill a chink; +Like stepping-stones to save a stride, +In streets where kennels are too wide; +Or like a heel-piece, to support +A cripple with one foot too short; +Or like a bridge, that joins a marish +To moorland of a different parish; +So have I seen ill-coupled hounds +Drag different ways in miry grounds; +So geographers in Afric maps +With savage pictures fill their gaps, +And o'er unhabitable downs +Place elephants, for want of towns. + +But though you miss your third essay, +You need not throw your pen away. +Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, +To spring more profitable game. +From party-merit seek support-- +The vilest verse thrives best at court. +And may you ever have the luck, +To rhyme almost as ill as Duck; +And though you never learnt to scan verse, +Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. +A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence +Will never fail to bring in pence: +Nor be concerned about the sale-- +He pays his workmen on the nail. +Display the blessings of the nation, +And praise the whole administration: +Extol the bench of Bishops round; +Who at them rail, bid----confound: +To Bishop-haters answer thus, +(The only logic used by us,) +'What though they don't believe in----, +Deny them Protestants,--thou liest.' + +A prince, the moment he is crowned, +Inherits every virtue round, +As emblems of the sovereign power, +Like other baubles in the Tower; +Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, +And so continues till he dies: +His humble senate this professes +In all their speeches, votes, addresses. +But once you fix him in a tomb, +His virtues fade, his vices bloom, +And each perfection, wrong imputed, +Is fully at his death confuted. +The loads of poems in his praise +Ascending, make one funeral blaze. +As soon as you can hear his knell +This god on earth turns devil in hell; +And lo! his ministers of state, +Transformed to imps, his levee wait, +Where, in the scenes of endless woe, +They ply their former arts below; +And as they sail in Charon's boat, +Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; +To Cerberus they give a sop, +His triple-barking mouth to stop; +Or in the ivory gate of dreams +Project Excise and South-Sea schemes, +Or hire their party pamphleteers +To set Elysium by the ears. + +Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, +Employ your Muse on kings alive; +With prudence gather up a cluster +Of all the virtues you can muster, +Which, formed into a garland sweet, +Lay humbly at your monarch's feet, +Who, as the odours reach his throne, +Will smile and think them all his own; +For law and gospel both determine +All virtues lodge in royal ermine, +(I mean the oracles of both, +Who shall depose it upon oath.) +Your garland in the following reign, +Change but the names, will do again. + +But, if you think this trade too base, +(Which seldom is the dunce's case,) +Put on the critic's brow, and sit +At Will's the puny judge of wit. +A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, +With caution used, may serve a while. +Proceed on further in your part, +Before you learn the terms of art; +For you can never be too far gone +In all our modern critics' jargon; +Then talk with more authentic face +Of unities, in time, and place; +Get scraps of Horace from your friends, +And have them at your fingers' ends; +Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, +And at all hazards boldly quote; +Judicious Rymer oft review, +Wise Dennis, and profound Bossu; +Read all the prefaces of Dryden-- +For these our critics much confide in, +(Though merely writ at first for filling, +To raise the volume's price a shilling.) + +A forward critic often dupes us +With sham quotations _Peri Hupsous_. +And if we have not read Longinus, +Will magisterially outshine us. +Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, +Procure the book for love or money, +Translated from Boileau's translation, +And quote quotation on quotation. + +At Will's you hear a poem read, +Where Battus from the table-head, +Reclining on his elbow-chair, +Gives judgment with decisive air; +To whom the tribes of circling wits +As to an oracle submits. +He gives directions to the town, +To cry it up, or run it down; +Like courtiers, when they send a note, +Instructing members how to vote. +He sets the stamp of bad and good, +Though not a word he understood. +Your lesson learned, you'll be secure +To get the name of connoisseur: +And, when your merits once are known, +Procure disciples of your own. +For poets, (you can never want 'em,) +Spread through Augusta Trinobantum, +Computing by their pecks of coals, +Amount to just nine thousand souls. +These o'er their proper districts govern, +Of wit and humour judges sovereign. +In every street a city-bard +Rules, like an alderman, his ward; +His undisputed rights extend +Through all the lane, from end to end; +The neighbours round admire his shrewdness +For songs of loyalty and lewdness; +Outdone by none in rhyming well, +Although he never learned to spell. +Two bordering wits contend for glory; +And one is Whig, and one is Tory: +And this for epics claims the bays, +And that for elegiac lays: +Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, +By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; +And some as justly Fame extols +For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. +Bavius in Wapping gains renown, +And Mavius reigns o'er Kentish-town; +Tigellius, placed in Phoebus' car, +From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: +Harmonious Cibber entertains +The court with annual birth-day strains; +Whence Gay was banished in disgrace; +Where Pope will never show his face; +Where Young must torture his invention +To flatter knaves, or lose his pension. + +But these are not a thousandth part +Of jobbers in the poet's art; +Attending each his proper station, +And all in due subordination, +Through every alley to be found, +In garrets high, or under ground; +And when they join their pericranies, +Out skips a book of miscellanies. +Hobbes clearly proves that every creature +Lives in a state of war by nature; +The greater for the smallest watch, +But meddle seldom with their match. +A whale of moderate size will draw +A shoal of herrings down his maw; +A fox with geese his belly crams; +A wolf destroys a thousand lambs: +But search among the rhyming race, +The brave are worried by the base. +If on Parnassus' top you sit, +You rarely bite, are always bit. +Each poet of inferior size +On you shall rail and criticise, +And strive to tear you limb from limb; +While others do as much for him. + +The vermin only tease and pinch +Their foes superior by an inch: +So, naturalists observe, a flea +Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; +And these have smaller still to bite 'em, +And so proceed _ad infinitum_. +Thus every poet in his kind +Is bit by him that comes behind: +Who, though too little to be seen, +Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; +Call dunces fools and sons of whores, +Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; +Extol the Greek and Roman masters, +And curse our modern poetasters; +Complain, as many an ancient bard did, +How genius is no more rewarded; +How wrong a taste prevails among us; +How much our ancestors out-sung us; +Can personate an awkward scorn +For those who are not poets born; +And all their brother-dunces lash, +Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + +O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, +Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! +Their filial piety forgot, +Deny their country like a Scot; +Though by their idiom and grimace, +They soon betray their native place. +Yet thou hast greater cause to be +Ashamed of them, than they of thee, +Degenerate from their ancient brood +Since first the court allowed them food. + +Remains a difficulty still, +To purchase fame by writing ill. +From Flecknoe down to Howard's time, +How few have reached the low sublime! +For when our high-born Howard died, +Blackmore alone his place supplied; +And lest a chasm should intervene, +When death had finished Blackmore's reign, +The leaden crown devolved to thee, +Great poet of the Hollow Tree. +But ah! how unsecure thy throne! +A thousand bards thy right disown; +They plot to turn, in factious zeal, +Duncenia to a commonweal; +And with rebellious arms pretend +An equal privilege to defend. + +In bulk there are not more degrees +From elephants to mites in cheese, +Than what a curious eye may trace +In creatures of the rhyming race. +From bad to worse, and worse, they fall; +But who can reach the worst of all? +For though in nature, depth and height +Are equally held infinite; +In poetry, the height we know; +'Tis only infinite below. +For instance, when you rashly think +No rhymer can like Welsted sink, +His merits balanced, you shall find +The laureate leaves him far behind; +Concannen, more aspiring bard, +Soars downwards deeper by a yard; +Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops; +The rest pursue as thick as hops. +With heads to point, the gulf they enter, +Linked perpendicular to the centre; +And, as their heels elated rise, +Their heads attempt the nether skies. + +Oh, what indignity and shame, +To prostitute the Muse's name, +By flattering kings, whom Heaven designed +The plagues and scourges of mankind; +Bred up in ignorance and sloth, +And every vice that nurses both. + +Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, +Whose virtues bear the strictest test; +Whom never faction could bespatter, +Nor minister nor poet flatter; +What justice in rewarding merit! +What magnanimity of spirit! +What lineaments divine we trace +Through all his figure, mien, and face! +Though peace with olive bind his hands, +Confessed the conquering hero stands. +Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, +Dread from his hand impending changes; +From him the Tartar and the Chinese, +Short by the knees, entreat for peace. +The comfort of his throne and bed, +A perfect goddess born and bred; +Appointed sovereign judge to sit +On learning, eloquence and wit. +Our eldest hope, divine Iülus, +(Late, very late, oh, may he rule us!) +What early manhood has he shown, +Before his downy beard was grown! +Then think what wonders will be done, +By going on as he begun, +An heir for Britain to secure +As long as sun and moon endure. + +The remnant of the royal blood +Comes pouring on me like a flood: +Bright goddesses, in number five; +Duke William, sweetest prince alive! + +Now sings the minister of state, +Who shines alone without a mate. +Observe with what majestic port +This Atlas stands to prop the court, +Intent the public debts to pay, +Like prudent Fabius, by delay. +Thou great vicegerent of the king, +Thy praises every Muse shall sing! +In all affairs thou sole director, +Of wit and learning chief protector; +Though small the time thou hast to spare, +The church is thy peculiar care. +Of pious prelates what a stock +You choose, to rule the sable flock! +You raise the honour of your peerage, +Proud to attend you at the steerage; +You dignify the noble race, +Content yourself with humbler place. +Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, +To titles give the sole pretence. +St George beheld thee with delight +Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, +When on thy breasts and sides herculean +He fixed the star and string cerulean. + +Say, poet, in what other nation, +Shone ever such a constellation! +Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, +And tune your harps, and strew your bays: +Your panegyrics here provide; +You cannot err on flattery's side. +Above the stars exalt your style, +You still are low ten thousand mile. +On Louis all his bards bestowed +Of incense many a thousand load; +But Europe mortified his pride, +And swore the fawning rascals lied. +Yet what the world refused to Louis, +Applied to George, exactly true is. +Exactly true! invidious poet! +'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + +Translate me now some lines, if you can, +From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. +They could all power in heaven divide, +And do no wrong on either side; +They teach you how to split a hair, +Give George and Jove an equal share. +Yet why should we be laced so strait? +I'll give my monarch butter weight; +And reason good, for many a year +Jove never intermeddled here: +Nor, though his priests be duly paid, +Did ever we desire his aid: +We now can better do without him, +Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR SWIFT. + + Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucault, 'Dans + l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque + chose qui ne nous déplaît pas;'--'In the adversity of our best + friends, we always find something that doth not displease us.' + + As Rochefoucault his maxims drew + From nature, I believe them true: + +They argue no corrupted mind +In him; the fault is in mankind. + +This maxim more than all the rest +Is thought too base for human breast: +'In all distresses of our friends, +We first consult our private ends; +While nature, kindly bent to ease us, +Points out some circumstance to please us.' + +If this perhaps your patience move, +Let reason and experience prove. + +We all behold with envious eyes +Our equals raised above our size. +Who would not at a crowded show +Stand high himself, keep others low? +I love my friend as well as you: +But why should he obstruct my view? +Then let me have the higher post; +Suppose it but an inch at most. +If in a battle you should find +One, whom you love of all mankind, +Had some heroic action done, +A champion killed, or trophy won; +Rather than thus be over-topped, +Would you not wish his laurels cropped? +Dear honest Ned is in the gout, +Lies racked with pain, and you without: +How patiently you hear him groan! +How glad the case is not your own! + +What poet would not grieve to see +His brother write as well as he? +But, rather than they should excel, +Would wish his rivals all in hell? + +Her end when emulation misses, +She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: +The strongest friendship yields to pride, +Unless the odds be on our side. +Vain human-kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, +Their empire in our hearts divide. +Give others riches, power, and station, +'Tis all on me an usurpation. +I have no title to aspire; +Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. +In Pope I cannot read a line, +But, with a sigh, I wish it mine: +When he can in one couplet fix +More sense than I can do in six, +It gives me such a jealous fit, +I cry, 'Pox take him and his wit!' +I grieve to be outdone by Gay +In my own humorous, biting way. +Arbuthnot is no more my friend, +Who dares to irony pretend, +Which I was born to introduce, +Refined at first, and showed its use. +St John, as well as Pultney, knows +That I had some repute for prose; +And, till they drove me out of date, +Could maul a minister of state. +If they have mortified my pride, +And made me throw my pen aside; +If with such talents Heaven hath blest 'em, +Have I not reason to detest 'em? + +To all my foes, dear Fortune, send +Thy gifts; but never to my friend: +I tamely can endure the first; +But this with envy makes me burst. + +Thus much may serve by way of proem; +Proceed we therefore to our poem. + +The time is not remote when I +Must by the course of nature die; +When, I foresee, my special friends +Will try to find their private ends: +And, though 'tis hardly understood +Which way my death can do them good, +Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: +'See how the Dean begins to break! +Poor gentleman, he droops apace! +You plainly find it in his face. +That old vertigo in his head +Will never leave him, till he's dead. +Besides, his memory decays: +He recollects not what he says; +He cannot call his friends to mind; +Forgets the place where last he dined; +Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; +He told them fifty times before. +How does he fancy we can sit +To hear his out-of-fashion wit? +But he takes up with younger folks, +Who for his wine will bear his jokes. +Faith! he must make his stories shorter, +Or change his comrades once a quarter: +In half the time he talks them round, +There must another set be found. + +'For poetry, he's past his prime: +He takes an hour to find a rhyme; +His fire is out, his wit decayed, +His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. +I'd have him throw away his pen;-- +But there's no talking to some men!' + +And then their tenderness appears +By adding largely to my years: +'He's older than he would be reckoned, +And well remembers Charles the Second. +He hardly drinks a pint of wine; +And that, I doubt, is no good sign. +His stomach too begins to fail: +Last year we thought him strong and hale; +But now he's quite another thing: +I wish he may hold out till spring!' +They hug themselves, and reason thus: +'It is not yet so bad with us!' + +In such a case, they talk in tropes, +And by their fears express their hopes. +Some great misfortune to portend, +No enemy can match a friend. +With all the kindness they profess, +The merit of a lucky guess +(When daily how-d'ye's come of course, +And servants answer, 'Worse and worse!') +Would please them better, than to tell, +That, 'God be praised, the Dean is well.' +Then he who prophesied the best, +Approves his foresight to the rest: +'You know I always feared the worst, +And often told you so at first.' +He'd rather choose that I should die, +Than his predictions prove a lie. +Not one foretells I shall recover; +But all agree to give me over. + +Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain +Just in the parts where I complain; +How many a message would he send! +What hearty prayers that I should mend! +Inquire what regimen I kept; +What gave me ease, and how I slept; +And more lament when I was dead, +Than all the snivellers round my bed. + +My good companions, never fear; +For, though you may mistake a year, +Though your prognostics run too fast, +They must be verified at last. + +Behold the fatal day arrive! +'How is the Dean?'--'He's just alive.' +Now the departing prayer is read; +He hardly breathes--The Dean is dead. + +Before the passing-bell begun, +The news through half the town is run. +'Oh! may we all for death prepare! +What has he left? and who's his heir?' +'I know no more than what the news is; +'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.' +'To public uses! there's a whim! +What had the public done for him? +Mere envy, avarice, and pride: +He gave it all--but first he died. +And had the Dean, in all the nation, +No worthy friend, no poor relation? +So ready to do strangers good, +Forgetting his own flesh and blood!' + +Now Grub-Street wits are all employed; +With elegies the town is cloyed: +Some paragraph in every paper, +To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. +The doctors, tender of their fame, +Wisely on me lay all the blame. +'We must confess, his case was nice; +But he would never take advice. +Had he been ruled, for aught appears, +He might have lived these twenty years: +For, when we opened him, we found +That all his vital parts were sound.' + +From Dublin soon to London spread, +'Tis told at court, 'The Dean is dead.' +And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, +Runs laughing up to tell the queen. +The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, +Cries, 'Is he gone!'tis time he should. +He's dead, you say; then let him rot. +I'm glad the medals were forgot. +I promised him, I own; but when? +I only was the princess then; +But now, as consort of the king, +You know,'tis quite another thing.' + +Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, +Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: +'Why, if he died without his shoes,' +Cries Bob, 'I'm sorry for the news: +Oh, were the wretch but living still, +And in his place my good friend Will! +Or had a mitre on his head, +Provided Bolingbroke were dead!' + +Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: +Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! +And then, to make them pass the glibber, +Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. +He'll treat me as he does my betters, +Publish my will, my life, my letters; +Revive the libels born to die: +Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + +Here shift the scene, to represent +How those I love my death lament. +Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay +A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + +St John himself will scarce forbear +To bite his pen, and drop a tear. +The rest will give a shrug, and cry, +'I'm sorry--but we all must die!' + +Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, +All fortitude of mind supplies: +For how can stony bowels melt +In those who never pity felt! +When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, +Resigning to the will of God. + +The fools, my juniors by a year, +Are tortured with suspense and fear; +Who wisely thought my age a screen, +When death approached, to stand between: +The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; +They mourn for me without dissembling. + +My female friends, whose tender hearts +Have better learned to act their parts, +Receive the news in doleful dumps: +'The Dean is dead: (Pray, what is trumps?) +Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! +(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) +Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall: +(I wish I knew what king to call.) +Madam, your husband will attend +The funeral of so good a friend.' +'No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; +And he's engaged to-morrow night: +My Lady Club will take it ill, +If he should fail her at quadrille. +He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart)-- +But dearest friends, they say, must part. +His time was come; he ran his race; +We hope he's in a better place.' + +Why do we grieve that friends should die? +No loss more easy to supply. +One year is past; a different scene! +No further mention of the Dean, +Who now, alas! no more is missed, +Than if he never did exist. +Where's now the favourite of Apollo? +Departed:--and his works must follow; +Must undergo the common fate; +His kind of wit is out of date. + +Some country squire to Lintot goes, +Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. +Says Lintot, 'I have heard the name; +He died a year ago.'--'The same.' +He searches all the shop in vain. +'Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane: +I sent them, with a load of books, +Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. +To fancy they could live a year! +I find you're but a stranger here. +The Dean was famous in his time, +And had a kind of knack at rhyme. +His way of writing now is past: +The town has got a better taste. +I keep no antiquated stuff; +But spick and span I have enough. +Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: +Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. +This ode you never yet have seen, +By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. +Then here's a letter finely penned +Against the Craftsman and his friend: +It clearly shows that all reflection +On ministers is disaffection. +Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, +And Mr Henley's last oration. +The hawkers have not got them yet; +Your honour please to buy a set? + +'Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; +'Tis read by every politician: +The country-members, when in town, +To all their boroughs send them down: +You never met a thing so smart; +The courtiers have them all by heart: +Those maids of honour who can read, +Are taught to use them for their creed. +The reverend author's good intention +Hath been rewarded with a pension: +He doth an honour to his gown, +By bravely running priestcraft down: +He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, +That Moses was a grand impostor; +That all his miracles were cheats, +Performed as jugglers do their feats: +The church had never such a writer; +A shame he hath not got a mitre!' + +Suppose me dead; and then suppose +A club assembled at the Rose; +Where, from discourse of this and that, +I grow the subject of their chat. +And while they toss my name about, +With favour some, and some without; +One, quite indifferent in the cause, +My character impartial draws: + +'The Dean, if we believe report, +Was never ill received at court, +Although, ironically grave, +He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave; +To steal a hint was never known, +But what he writ was all his own.' + +'Sir, I have heard another story; +He was a most confounded Tory, +And grew, or he is much belied, +Extremely dull, before he died.' + +'Can we the Drapier then forget? +Is not our nation in his debt? +'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!'-- + +'He should have left them for his betters; +We had a hundred abler men, +Nor need depend upon his pen.-- +Say what you will about his reading, +You never can defend his breeding; +Who, in his satires running riot, +Could never leave the world in quiet; +Attacking, when he took the whim, +Court, city, camp,--all one to him.-- +But why would he, except he slobbered, +Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, +Whose counsels aid the sovereign power +To save the nation every hour! +What scenes of evil he unravels +In satires, libels, lying travels, +Not sparing his own clergy cloth, +But eats into it, like a moth!' + +'Perhaps I may allow the Dean +Had too much satire in his vein, +And seemed determined not to starve it, +Because no age could more deserve it. +Yet malice never was his aim; +He lashed the vice, but spared the name. + +No individual could resent, +Where thousands equally were meant: +His satire points at no defect, +But what all mortals may correct; +For he abhorred the senseless tribe +Who call it humour when they gibe: +He spared a hump or crooked nose, +Whose owners set not up for beaux. +True genuine dulness moved his pity, +Unless it offered to be witty. +Those who their ignorance confessed +He ne'er offended with a jest; +But laughed to hear an idiot quote +A verse from Horace learned by rote. +Vice, if it e'er can be abashed, +Must be or ridiculed, or lashed. +If you resent it, who's to blame? +He neither knows you, nor your name. +Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, +Because its owner is a dukel? +His friendships, still to few confined, +Were always of the middling kind; +No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, +Who fain would pass for lords indeed: +Where titles give no right or power, +And peerage is a withered flower; +He would have deemed it a disgrace, +If such a wretch had known his face. +On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, +He vented oft his wrath in vain: +* * * * * * * squires to market brought, +Who sell their souls and * * * * for nought. +The * * * * * * * * go joyful back, +To rob the church, their tenants rack; +Go snacks with * * * * * justices, +And keep the peace to pick up fees; +In every job to have a share, +A gaol or turnpike to repair; +And turn * * * * * * * to public roads +Commodious to their own abodes. + +'He never thought an honour done him, +Because a peer was proud to own him; +Would rather slip aside, and choose +To talk with wits in dirty shoes; +And scorn the tools with stars and garters, +So often seen caressing Chartres. +He never courted men in station, +Nor persons held in admiration; +Of no man's greatness was afraid, +Because he sought for no man's aid. +Though trusted long in great affairs, +He gave himself no haughty airs: +Without regarding private ends, +Spent all his credit for his friends; +And only chose the wise and good; +No flatterers; no allies in blood: +But succoured virtue in distress, +And seldom failed of good success; +As numbers in their hearts must own, +Who, but for him, had been unknown. + +'He kept with princes due decorum; +Yet never stood in awe before 'em. +He followed David's lesson just, +In princes never put his trust: +And, would you make him truly sour, +Provoke him with a slave in power. +The Irish senate if you named, +With what impatience he declaimed! +Fair LIBERTY was all his cry; +For her he stood prepared to die; +For her he boldly stood alone; +For her he oft exposed his own. +Two kingdoms, just as faction led, +Had set a price upon his head; +But not a traitor could be found, +To sell him for six hundred pound. + +'Had he but spared his tongue and pen, +He might have rose like other men: +But power was never in his thought, +And wealth he valued not a groat: +Ingratitude he often found, +And pitied those who meant to wound; +But kept the tenor of his mind, +To merit well of human-kind; +Nor made a sacrifice of those +Who still were true, to please his foes. +He laboured many a fruitless hour, +To reconcile his friends in power; +Saw mischief by a faction brewing, +While they pursued each other's ruin. +But, finding vain was all his care, +He left the court in mere despair. + +'And, oh! how short are human schemes! +Here ended all our golden dreams. +What St John's skill in state affairs, +What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, +To save their sinking country lent, +Was all destroyed by one event. +Too soon that precious life was ended, +On which alone our weal depended. +When up a dangerous faction starts, +With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; +By solemn league and covenant bound, +To ruin, slaughter, and confound; +To turn religion to a fable, +And make the government a Babel; +Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, +Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; +To sacrifice old England's glory, +And make her infamous in story: +When such a tempest shook the land, +How could unguarded virtue stand! + +'With horror, grief, despair, the Dean +Beheld the dire destructive scene: +His friends in exile, or the Tower, +Himself within the frown of power; +Pursued by base envenomed pens, +Far to the land of S---- and fens; +A servile race in folly nursed, +Who truckle most, when treated worst. + +'By innocence and resolution, +He bore continual persecution; +While numbers to preferment rose, +Whose merit was to be his foes; +When even his own familiar friends, +Intent upon their private ends, +Like renegadoes now he feels, +Against him lifting up their heels. + +'The Dean did, by his pen, defeat +An infamous destructive cheat; +Taught fools their interest how to know, +And gave them arms to ward the blow. +Envy hath owned it was his doing, +To save that hapless land from ruin; +While they who at the steerage stood, +And reaped the profit, sought his blood. + +'To save them from their evil fate, +In him was held a crime of state. +A wicked monster on the bench, +Whose fury blood could never quench; +As vile and profligate a villain, +As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; +Who long all justice had discarded, +Nor feared he God, nor man regarded; +Vowed on the Dean his rage to vent, +And make him of his zeal repent: +But Heaven his innocence defends, +The grateful people stand his friends; +Not strains of law, nor judges' frown, +Nor topics brought to please the crown, +Nor witness hired, nor jury picked, +Prevail to bring him in convict. + +'In exile, with a steady heart, +He spent his life's declining part; +Where folly, pride, and faction sway, +Remote from St John, Pope, and Gay.' + +'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope +Was to be held a misanthrope. +This into general odium drew him, +Which if he liked, much good may't do him. +His zeal was not to lash our crimes, +But discontent against the times: +For, had we made him timely offers +To raise his post, or fill his coffers, +Perhaps he might have truckled down, +Like other brethren of his gown; +For party he would scarce have bled:-- +I say no more--because he's dead.-- +What writings has he left behind?' + +'I hear they're of a different kind: +A few in verse; but most in prose--' + +'Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose:-- +All scribbled in the worst of times, +To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; +To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, +As never favouring the Pretender: +Or libels yet concealed from sight, +Against the court to show his spite: +Perhaps his travels, part the third; +A lie at every second word-- +Offensive to a loyal ear:-- +But--not one sermon, you may swear.' + +'He knew an hundred pleasing stories, +With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: +Was cheerful to his dying-day; +And friends would let him have his way. + +'As for his works in verse or prose, +I own myself no judge of those. +Nor can I tell what critics thought them; +But this I know, all people bought them, +As with a moral view designed, +To please and to reform mankind: +And, if he often missed his aim, +The world must own it to their shame, +The praise is his, and theirs the blame. +He gave the little wealth he had +To build a house for fools and mad; +To show, by one satiric touch, +No nation wanted it so much. +That kingdom he hath left his debtor, +I wish it soon may have a better. +And, since you dread no further lashes, +Methinks you may forgive his ashes.' + + +A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE +LEGION-CLUB. 1736. + +As I stroll the city, oft I +See a building large and lofty, +Not a bow-shot from the college; +Half the globe from sense and knowledge: +By the prudent architect, +Placed against the church direct, +Making good thy grandame's jest, +'Near the church'--you know the rest. + +Tell us what the pile contains? +Many a head that holds no brains. +These demoniacs let me dub +With the name of Legion-Club. +Such assemblies, you might swear, +Meet when butchers bait a bear; +Such a noise, and such haranguing, +When a brother thief is hanging: +Such a rout and such a rabble +Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble; +Such a crowd their ordure throws +On a far less villain's nose. + +Could I from the building's top +Hear the rattling thunder drop, +While the devil upon the roof +(If the devil be thunder-proof) +Should with poker fiery red +Crack the stones, and melt the lead; +Drive them down on every skull, +While the den of thieves is full; +Quite destroy the harpies' nest; +How might then our isle be blest! +For divines allow that God +Sometimes makes the devil his rod; +And the gospel will inform us, +He can punish sins enormous. + +Yet should Swift endow the schools, +For his lunatics and fools, +With a rood or two of land, +I allow the pile may stand. +You perhaps will ask me, Why so? +But it is with this proviso: +Since the house is like to last, +Let the royal grant be passed, +That the club have right to dwell +Each within his proper cell, +With a passage left to creep in, +And a hole above for peeping. +Let them when they once get in, +Sell the nation for a pin; +While they sit a-picking straws, +Let them rave at making laws; +While they never hold their tongue, +Let them dabble in their dung; +Let them form a grand committee, +How to plague and starve the city; +Let them stare, and storm, and frown, +When they see a clergy gown; +Let them, ere they crack a louse, +Call for the orders of the house; +Let them, with their gosling quills, +Scribble senseless heads of bills. +We may, while they strain their throats, +Wipe our a--s with their votes. +Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, +Stuff his guts with flax and grass; +But, before the priest he fleeces, +Tear the Bible all to pieces: +At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, +Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, +Footman, traitor, vile seducer, +Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, +Lay thy privilege aside, +Sprung from Papist regicide; +Fall a-working like a mole, +Raise the dirt about your hole. + +Come, assist me, muse obedient! +Let us try some new expedient; +Shift the scene for half an hour, +Time and place are in thy power. +Thither, gentle muse, conduct me; +I shall ask, and you instruct me. + +See the muse unbars the gate! +Hark, the monkeys, how they prate! + +All ye gods who rule the soul! +Styx, through hell whose waters roll! +Let me be allowed to tell +What I heard in yonder cell. + +Near the door an entrance gapes, +Crowded round with antic shapes, +Poverty, and Grief, and Care, +Causeless Joy, and true Despair; +Discord periwigged with snakes, +See the dreadful strides she takes! + +By this odious crew beset, +I began to rage and fret, +And resolved to break their pates, +Ere we entered at the gates; +Had not Clio in the nick +Whispered me, 'Lay down your stick.' +What, said I, is this the mad-house? +These, she answered, are but shadows, +Phantoms bodiless and vain, +Empty visions of the brain.' + +In the porch Briareus stands, +Shows a bribe in all his hands; +Briareus, the secretary, +But we mortals call him Carey. +When the rogues their country fleece, +They may hope for pence a-piece. + +Clio, who had been so wise +To put on a fool's disguise, +To bespeak some approbation, +And be thought a near relation, +When she saw three hundred brutes +All involved in wild disputes, +Roaring till their lungs were spent, +'Privilege of Parliament.' +Now a new misfortune feels, +Dreading to be laid by the heels. +Never durst the muse before +Enter that infernal door; +Clio, stifled with the smell, +Into spleen and vapours fell, +By the Stygian steams that flew +From the dire infectious crew. +Not the stench of Lake Avernus +Could have more offended her nose; +Had she flown but o'er the top, +She had felt her pinions drop, +And by exhalations dire, +Though a goddess, must expire. +In a fright she crept away; +Bravely I resolved to stay. + +When I saw the keeper frown, +Tipping him with half-a-crown, +Now, said I, we are alone, +Name your heroes one by one. + +Who is that hell-featured brawler? +Is it Satan? No,'tis Waller. +In what figure can a bard dress +Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? +Honest keeper, drive him further, +In his looks are hell and murther; +See the scowling visage drop, +Just as when he murdered T----p. +Keeper, show me where to fix +On the puppy pair of Dicks; +By their lantern jaws and leathern, +You might swear they both are brethren: +Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, +Old acquaintance, are you there? +Dear companions, hug and kiss, +Toast Old Glorious in your piss: +Tie them, keeper, in a tether, +Let them starve and stink together; +Both are apt to be unruly, +Lash them daily, lash them duly; +Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, +Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them. + +Keeper, yon old dotard smoke, +Sweetly snoring in his cloak; +Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne, +Half encompassed by his kin: +There observe the tribe of Bingham, +For he never fails to bring 'em; +While he sleeps the whole debate, +They submissive round him wait; +Yet would gladly see the hunks +In his grave, and search his trunks. +See, they gently twitch his coat, +Just to yawn and give his vote, +Always firm in his vocation, +For the court, against the nation. + +Those are A----s Jack and Bob, +First in every wicked job, +Son and brother to a queer +Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. +We must give them better quarter, +For their ancestor trod mortar, +And at H----th, to boast his fame, +On a chimney cut his name. + +There sit Clements, D----ks, and Harrison, +How they swagger from their garrison! +Such a triplet could you tell +Where to find on this side hell? +Harrison, D----ks, and Clements, +Keeper, see they have their payments; +Every mischief's in their hearts; +If they fail, 'tis want of parts. + +Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man! +Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman! +Chairman to yon damned committee! +Yet I look on thee with pity. +Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan +Metamorphosed to a Gorgon? +For thy horrid looks I own, +Half convert me to a stone, +Hast thou been so long at school, +Now to turn a factious tool? +Alma Mater was thy mother, +Every young divine thy brother. +Thou a disobedient varlet, +Treat thy mother like a harlot! +Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, +Who are all grown reverend preachers! +Morgan, would it not surprise one! +Turn thy nourishment to poison! +When you walk among your books, +They reproach you with your looks. +Bind them fast, or from their shelves +They will come and right themselves; +Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, +All in arms prepare to back us. +Soon repent, or put to slaughter +Every Greek and Roman author. +Will you, in your faction's phrase, +Send the clergy all to graze, +And, to make your project pass, +Leave them not a blade of grass? +How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! +Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art, +Were but you and I acquainted, +Every monster should be painted: +You should try your graving-tools +On this odious group of fools: +Draw the beasts as I describe them +From their features, while I gibe them; +Draw them like; for I assure you, +You will need no _car'catura;_ +Draw them so, that we may trace +All the soul in every face. +Keeper, I must now retire, +You have done what I desire: +But I feel my spirits spent +With the noise, the sight, the scent. + +'Pray be patient; you shall find +Half the best are still behind: +You have hardly seen a score; +I can show two hundred more.' +Keeper, I have seen enough.-- +Taking then a pinch of snuff, +I concluded, looking round them, +'May their god, the devil, confound them. +Take them, Satan, as your due, +All except the Fifty-two.' + +[1] 'Sir Tom:' Sir Thomas Prendergrast, a privy councillor. + + + + +ISAAC WATTS. + + +We feel relieved, and so doubtless do our readers, in passing from the +dark tragic story of Swift, and his dubious and unhappy character, to +contemplate the useful career of a much smaller, but a much better man, +Isaac Watts. This admirable person was born at Southampton on the 17th +of July 1674. His father, of the same name, kept a boarding-school for +young gentlemen, and was a man of intelligence and piety. Isaac was the +eldest of nine children, and began early to display precocity of genius. +At four he commenced to study Latin at home, and afterwards, under one +Pinhorn, a clergyman, who kept the free-school at Southampton, he +learned Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. A subscription was proposed for +sending him to one of the great universities, but he preferred casting +in his lot with the Dissenters. He repaired accordingly, in 1690, to +an academy kept by the Rev. Thomas Rowe, whose son, we believe, became +the husband of the celebrated Elizabeth Rowe, the once popular author +of 'Letters from the Dead to the Living.' The Rowes belonged to the +Independent body. At this academy Watts began to write poetry, chiefly +in the Latin language, and in the then popular Pindaric measure. At the +age of twenty, he returned to his father's house, and spent two quiet +years in devotion, meditation, and study. He became next a tutor in the +family of Sir John Hartopp for five years. He was afterwards chosen +assistant to Dr Chauncey, and, after the Doctor's death, became his +successor. His health, however, failed, and, after getting an assistant +for a while, he was compelled to resign. In 1712, Sir Thomas Abney, a +benevolent gentleman of the neighbourhood, received Watts into his +house, where he continued during the rest of his life--all his wants +attended to, and his feeble frame so tenderly cared for that he lived +to the age of seventy-five. Sir Thomas died eight years after Dr Watts +entered his establishment, but the widow and daughters continued +unwearied in their attentions. Abney House was a mansion surrounded by +fine gardens and pleasure-grounds, where the Doctor became thoroughly +at home, and was wont to refresh his body and mind in the intervals +of study. He preached regularly to a congregation, and in the pulpit, +although his stature was low, not exceeding five feet, the excellence +of his matter, the easy flow of his language, and the propriety of his +pronunciation, rendered him very popular. In private he was exceedingly +kind to the poor and to children, giving to the former a third part +of his small income of £100 a-year, and writing for the other his +inimitable hymns. Besides these, he published a well-known treatise +on Logic, another on 'The Improvement of the Mind,' besides various +theological productions, amongst which his 'World to Come' has been +preeminently popular. In 1728, he received from Edinburgh and Aberdeen +an unsolicited diploma of Doctor of Divinity. As age advanced, he found +himself unable to discharge his ministerial duties, and offered to remit +his salary, but his congregation refused to accept his demission. On the +25th November 1748, quite worn out, but without suffering, this able and +worthy man expired. + +If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, +it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other +treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, +and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of +millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he +shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and +so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his +detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this +epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious +foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of +supplication to God for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me! +O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and +containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever +heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only +a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the +little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be +those of simple, heartfelt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder +Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these +not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple +breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts +consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius. + + +FEW HAPPY MATCHES. + +1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song, + To whom thy sweetest joys belong, + And who the happy pairs, + Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, + Find blessings twisted with their bands, + To soften all their cares. + +2 Not the wild herds of nymphs and swains + That thoughtless fly into thy chains, + As custom leads the way: + If there be bliss without design, + Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, + And be as blest as they. + +3 Not sordid souls of earthly mould + Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, + To dull embraces move: + So two rich mountains of Peru + May rush to wealthy marriage too, + And make a world of love. + +4 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires + With wanton flames; those raging fires + The purer bliss destroy: + On Aetna's top let furies wed, + And sheets of lightning dress the bed, + To improve the burning joy. + +5 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms + None of the melting passions warms + Can mingle hearts and hands: + Logs of green wood that quench the coals + Are married just like stoic souls, + With osiers for their bands. + +6 Not minds of melancholy strain, + Still silent, or that still complain, + Can the dear bondage bless: + As well may heavenly concerts spring + From two old lutes with ne'er a string, + Or none besides the bass. + +7 Nor can the soft enchantments hold + Two jarring souls of angry mould, + The rugged and the keen: + Samson's young foxes might as well + In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, + With firebrands tied between. + +8 Nor let the cruel fetters bind + A gentle to a savage mind, + For love abhors the sight: + Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, + For native rage and native fear + Rise and forbid delight. + +9 Two kindest souls alone must meet; + 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, + And feeds their mutual loves: + Bright Venus on her rolling throne + Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, + And Cupids yoke the doves. + + +THE SLUGGARD. + +1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, + 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.' + As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, + Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. + +2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;' + Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; + And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, + Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. + +3 I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, + The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher; + The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, + And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs. + +4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find + He had took better care for improving his mind; + He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, + But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. + +5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me: + That man's but a picture of what I might be; + But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, + Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.' + + +THE ROSE. + +1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! + The glory of April and May! + But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, + And they wither and die in a day. + +2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, + Above all the flowers of the field: + When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, + Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! + +3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, + Though they bloom and look gay like the rose: + But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; + Time kills them as fast as he goes. + +4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, + Since both of them wither and fade: + But gain a good name by well doing my duty; + This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead. + + +A CRADLE HYMN. + +1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, + Holy angels guard thy bed! + Heavenly blessings without number + Gently falling on thy head. + +2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, + House and home, thy friends provide; + All without thy care or payment, + All thy wants are well supplied. + +3 How much better thou'rt attended + Than the Son of God could be, + When from heaven he descended, + And became a child like thee! + +4 Soft and easy in thy cradle: + Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, + When his birthplace was a stable, + And his softest bed was hay. + +5 Blessed babe! what glorious features, + Spotless fair, divinely bright! + Must he dwell with brutal creatures? + How could angels bear the sight? + +6 Was there nothing but a manger + Cursed sinners could afford, + To receive the heavenly Stranger! + Did they thus affront their Lord? + +7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, + Though my song might sound too hard; + This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee, + { nurse that } + And her arms shall be thy guard. + +8 Yet to read the shameful story, + How the Jews abused their King, + How they served the Lord of glory, + Makes me angry while I sing. + +9 See the kinder shepherds round him, + Telling wonders from the sky! + Where they sought him, where they found him, + With his virgin mother by. + +10 See the lovely babe a-dressing; + Lovely infant, how he smiled! + When he wept, the mother's blessing + Soothed and hushed the holy child. + +11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger, + Where the horned oxen fed: + Peace, my darling, here's no danger, + Here's no ox a-near thy bed. + +12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, + Save my dear from burning flame, + Bitter groans, and endless crying, + That thy blest Redeemer came. + +13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him, + Trust and love him, all thy days; + Then go dwell for ever near him, + See his face, and sing his praise! + +14 I could give thee thousand kisses, + Hoping what I most desire; + Not a mother's fondest wishes + Can to greater joys aspire. + +[1] Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend. + + +BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY. + + The beauty of my native land + Immortal love inspires; + I burn, I burn with strong desires, + And sigh and wait the high command. + There glides the moon her shining way, + And shoots my heart through with a silver ray. + Upward my heart aspires: + A thousand lamps of golden light, + Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, + And wink and beckon with their amorous fires. + O ye fair glories of my heavenly home, + Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court, + Where all the happy minds resort! + When will my Father's chariot come? + Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round, + For ever see the mourner lie + An exile of the sky, + A prisoner of the ground? + Descend, some shining servants from on high, + Build me a hasty tomb; + A grassy turf will raise my head; + The neighbouring lilies dress my bed, + And shed a sweet perfume. + Here I put off the chains of death, + My soul too long has worn: + Friends, I forbid one groaning breath, + Or tear to wet my urn. + Raphael, behold me all undressed; + Here gently lay this flesh to rest, + Then mount and lead the path unknown. +Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own. + + +TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE. + + Great man, permit the muse to climb, + And seat her at thy feet; + Bid her attempt a thought sublime, + And consecrate her wit. + I feel, I feel the attractive force + Of thy superior soul: + My chariot flies her upward course, + The wheels divinely roll. + Now let me chide the mean affairs + And mighty toil of men: + How they grow gray in trifling cares, + Or waste the motion of the spheres + Upon delights as vain! + A puff of honour fills the mind, + And yellow dust is solid good; + + Thus, like the ass of savage kind, + We snuff the breezes of the wind, + Or steal the serpent's food. + Could all the choirs + That charm the poles + But strike one doleful sound, + 'Twould be employed to mourn our souls, + Souls that were framed of sprightly fires, + In floods of folly drowned. +Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy; +How they disclaim their heavenly birth, +Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth, +And hate to be refined from that impure alloy. + + Oft has thy genius roused us hence + With elevated song, + Bid us renounce this world of sense, + Bid us divide the immortal prize + With the seraphic throng: + 'Knowledge and love make spirits blest, + Knowledge their food, and love their rest;' + But flesh, the unmanageable beast, + Resists the pity of thine eyes, + And music of thy tongue. + Then let the worms of grovelling mind + Round the short joys of earthly kind + In restless windings roam; + Howe hath an ample orb of soul, + Where shining worlds of knowledge roll, + Where love, the centre and the pole, + Completes the heaven at home. + + + + +AMBROSE PHILIPS. + + +This gentleman--remembered now chiefly as Pope's temporary rival--was +born in 1671, in Leicestershire; studied at Cambridge; and, being +a great Whig, was appointed by the government of George I. to be +Commissioner of the Collieries, and afterwards to some lucrative +appointments in Ireland. He was also made one of the Commissioners of +the Lottery. He was elected member for Armagh in the Irish House of +Commons. He returned home in 1748, and died the next year in his +lodgings at Vauxhall. + +His works are 'The Distressed Mother,' a tragedy translated from Racine, +and greatly praised in the _Spectator_; two deservedly forgotten plays, +'The Briton,' and 'Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester;' some miscellaneous +pieces, of which an epistle to the Earl of Dorset, dated Copenhagen, has +some very vivid lines; his Pastorals, which were commended by Tickell at +the expense of those of Pope, who took his revenge by damning them, not +with 'faint' but with fulsome and ironical praise, in the _Guardian_; +and the subjoined fragment from Sappho, which is, particularly in the +first stanza, melody itself. Some conjecture that it was touched up by +Addison. + + +A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. + +1 Blessed as the immortal gods is he, + The youth who fondly sits by thee, + And hears and sees thee all the while + Softly speak, and sweetly smile. + +2 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, + And raised such tumults in my breast; + For while I gazed, in transport tossed, + My breath was gone, my voice was lost. + +3 My bosom glowed: the subtle flame + Ran quickly through my vital frame; + O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, + My ears with hollow murmurs rung. + +4 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, + My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; + My feeble pulse forgot to play, + I fainted, sunk, and died away. + + + + +WILLIAM HAMILTON. + + +William Hamilton, of Bangour, was born in Ayrshire in 1704. He was of +an ancient family, and mingled from the first in the most fashionable +circles. Ere he was twenty he wrote verses in Ramsay's 'Tea-Table +Miscellany.' In 1745, to the surprise of many, he joined the standard +of Prince Charles, and wrote a poem on the battle of Gladsmuir, or +Prestonpans. When the reverse of his party came, after many wanderings +and hair's-breadth escapes in the Highlands, he found refuge in France. +As he was a general favourite, and as much allowance was made for his +poetical temperament, a pardon was soon procured for him by his friends, +and he returned to his native country. His health, however, originally +delicate, had suffered by his Highland privations, and he was compelled +to seek the milder clime of Lyons, where he died in 1754. + +Hamilton was what is called a ladies'-man, but his attachments were not +deep, and he rather flirted than loved. A Scotch lady, who was annoyed +at his addresses, asked John Home how she could get rid of them. He, +knowing Hamilton well, advised her to appear to favour him. She acted on +the advice, and he immediately withdrew his suit. And yet his best poem +is a tale of love, and a tale, too, told with great simplicity and +pathos. We refer to his 'Braes of Yarrow,' the beauty of which we never +felt fully till we saw some time ago that lovely region, with its 'dowie +dens,'--its clear living stream,--Newark Castle, with its woods and +memories,--and the green wildernesses of silent hills which stretch on +all sides around; saw it, too, in that aspect of which Wordsworth sung +in the words-- + + 'The grace of forest charms decayed + And pastoral melancholy.' + +It is the highest praise we can bestow upon Hamilton's ballad that it +ranks in merit near Wordsworth's fine trinity of poems, 'Yarrow +Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow Revisited.' + + +THE BRAES OF YARROW. + +1 A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, + Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! + Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, + And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. + +2 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? + Where gat ye that winsome marrow? + A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen, + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +3 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, + Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! + Nor let thy heart lament to leave + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +4 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? + Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? + And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? + +5 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, + Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, + And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +6 For she has tint her lover lover dear, + Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, + And I hae slain the comeliest swain + That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +7 Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? + Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? + And why yon melancholious weeds + Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? + +8 What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? + What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! + Tis he, the comely swain I slew + Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. + +9 Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears, + His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, + And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, + And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. + +10 Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, + Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, + And weep around in waeful wise, + His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. + +11 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, + My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, + The fatal spear that pierced his breast, + His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. + +12 Did I not warn thee not to lue, + And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; + O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm + Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. + +13 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, + Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, + Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, + Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. + +14 Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, + As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, + As sweet smells on its braes the birk, + The apple frae the rock as mellow. + +15 Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love + In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; + Though he was fair and weil beloved again, + Than me he never lued thee better. + +16 Busk ye then, busk, my bonny bonny bride, + Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, + Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, + And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. + +17 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, + How can I busk a winsome marrow, + How lue him on the banks of Tweed, + That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow? + +18 O Yarrow fields! may never never rain + Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, + For there was basely slain my love, + My love, as he had not been a lover. + +19 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, + His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin', + Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned + He was in these to meet his ruin. + +20 The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed, + Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, + But e'er the to-fall of the night + He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. + +21 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day; + I sang, my voice the woods returning, + But lang ere night the spear was flown + That slew my love, and left me mourning. + +22 What can my barbarous barbarous father do, + But with his cruel rage pursue me? + My lover's blood is on thy spear, + How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? + +23 My happy sisters may be may be proud; + With cruel and ungentle scoffin', + May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes + My lover nailed in his coffin. + +24 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, + And strive with threatening words to move me; + My lover's blood is on thy spear, + How canst thou ever bid me love thee? + +25 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, + With bridal sheets my body cover, + Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, + Let in the expected husband lover. + +26 But who the expected husband husband is? + His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. + Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, + Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after? + +27 Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, + Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow! + Take aff take aff these bridal weeds, + And crown my careful head with willow. + +28 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved; + Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee, + Ye'd lie all night between my breasts! + No youth lay ever there before thee. + +29 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth; + Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, + And lie all night between my breasts; + No youth shall ever lie there after. + +30 A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, + Return and dry thy useless sorrow: + Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs, + He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. + + + + +ALLAN RAMSAY. + + +Crawford Muir, in Lanarkshire, was the birthplace of this true poet. His +father was manager of the Earl of Hopetoun's lead-mines. Allan was born +in 1686. His mother was Alice Bower, the daughter of an Englishman who +had emigrated from Derbyshire. His father died while his son was yet in +infancy; his mother married again in the same district; and young Allan +was educated at the parish school of Leadhills. At the age of fifteen, +he was sent to Edinburgh, and bound apprentice to a wig-maker there. +This trade, however, he left after finishing his term. He displayed +rather early a passion for literature, and made a little reputation by +some pieces of verse,--such as 'An Address to the Easy Club,' a convivial +society with which he was connected,--and a considerable time after by +a capital continuation of King James' 'Christis Kirk on the Green.' +In 1712, he married a writer's daughter, Christiana Ross, who was his +affectionate companion for thirty years. Soon after, he set up a +bookseller's shop opposite Niddry's Wynd, and in this capacity edited +and published two collections,--the one of songs, some of them his own, +entitled 'The Tea-Table Miscellany,' and the other of early Scottish +poems, entitled 'The Evergreen.' In 1725, he published 'The Gentle +Shepherd.' It was the expansion of one or two pastoral scenes which he +ad shewn to his delighted friends. The poem became instantly popular, +and was republished in London and Dublin, and widely circulated in the +colonies. Pope admired it. Gay, then in Scotland with his patrons the +Queensberry family, used to lounge into Ramsay's shop to get explanations +of its Scotch phrases to transmit to Twickenham, and to watch from the +window the notable characters whom Allan pointed out to him in the +Edinburgh Exchange. He now removed to a better shop, and set up for his +sign the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond, who agreed better in figure +than they had done in reality at Hawthornden. He established the first +circulating library in Scotland. His shop became a centre of intelligence, +and Ramsay sat a Triton among the minnows of that rather mediocre day +--giving his little senate laws, and inditing verses, songs, and fables. +At forty-five--an age when Sir Walter Scott had scarcely commenced his +Waverley novels, and Dryden had by far his greatest works to produce +--honest Allan imagined his vein exhausted, and ceased to write, although +he lived and enjoyed life for nearly thirty years more. At last, after +having lost money and gained obloquy, in a vain attempt to found the +first theatre in Edinburgh, and after building for himself a curious +octagon-shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which, while +he called it Ramsay Lodge, his enemies nicknamed 'The Goose-pie,' and +which, though altered, still, we believe, stands, under the name of +Ramsay Garden, the author of 'The Gentle Shepherd' breathed his last on +the 7th of January 1758. He died of a scurvy in the gums. His son became +a distinguished painter, intimate with Johnson, Burke, and the rest of +that splendid set, although now chiefly remembered from his connexion +with them and with his father. + +Allan Ramsay was a poet with very few of the usual poetical faults. He +had an eye for nature, but he had also an eye for the main chance. He +'kept his shop, and his shop kept him.' He might sing of intrigues, and +revels, and houses of indifferent reputation; but he was himself a +quiet, _canny_, domestic man, seen regularly at kirk and market. He had +a great reverence for the gentry, with whom he fancied himself, and +perhaps was, through the Dalhousie family, connected. He had a vast +opinion of himself; and between pride of blood, pride of genius, and +plenty of means, he was tolerably happy. How different from poor maudlin +Fergusson, or from that dark-browed, dark-eyed, impetuous being who was, +within a year of Ramsay's death, to appear upon the banks of Doon, +coming into the world to sing divinely, to act insanely, and prematurely +to die! + +A bard, in the highest use of the word, in which it approaches the +meaning of prophet, Ramsay was not, else he would not have ceased so +soon to sing. Whatever lyrical impulse was in him speedily wore itself +out, and left him to his milder mission as a broad reflector of Scottish +life--in its humbler, gentler, and better aspects. His 'Gentle Shepherd' +is a chapter of Scottish still-life; and, since the pastoral is +essentially the poetry of peace, the 'Gentle Shepherd' is the finest +pastoral in the world. No thunders roll among these solitary crags; no +lightnings affright these lasses among their _claes_ at Habbie's Howe; +the air is still and soft; the plaintive bleating of the sheep upon the +hills, the echoes of the city are distant and faintly heard, so that the +very sounds seem in unison and in league with silence. One thinks of +Shelley's isle 'mid the Aegean deep:-- + + 'It is an isle under Ionian skies, + Beautiful as the wreck of Paradise; + And for the harbours are not safe and good, + The land would have remained a solitude, + But for some pastoral people, native there, + Who from the Elysian clear and sunny air + Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, + Simple and generous, innocent and bold. + + * * * * * + + The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm + To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm + Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, + From whence the fields and woods ever renew + Their green and golden immortality.' + +Yet in the little circle of calm carved out by the magician of 'The +Gentle Shepherd' there is no insipidity. Lust is sternly excluded, but +love of the purest and warmest kind there breathes. The parade of +learning is not there; but strong common sense thinks, and robust and +manly eloquence declaims. Humour too is there, and many have laughed at +Mause and Baldy, whom all the frigid wit of 'Love for Love' and the +'School for Scandal' could only move to contempt or pity. A _dénouement_ +of great skill is not wanting to stir the calm surface of the story by +the wind of surprise; the curtain falls over a group of innocent, +guileless, and happy hearts, and as we gaze at them we breathe the +prayer, that Scotland's peerage and Scotland's peasantry may always thus +be blended into one bond of mutual esteem, endearment, and excellence. +Well might Campbell say--'Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of +the "Gentle Shepherd" is engraven on the memory of its native country. +Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delight +and solace of the peasantry whom it describes.' + +Ramsay has very slightly touched on the religion of his countrymen. This +is to be regretted; but if he had no sympathy with that, he, at least, +disdained to counterfeit it, and its poetical aspects have since been +adequately sung by other minstrels. + + +LOCHABER NO MORE. + +1 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, +Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; +For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, +We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. +These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, +And no for the dangers attending on weir; +Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, +Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. + +2 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, +They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; +Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, +That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. +To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; +By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; +And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, +And I must deserve it before I can crave. + +3 Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; +Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? +Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, +And without thy favour I'd better not be. +I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, +And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, +I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, +And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. + + +THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. + +1 The last time I came o'er the moor, + I left my love behind me; + Ye powers! what pain do I endure, + When soft ideas mind me! + Soon as the ruddy morn displayed + The beaming day ensuing, + I met betimes my lovely maid, + In fit retreats for wooing. + +2 Beneath the cooling shade we lay, + Gazing and chastely sporting; + We kissed and promised time away, + Till night spread her black curtain. + I pitied all beneath the skies, + E'en kings, when she was nigh me; + In raptures I beheld her eyes, + Which could but ill deny me. + +3 Should I be called where cannons roar, + Where mortal steel may wound me; + Or cast upon some foreign shore, + Where dangers may surround me; + Yet hopes again to see my love, + To feast on glowing kisses, + Shall make my cares at distance move, + In prospect of such blisses. + +4 In all my soul there's not one place + To let a rival enter; + Since she excels in every grace, + In her my love shall centre. + Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, + Their waves the Alps shall cover, + On Greenland ice shall roses grow, + Before I cease to love her. + +5 The next time I go o'er the moor, + She shall a lover find me; + And that my faith is firm and pure, + Though I left her behind me: + Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain + My heart to her fair bosom; + There, while my being does remain, + My love more fresh shall blossom. + + +FROM 'THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.' + +ACT I.--SCENE II. + +PROLOGUE. + +A flowrie howm[1] between twa verdant braes, +Where lasses used to wash and spread their claes,[2] +A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground, +Its channel peebles shining smooth and round: +Here view twa barefoot beauties clean and clear; +First please your eye, then gratify your ear; +While Jenny what she wishes discommends, +And Meg with better sense true love defends. + +PEGGY AND JENNY. + +_Jenny_. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green, +This shining day will bleach our linen clean; +The water's clear, the lift[3] unclouded blue, +Will mak them like a lily wet with dew. + +_Peggy_. Gae farrer up the burn to Habbie's How, +Where a' that's sweet in spring and simmer grow: +Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,[4] +The water fa's, and maks a singin' din: +A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, +Kisses with easy whirls the bordering grass. +We'll end our washing while the morning's cool, +And when the day grows het we'll to the pool, +There wash oursells; 'tis healthfu' now in May, +And sweetly caller on sae warm a day. + +_Jenny_. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say, +Giff our twa herds come brattling down the brae, +And see us sae?--that jeering fellow, Pate, +Wad taunting say, 'Haith, lasses, ye're no blate.'[5] + +_Peggy_. We're far frae ony road, and out of sight; +The lads they're feeding far beyont the height; +But tell me now, dear Jenny, we're our lane, +What gars ye plague your wooer with disdain? +The neighbours a' tent this as well as I; +That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by. +What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa, +He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw. + +_Jenny_. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; +A herd mair sheepish yet I never kenn'd. +He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, +With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; +Whilk pensylie[6] he wears a thought a-jee,[7] +And spreads his garters diced beneath his knee. +He falds his owrelay[8] down his breast with care, +And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair; +For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, +Except, 'How d'ye?--or, 'There's a bonny day.' + +_Peggy_. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride, +Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: +But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld;-- +What like's a dorty[9] maiden when she's auld? +Like dawted wean[10] that tarrows at its meat,[11] +That for some feckless[12] whim will orp[13] and greet: +The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past, +And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, +Or scart anither's leavings at the last. +Fy, Jenny! think, and dinna sit your time. + +_Jenny_. I never thought a single life a crime. + +_Peggy_. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken +That men were made for us, and we for men. + +_Jenny_. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, +For sic a tale I never heard him tell. +He glowers[14] and sighs, and I can guess the cause: +But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws? +Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, +I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. +They're fools that slavery like, and may be free; +The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me. + +_Peggy_. Be doing your ways: for me, I have a mind +To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. + +_Jenny_. Heh! lass, how can ye lo'e that rattleskull? +A very deil, that aye maun have his will! +We soon will hear what a poor fechtin' life +You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife. + +_Peggy_. I'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear, +But rather think ilk langsome day a year, +Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed, +Where on my Patie's breast I'll lay my head. +There he may kiss as lang as kissing's good, +And what we do there's nane dare call it rude. +He's get his will; why no? 'tis good my part +To give him that, and he'll give me his heart. + +_Jenny_. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days +Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise, +And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane: +But soon as your newfangleness is gane, +He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, +And think he's tint his freedom for your sake. +Instead then of lang days of sweet delight, +Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: +And maybe, in his barlichood's,[15] ne'er stick +To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. + +_Peggy_. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want pith to move +My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love. +Patie to me is dearer than my breath, +But want of him, I dread nae other skaith.[16] +There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green +Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een. +And then he speaks with sic a taking art, +His words they thirl like music through my heart. +How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, +And jest at little fears that fright the lave. +Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, +He reads feil[17] books that teach him meikle skill; +He is--but what need I say that or this, +I'd spend a month to tell you what he is! +In a' he says or does there's sic a gate, +The rest seem coofs compared with my dear Pate; +His better sense will lang his love secure: +Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor. + +_Jenny._ Hey, 'bonnylass of Branksome!' or't be lang, +Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. +Oh, 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride! +Syne whinging gets about your ingle-side, +Yelping for this or that with fasheous[18] din: +To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin. +Ae wean fa's sick, and scads itself wi' brue,[19] +Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe: +The 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:'[20] hame grows hell, +When Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell. + +_Peggy._ Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, +When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. +Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight +To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. +Wow, Jenny! can there greater pleasure be, +Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee; +When a' they ettle at, their greatest wish, +Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss? +Can there be toil in tenting day and night +The like of them, when loves makes care delight? + +_Jenny_. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a', +Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw: +There little love or canty cheer can come +Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.[21] +Your nowt may die; the speat[22] may bear away +Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay; +The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows, +May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ewes; +A dyvour[23] buys your butter, woo', and cheese, +But, or the day of payment, breaks and flees; +With gloomin' brow the laird seeks in his rent, +'Tis no to gie, your merchant's to the bent; +His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear; +Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?-- +Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; +Troth, it's nae mows[24] to be a married wife. + +_Peggy_. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she, +Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. +Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best; +Nae mair's required--let Heaven make out the rest. +I've heard my honest uncle aften say, +That lads should a' for wives that's vertuous pray; +For the maist thrifty man could never get +A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let: +Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part +To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart. +Whate'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, +And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, +For healsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. +A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo', +Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due; +Syne a' behind's our ain.--Thus without fear, +With love and rowth[25] we through the warld will steer; +And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, +He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. + +_Jenny_. But what if some young giglet on the green, +With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, +Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, +And her kenn'd kisses, hardly worth a feg? + +_Peggy_. Nae mair of that:--dear Jenny, to be free, +There's some men constanter in love than we: +Nor is the ferly great, when Nature kind +Has blest them with solidity of mind; +They'll reason calmly, and with kindness smile, +When our short passions wad our peace beguile: +Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks[26]at hame, +'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame. +Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art +To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. +At even, when he comes weary frae the hill, +I'll have a' things made ready to his will: +In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, +A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane: +And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, +The seething-pot's be ready to take aff; +Clean hag-abag[27] I'll spread upon his board, +And serve him with the best we can afford: +Good-humour and white bigonets[28] shall be +Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. + +_Jenny_. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld, +And dozins[29] down to nane, as fowk grow auld. + +_Peggy_. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er find +The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind. +Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tie, +Than aught in love the like of us can spy. +See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, +Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride; +Nearer and nearer ilka year they've pressed, +Till wide their spreading branches are increased, +And in their mixture now are fully blessed: +This shields the other frae the eastlin' blast; +That in return defends it frae the wast. +Sic as stand single, (a state sae liked by you,) +Beneath ilk storm frae every airt[30] maun bow. + +_Jenny_. I've done,--I yield, dear lassie; I maun yield, +Your better sense has fairly won the field. +With the assistance of a little fae +Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. + +_Peggy_. Alake, poor pris'ner!--Jenny, that's no fair, +That ye'll no let the wee thing take the air: +Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well's we can, +Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man. + +_Jenny_. Anither time's as good; for see the sun +Is right far up, and we're not yet begun +To freath the graith: if canker'd Madge, our aunt, +Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant; +But when we've done, I'll tell you a' my mind; +For this seems true--nae lass can be unkind. + +[_Exeunt_. + +[1] Howm: holm. +[2] Claes: clothes. +[3] 'Lift:' sky. +[4] 'Linn:' a waterfall. +[5] 'Blate:' bashful. +[6] 'Pensylie:' sprucely. +[7] 'A-jee:' to one side. +[8] 'Owrelay:' cravat. +[9] 'Dorty:' pettish. +[10] 'Dawted wean:' spoiled child. +[11] 'Tarrows at its meat:' refuses its food. +[12] 'Feckless:' silly. +[13] 'Orp:' fret. +[14] 'Glowers:' stares. +[15] 'Barlichoods:' cross-moods. +[16] 'Skaith:' harm. +[17] 'Feil:' many. +[18] 'Fasheous:' troublesome. +[19] 'Scads itself wi' brue:' scalds itself with broth. +[20] 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:' all goes wrong. +[21] 'Toom:' empty. +[22] 'Speat:' land-flood. +[23] 'A dyvour:' bankrupt. +[24] 'Mows:' jest. +[25] 'Rowth:' plenty. +[26] 'Maiks:' mates. +[27] 'Hag-abag:' huckaback. +[28] 'White bigonets:' linen caps or coifs. +[29] 'Dozins:' dwindles. +[30] 'Airt:' quarter. + + + + +We come now to another cluster of minor poets,--such as Robert Dodsley, +who rose, partly through Pope's influence, from a footman to be a +respectable bookseller, and who, by the verses entitled 'The Parting +Kiss,'-- + + 'One fond kiss before we part, + Drop a tear and bid adieu; + Though we sever, my fond heart, + Till we meet, shall pant for you,' &c.-- + +seems to have suggested to Burns his 'Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;' +--John Brown, author of certain tragedies and other works, including the +once famous 'Estimate of the Manners and Principles of Modern Times,' of +which Cowper says-- + + 'The inestimable Estimate of Brown + Rose like a paper kite and charmed the town; + But measures planned and executed well + Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell:' + +and who went mad and died by his own hands;--John Gilbert Cooper, author +of a fine song to his wife, one stanza of which has often been quoted:-- + + 'And when with envy Time transported + Shall think to rob us of our joys; + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing in my boys;'-- + +Cuthbert Shaw, an unfortunate author of the Savage type, who wrote an +affecting monody on the death of his wife;--Thomas Scott, author of +'Lyric Poems, Devotional and Moral: London, 1773;'--Edward Thompson, a +native of Hull, and author of some tolerable sea-songs;--Henry Headley, +a young man of uncommon talents, a pupil of Dr Parr in Norwich, who, +when only twenty-one, published 'Select Beauties of the Ancient English +Poets,' accompanied by critical remarks discovering rare ripeness of mind +for his years, who wrote poetry too, but was seized with consumption, and +died at twenty-two;--Nathaniel Cotton, the physician, under whose care, +at St Alban's, Cowper for a time was;--William Hayward Roberts, author of +'Judah Restored,' a poem of much ambition and considerable merit;--John +Bampfylde, who went mad, and died in that state, after having published, +when young, some sweet sonnets, of which the following is one:-- + + 'Cold is the senseless heart that never strove + With the mild tumult of a real flame; + Rugged the breast that music cannot tame, + Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love + The pathless vale, the long-forsaken grove, + The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, + With ivy mantled o'er. For empty fame + Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove + In search of plunder far to western clime. + Give me to waste the hours in amorous play + With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme, + Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, + And all that prodigality of charms, + Formed to enslave my heart, and grace my lay;'-- + +Lord Chesterfield, who wrote some lines on 'Beau Nash's Picture at full +length, between the Busts of Newton and Pope at Bath,' of which this is +the last stanza-- + + 'The picture placed the busts between, + Adds to the thought much strength; + Wisdom and Wit are little seen, + But Folly's at full length;'-- + +Thomas Penrose, who is more memorable as a warrior than as a poet, +having fought against Buenos Ayres, as well as having written some +elegant war-verses;--Edward Moore, a contributor to the _World_;--Sir +John Henry Moore, a youth of promise, who died in his twenty-fifth year, +leaving behind him such songs as the following:-- + + 'Cease to blame my melancholy, + Though with sighs and folded arms + I muse with silence on her charms; + Censure not--I know 'tis folly; + Yet these mournful thoughts possessing, + Such delights I find in grief + That, could heaven afford relief, + My fond heart would scorn the blessing;'-- + +the Rev. Richard Jago, a friend of Shenstone's, and author of a pleasing +fable entitled 'Labour and Genius;'--Henry Brooke, better known for a +novel, once much in vogue, called 'The Fool of Quality,' than for his +elaborate poem entitled 'Universal Beauty,' which formed a prototype of +Darwin's 'Botanic Garden,' but did not enjoy that poem's fame;--George +Alexander Stevens, a comic actor, lecturer on 'heads,' and writer of +some poems, novels, and Bacchanalian songs:--and, in fine, Mrs Greville, +whose 'Prayer for Indifference' displays considerable genius. We quote +some stanzas:-- + + 'I ask no kind return in love, + No tempting charm to please; + Far from the heart such gifts remove + That sighs for peace and ease. + + 'Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know + That, like the needle true, + Turns at the touch of joy and woe, + But, turning, trembles too. + + 'Far as distress the soul can wound, + 'Tis pain in each degree; + 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound-- + Beyond, is agony. + + 'Then take this treacherous sense of mine, + Which dooms me still to smart, + Which pleasure can to pain refine, + To pain new pangs impart. + + 'Oh, haste to shed the sovereign balm, + My shattered nerves new string, + And for my guest, serenely calm, + The nymph Indifference bring.' + + + + +ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE. + + +This writer was born at Burton-on-Trent, in 1705. He was educated at +Westminster and Cambridge, and studied law at Lincoln's Inn. He was a +man of fortune, and sat in two parliaments for Wenlock, in Shropshire. +He died in 1760. His imitations of authors are clever and amusing, and +seem to have got their hint from 'The Splendid Shilling,' and to have +given it to the 'Rejected Addresses.' + + +IMITATION OF THOMSON. + +----Prorumpit ad aethera nubem +Turbine, fumantem piceo. VIRG. + + +O thou, matured by glad Hesperian suns, +Tobacco, fountain pure of limpid truth, +That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought +Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care, +And at each puff imagination burns: +Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires +Touch the mysterious lip that chants thy praise +In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown. +Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines +Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue formed, +And glazed magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill. +From Paetotheke with pungent powers perfumed, +Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbibed +Each parent ray; then rudely rammed, illume +With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet, +Marked with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds +Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around, +And many-mining fires; I all the while, +Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm. +But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join, +In genial strife and orthodoxal ale, +Stream life and joy into the Muse's bowl. +Oh, be thou still my great inspirer, thou +My Muse; oh, fan me with thy zephyrs boon, +While I, in clouded tabernacle shrined, +Burst forth all oracle and mystic song. + + +IMITATION OF POPE. + + --Solis ad ortus +Vanescit fumus. LUCAN. + +Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense +To Templars modesty, to parsons sense: +So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine, +Drank inspiration from the steam divine. +Poison that cures, a vapour that affords +Content, more solid than the smile of lords: +Rest to the weary, to the hungry food, +The last kind refuge of the wise and good. +Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale +Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail. +By thee protected, and thy sister, beer, +Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. +Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid, +While supperless he plies the piddling trade. +What though to love and soft delights a foe, +By ladies hated, hated by the beau, +Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown, +Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. +Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, +And let me taste thee unexcised by kings. + + +IMITATION OF SWIFT. + +Ex fumo dare lucem.--HOR. + +Boy! bring an ounce of Freeman's best, +And bid the vicar be my guest: +Let all be placed in manner due, +A pot wherein to spit or spew, +And London Journal, and Free-Briton, +Of use to light a pipe or * * + + * * * * * + +This village, unmolested yet +By troopers, shall be my retreat: +Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray; +Who cannot write or vote for * * * +Far from the vermin of the town, +Here let me rather live, my own, +Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland +In sweet oblivion lulls the land; +Of all which at Vienna passes, +As ignorant as * * Brass is: +And scorning rascals to caress, +Extol the days of good Queen Bess, +When first tobacco blessed our isle, +Then think of other queens--and smile. + +Come, jovial pipe, and bring along +Midnight revelry and song; +The merry catch, the madrigal, +That echoes sweet in City Hall; +The parson's pun, the smutty tale +Of country justice o'er his ale. +I ask not what the French are doing, +Or Spain, to compass Britain's ruin: + Britons, if undone, can go + Where tobacco loves to grow. + + + + +WILLIAM OLDYS. + + +Oldys was born in 1696, and died in 1761. He was a very diligent +collector of antiquarian materials, and the author of a Life of Raleigh. +He was intimate with Captain Grose, Burns' friend, who used to rally him +on his inordinate thirst for ale, although, if we believe Burns, it was +paralleled by Grose's liking for port. The following Anacreontic is +characteristic:-- + + +SONG, OCCASIONED BY A FLY DRINKING OUT OF A CUP OF ALE. + +Busy, curious, thirsty fly, +Drink with me, and drink as I; +Freely welcome to my cup, +Couldst thou sip and sip it up. +Make the most of life you may-- +Life is short, and wears away. + +Both alike are, mine and thine, +Hastening quick to their decline: +Thine's a summer, mine no more, +Though repeated to threescore; +Threescore summers, when they're gone, +Will appear as short as one. + + + + +ROBERT LLOYD. + + +Robert Lloyd was born in London in 1733. He was the son of one of the +under-masters of Westminster School. He went to Cambridge, where he +became distinguished for his talents and notorious for his dissipation. +He became an usher under his father, but soon tired of the drudgery, and +commenced professional author. He published a poem called 'The Actor,' +which attracted attention, and was the precursor of 'The Rosciad.' He +wrote for periodicals, produced some theatrical pieces of no great +merit, and edited the _St James' Magazine_. This failed, and Lloyd, +involved in pecuniary distresses, was cast into the Fleet. Here he was +deserted by all his boon companions except Churchill, to whose sister he +was attached, and who allowed him a guinea a-week and a servant, besides +promoting a subscription for his benefit. When the news of Churchill's +death arrived, Lloyd was seated at dinner; he became instantly sick, +cried out 'Poor Charles! I shall follow him soon,' and died in a few +weeks. Churchill's sister, a woman of excellent abilities, waited on +Lloyd during his illness, and died soon after him of a broken heart. +This was in 1764. + +Lloyd was a minor Churchill. He had not his brawny force, but he had +more than his liveliness of wit, and was a much better-conditioned man, +and more temperate in his satire. Cowper knew, loved, admired, and in +some of his verses imitated, Robert Lloyd. + + +THE MISERIES OF A POET'S LIFE. + +The harlot Muse, so passing gay, +Bewitches only to betray. +Though for a while with easy air +She smooths the rugged brow of care, +And laps the mind in flowery dreams, +With Fancy's transitory gleams; +Fond of the nothings she bestows, +We wake at last to real woes. +Through every age, in every place, +Consider well the poet's case; +By turns protected and caressed, +Defamed, dependent, and distressed. +The joke of wits, the bane of slaves, +The curse of fools, the butt of knaves; +Too proud to stoop for servile ends, +To lacquey rogues or flatter friends; +With prodigality to give, +Too careless of the means to live; +The bubble fame intent to gain, +And yet too lazy to maintain; +He quits the world he never prized, +Pitied by few, by more despised, +And, lost to friends, oppressed by foes, +Sinks to the nothing whence he rose. + +O glorious trade! for wit's a trade, +Where men are ruined more than made! +Let crazy Lee, neglected Gay, +The shabby Otway, Dryden gray, +Those tuneful servants of the Nine, +(Not that I blend their names with mine,) +Repeat their lives, their works, their fame. +And teach the world some useful shame. + + + + +HENRY CAREY. + + +Of Carey, the author of the popular song, 'Sally in our Alley,' we know +only that he was a professional musician, composing the air as well as +the words of 'Sally,' and that in 1763 he died by his own hands. + + +SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. + +1 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. + +2 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. + +3 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 belly full, + I'll bear it all for Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +4 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 dressed all in my best, + To walk abroad with Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +5 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. + +6 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 pounds, + I'd give it all to Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +7 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. + + + + +DAVID MALLETT. + + +David Mallett was the son of a small innkeeper in Crieff, Perthshire, +where he was born in the year 1700. Crieff, as many of our readers know, +is situated on the western side of a hill, and commands a most varied and +beautiful prospect, including Drummond Castle, with its solemn shadowy +woods, and the Ochils, on the south,--Ochtertyre, one of the loveliest +spots in Scotland, and the gorge of Glenturrett, on the north,--and the +bold dark hills which surround the romantic village of Comrie, on the +west. Crieff is now a place of considerable note, and forms a centre +of summer attraction to multitudes; but at the commencement of the +eighteenth century it must have been a miserable hamlet. _Malloch_ was +originally the name of the poet, and the name is still common in that +part of Perthshire. David attended the college of Aberdeen, and became, +afterwards, an unsalaried tutor in the family of Mr Home of Dreghorn, +near Edinburgh. We find him next in the Duke of Montrose's family, with +a salary of £30 per annum. In 1723, he accompanied his pupils to London, +and changed his name to Mallett, as more euphonious. Next year, he +produced his pretty ballad of 'William and Margaret,' and published it +in Aaron Hill's 'Plain Dealer.' This served as an introduction to the +literary society of the metropolis, including such names as Young and +Pope. In 1733, he disgraced himself by a satire on the greatest man then +living, the venerable Richard Bentley. Mallett was one of those mean +creatures who always worship a rising, and turn their backs on a setting +sun. By his very considerable talents, his management, and his address, +he soon rose in the world. He was appointed under-secretary to the Prince +of Wales, with a salary of £200 a-year. In conjunction with Thomson, to +whom he was really kind, he wrote in 1740, 'The Masque of Alfred,' in +honour of the birthday of the Princess Augusta. His first wife, of whom +nothing is recorded, having died, he married the daughter of Lord +Carlisle's steward, who brought him a fortune of £10,000. Both she and +Mallett himself gave themselves out as Deists. This was partly owing to +his intimacy with Bolingbroke, to gratify whom, he heaped abuse upon Pope +in a preface to 'The Patriot-King,' and was rewarded by Bolingbroke +leaving him the whole of his works and MSS. These he afterwards +published, and exposed himself to the vengeful sarcasm of Johnson, who +said that Bolingbroke was a scoundrel and a coward;--a scoundrel, to +charge a blunderbuss against Christianity; and a coward, because he durst +not fire it himself, but left a shilling to a beggarly Scotsman to draw +the trigger after his death. Mallett ranked himself among the +calumniators and, as it proved, murderers of Admiral Byng. He wrote a +Life of Lord Bacon, in which, it was said, he forgot that Bacon was a +philosopher, and would probably, when he came to write the Life of +Marlborough, forget that he was a general. This Life of Bacon is now +utterly forgotten. We happened to read it in our early days, and thought +it a very contemptible performance. The Duchess of Marlborough left £1000 +in her will between Glover and Mallett to write a Life of her husband. +Glover threw up his share of the work, and Mallett engaged to perform the +whole, to which, besides, he was stimulated by a pension from the second +Duke of Marlborough. He got the money, but when he died it was found that +he had not written a line of the work. In his latter days he held the +lucrative office of Keeper of the Book of Entries for the port of London. +He died on the 2lst April 1765. + +Mallett is, on the whole, no credit to Scotland. He was a bad, mean, +insincere, and unprincipled man, whose success was procured by despicable +and dastardly arts. He had doubtless some genius, and his 'Birks of +Invermay,' and 'William and Margaret,' shall preserve his name after his +clumsy imitation of Thomson, called 'The Excursion,' and his long, +rambling 'Amyntor and Theodora;' have been forgotten. + + +WILLIAM AND MARGARET. + +1 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour + When night and morning meet; + In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, + And stood at William's feet. + +2 Her face was like an April-morn, + Clad in a wintry cloud; + And clay-cold was her lily hand, + That held her sable shroud. + +3 So shall the fairest face appear, + When youth and years are flown: + Such is the robe that kings must wear, + When death has reft their crown. + +4 Her bloom was like the springing flower, + That sips the silver dew; + The rose was budded in her cheek, + Just opening to the view. + +5 But love had, like the canker-worm, + Consumed her early prime: + The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; + She died before her time. + +6 'Awake!' she cried, 'thy true love calls, + Come from her midnight-grave; + Now let thy pity hear the maid, + Thy love refused to save. + +7 'This is the dumb and dreary hour, + When injured ghosts complain; + When yawning graves give up their dead, + To haunt the faithless swain. + +8 'Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, + Thy pledge and broken oath! + And give me back my maiden-vow, + And give me back my troth. + +9 'Why did you promise love to me, + And not that promise keep? + Why did you swear my eyes were bright, + Yet leave those eyes to weep? + +10 'How could you say my face was fair, + And yet that face forsake? + How could you win my virgin-heart, + Yet leave that heart to break? + +11 'Why did you say my lip was sweet, + And made the scarlet pale? + And why did I, young witless maid! + Believe the flattering tale? + +12 'That face, alas! no more is fair, + Those lips no longer red: + Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, + And every charm is fled. + +13 'The hungry worm my sister is; + This winding-sheet I wear: + And cold and weary lasts our night, + Till that last morn appear. + +14 'But, hark! the cock has warned me hence; + A long and late adieu! + Come, see, false man, how low she lies, + Who died for love of you.' + +15 The lark sung loud; the morning smiled, + With beams of rosy red: + Pale William quaked in every limb, + And raving left his bed. + +16 He hied him to the fatal place + Where Margaret's body lay; + And stretched him on the green-grass turf, + That wrapped her breathless clay. + +17 And thrice he called on Margaret's name. + And thrice he wept full sore; + Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, + And word spake never more! + + + +THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. + +The smiling morn, the breathing spring, +Invite the tunefu' birds to sing; +And, while they warble from the spray, +Love melts the universal lay. +Let us, Amanda, timely wise, +Like them, improve the hour that flies; +And in soft raptures waste the day, +Among the birks of Invermay. + +For soon the winter of the year, +And age, life's winter, will appear; +At this thy living bloom will fade, +As that will strip the verdant shade. +Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, +The feathered songsters are no more; +And when they drop and we decay, +Adieu the birks of Invermay! + + + + +JAMES MERRICK. + + +Merrick was a clergyman, as well as a writer of verse. He was born in +1720, and became a Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, where Lord North +was one of his pupils. He took orders, but owing to incessant pains in +the head, could not perform duty. He died in 1769. His works are a +translation of Tryphiodorus, done at twenty, a version of the Psalms, a +collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous pieces, one good specimen +of which we subjoin. + + +THE CHAMELEON. + +Oft has it been my lot to mark +A proud, conceited, talking spark, +With eyes that hardly served at most +To guard their master 'gainst a post; +Yet round the world the blade has been, +To see whatever could be seen. +Returning from his finished tour, +Grown ten times perter than before; +Whatever word you chance to drop, +The travelled fool your mouth will stop: +'Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-- +I've seen--and sure I ought to know.'-- +So begs you'd pay a due submission, +And acquiesce in his decision. + +Two travellers of such a cast, +As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, +And on their way, in friendly chat, +Now talked of this, and then of that; +Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter, +Of the chameleon's form and nature. +'A stranger animal,' cries one, +'Sure never lived beneath the sun: +A lizard's body lean and long, +A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, +Its foot with triple claw disjoined; +And what a length of tail behind! +How slow its pace! and then its hue-- +Who ever saw so fine a blue?' + +'Hold there,' the other quick replies, +''Tis green, I saw it with these eyes, +As late with open mouth it lay, +And warmed it in the sunny ray; +Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, +And saw it eat the air for food.' + +'I've seen it, sir, as well as you, +And must again affirm it blue; +At leisure I the beast surveyed +Extended in the cooling shade.' + +''Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye.' +'Green!' cries the other in a fury: +'Why, sir, d' ye think I've lost my eyes?' +''Twere no great loss,' the friend replies; +'For if they always serve you thus, +You'll find them but of little use.' + +So high at last the contest rose, +From words they almost came to blows: +When luckily came by a third; +To him the question they referred: +And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, +Whether the thing was green or blue. + +'Sirs,' cries the umpire, 'cease your pother; +The creature's neither one nor t' other. +I caught the animal last night, +And viewed it o'er by candle-light: +I marked it well, 'twas black as jet-- +You stare--but sirs, I've got it yet, +And can produce it.'--'Pray, sir, do; +I'll lay my life the thing is blue.' +'And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen +The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.' + +'Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,' +Replies the man, 'I'll turn him out: +And when before your eyes I've set him, +If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.' + +He said; and full before their sight +Produced the beast, and lo!--'twas white. +Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise-- +'My children,' the chameleon cries, +(Then first the creature found a tongue,) +'You all are right, and all are wrong: +When next you talk of what you view, +Think others see as well as you: +Nor wonder if you find that none +Prefers your eyesight to his own.' + + + + +DR JAMES GRAINGER. + + +This writer possessed some true imagination, although his claim to +immortality lies in the narrow compass of one poem--his 'Ode to +Solitude.' Little is known of his personal history. He was born in 1721 +--belonging to a gentleman's family in Cumberland. He studied medicine, +and was for some time a surgeon connected with the army. When the peace +came, he established himself in London as a medical practitioner. In +1755, he published his 'Solitude,' which found many admirers, including +Dr Johnson, who pronounced its opening lines 'very noble.' He afterwards +indited several other pieces, wrote a translation of Tibullus, and +became one of the critical staff of the _Monthly Review_. He was unable, +however, through all these labours to secure a competence, and, in 1759, +he sought the West Indies. In St Christopher's he commenced practising +as a physician, and married the Governor's daughter, who brought him a +fortune. He wrote a poem entitled 'The Sugar-cane.' This was sent over +to London in MS., and was read at Sir Joshua Reynold's table to a +literary coterie, who, according to Boswell, all burst out into a laugh +when, after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus-- + + 'Now, Muse, let's sing of _rats_! + +And what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company, slily +overlooking the reader, found that the word had been originally 'mice,' +but had been changed to rats as more dignified. + +Boswell goes on to record Johnson's opinion of Grainger. He said, 'He +was an agreeable man, a man that would do any good that was in his +power.' His translation of Tibullus was very well done, but 'The Sugar- +cane, a Poem,' did not please him. 'What could he make of a Sugar-cane? +one might as well write "The Parsley-bed, a Poem," or "The Cabbage +Garden, a Poem."' Boswell--'You must then _pickle_ your cabbage with the +_sal Atticum_.' Johnson--'One could say a great deal about cabbage. The +poem might begin with the advantages of civilised society over a rude +state, exemplified by the Scotch, who had no cabbages till Oliver +Cromwell's soldiers introduced them, and one might thus shew how arts +are propagated by conquest, as they were by the Roman arms.' Cabbage, by +the way, in a metaphorical sense, might furnish a very good subject for +a literary _satire_. + +Grainger died of the fever of the country in 1767. Bishop Percy +corroborates Johnson's character of him as a man. He says, 'He was not +only a man of genius and learning, but had many excellent virtues, being +one of the most generous, friendly, benevolent men I ever knew.' + +Grainger in some points reminds us of Dyer. Dyer staked his reputation +on 'The Fleece;' but it is his lesser poem, 'Grongar Hill,' which +preserves his name; that fine effusion has survived the laboured work. +And so Grainger's 'Solitude' has supplanted the stately 'Sugar-cane.' +The scenery of the West Indies had to wait till its real poet appeared +in the author of 'Paul and Virginia.' Grainger was hardly able to cope +with the strange and gorgeous contrasts it presents of cliffs and crags, +like those of Iceland, with vegetation rich as that of the fairest parts +of India, and of splendid sunshine, with tempests of such tremendous +fury that, but for their brief continuance, no property could be secure, +and no life could be safe. + +The commencement of the 'Ode to Solitude' is fine, but the closing part +becomes tedious. In the middle of the poem there is a tumult of +personifications, some of them felicitous and others forced. + + 'Sage Reflection, bent with years,' +may pass, but + 'Conscious Virtue, void of fears,' +is poor. + 'Halcyon Peace on moss reclined,' +is a picture; + 'Retrospect that scans the mind,' +is nothing; + 'Health that snuffs the morning air,' +is a living image; but what sense is there in + 'Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare?' +and how poor his + 'Laughter in loud peals that breaks,' +to Milton's + 'Laughter, holding both his sides!' +The paragraph, however, commencing + 'With you roses brighter bloom,' +and closing with + 'The bournless macrocosm's thine,' +is very spirited, and, along with the opening lines, proves +Grainger a poet. + + +ODE TO SOLITUDE. + +O solitude, romantic maid! +Whether by nodding towers you tread, +Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, +Or hover o'er the yawning tomb, +Or climb the Andes' clifted side, +Or by the Nile's coy source abide, +Or starting from your half-year's sleep +From Hecla view the thawing deep, +Or, at the purple dawn of day, +Tadmor's marble wastes survey, +You, recluse, again I woo, +And again your steps pursue. + +Plumed Conceit himself surveying, +Folly with her shadow playing, +Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, +Bloated empiric, puffed Pretence, +Noise that through a trumpet speaks, +Laughter in loud peals that breaks, +Intrusion with a fopling's face, +Ignorant of time and place, +Sparks of fire Dissension blowing, +Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing, +Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer, +Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer, +Ambition's buskins, steeped in blood, +Fly thy presence, Solitude. + +Sage Reflection, bent with years, +Conscious Virtue, void of fears, +Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy, +Meditation's piercing eye, +Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, +Retrospect that scans the mind, +Rapt, earth-gazing Reverie, +Blushing, artless Modesty, +Health that snuffs the morning air, +Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare, +Inspiration, Nature's child, +Seek the solitary wild. + +You, with the tragic muse retired, +The wise Euripides inspired, +You taught the sadly-pleasing air +That Athens saved from ruins bare. +You gave the Cean's tears to flow, +And unlocked the springs of woe; +You penned what exiled Naso thought, +And poured the melancholy note. +With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you strayed, +When death snatched his long-loved maid; +You taught the rocks her loss to mourn, +Ye strewed with flowers her virgin urn. +And late in Hagley you were seen, +With bloodshot eyes, and sombre mien, +Hymen his yellow vestment tore, +And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore. +But chief your own the solemn lay +That wept Narcissa young and gay, +Darkness clapped her sable wing, +While you touched the mournful string, +Anguish left the pathless wild, +Grim-faced Melancholy smiled, +Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn, +The starry host put back the dawn, +Aside their harps even seraphs flung +To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young! +When all nature's hushed asleep, +Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep, +Soft you leave your caverned den, +And wander o'er the works of men; +But when Phosphor brings the dawn +By her dappled coursers drawn, +Again you to the wild retreat +And the early huntsman meet, +Where as you pensive pace along, +You catch the distant shepherd's song, +Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, +Or the rising primrose view. +Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings, +You mount, and nature with you sings. +But when mid-day fervours glow, +To upland airy shades you go, +Where never sunburnt woodman came, +Nor sportsman chased the timid game; +And there beneath an oak reclined, +With drowsy waterfalls behind, +You sink to rest. +Till the tuneful bird of night +From the neighbouring poplar's height +Wake you with her solemn strain, +And teach pleased Echo to complain. + +With you roses brighter bloom, +Sweeter every sweet perfume, +Purer every fountain flows, +Stronger every wilding grows. +Let those toil for gold who please, +Or for fame renounce their ease. +What is fame? an empty bubble. +Gold? a transient shining trouble. +Let them for their country bleed, +What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed? +Man's not worth a moment's pain, +Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. +Then let me, sequestered fair, +To your sibyl grot repair; +On yon hanging cliff it stands, +Scooped by nature's salvage hands, +Bosomed in the gloomy shade +Of cypress not with age decayed. +Where the owl still-hooting sits, +Where the bat incessant flits, +There in loftier strains I'll sing +Whence the changing seasons spring, +Tell how storms deform the skies, +Whence the waves subside and rise, +Trace the comet's blazing tail, +Weigh the planets in a scale; +Bend, great God, before thy shrine, +The bournless macrocosm's thine. + * * * * * + + + + +MICHAEL BRUCE. + + +We refer our readers to Dr Mackelvie's well-known and very able Life of +poor Bruce, for his full story, and for the evidence on which his claim +to the 'Cuckoo' is rested. Apart from external evidence, we think that +poem more characteristic of Bruce's genius than of Logan's, and have +therefore ranked it under Bruce's name. + +Bruce was born on the 27th of March 1746, at Kinnesswood, parish of +Portmoak, county of Kinross. His father was a weaver, and Michael was +the fifth of a family of eight children. + +Poor as his parents were, they were intelligent, religious, and most +conscientious in the discharge of their duties to their children. In the +summer months Michael was sent out to herd cattle; and one loves to +imagine the young poet wrapt in his plaid, under a whin-bush, while the +storm was blowing,--or gazing at the rainbow from the summit of a +fence,--or admiring at Lochleven and its old ruined castle,--or weaving +around the form of some little maiden, herding in a neighbouring field +--some 'Jeanie Morrison'--one of those webs of romantic early love which +are beautiful and evanescent as the gossamer, but how exquisitely +relished while they last! Say not, with one of his biographers, that his +'education was retarded by this employment;' he was receiving in these +solitary fields a kind of education which no school and no college could +furnish; nay, who knows but, as he saw the cuckoo winging her way from +one deep woodland recess to another, or heard her dull, divine monotone +coming from the heart of the forest, the germ of that exquisite strain, +'least in the kingdom' of the heaven of poetry in size, but immortal in +its smallness, was sown in his mind? In winter he went to school, and +profited there so much, that at fifteen (not a very early period, after +all, for a Scotch student beginning his curriculum--in our day twelve +was not an uncommon age) he was judged fit for going to college. And +just in time a windfall came across the path of our poet, the mention of +which may make many of our readers smile. This was a legacy which was +left his father by a relative, amounting to 200 merks, or £11, 2s.6d. +With this munificent sum in his pocket, Bruce was sent to study at +Edinburgh College. Here he became distinguished by his attainments, and +particularly his taste and poetic powers; and here, too, he became +acquainted with John Logan, afterwards his biographer. After spending +three sessions at college, supported by his parents and other friends, +he returned to the country, and taught a school at Gairney Bridge (a +place famous for the first meeting of the first presbytery of the +Seceders) for £11 of salary. Thence he removed to Foresthill, near +Alloa, where a damp school-room, poverty, and hard labour in teaching, +united to injure his health and depress his spirits. At Foresthill he +wrote his poem 'Lochleven,' which discovers no small descriptive power. +Consumption began now to make its appearance, and he returned to the +cottage of his parents, where he wrote his 'Elegy on Spring,' in which +he refers with dignified pathos to his approaching dissolution. On the +5th of July 1767, this remarkable youth died, aged twenty-one years and +three months. His Bible was found on his pillow, marked at the words, +Jer. xxii. 10, 'Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but weep +sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his +native country.' + +Lord Craig wrote some time afterwards an affecting paper in the _Mirror_, +recording the fate, and commending the genius of Bruce. John Logan, in +1770, published his poems. In the year 1807, the kind-hearted Principal +Baird published an edition of the poems for the behoof of Bruce's mother, +then an aged widow. And in 1837, Dr William Mackelvie, Balgedie, Kinross- +shire, published what may be considered the standard Life of this poet, +along with a complete edition of his Works. + +It is impossible from so small a segment of a circle as Bruce's life +describes, to infer with any certainty the whole. So far as we can judge +from the fragments left, his power was rather in the beautiful, than in +the sublime or in the strong. The lines on Spring, from the words 'Now +spring returns' to the close, form a continuous stream of pensive +loveliness. How sweetly he sings in the shadow of death! Nor let us too +severely blame his allusion to the old Pagan mythology, in the words-- + + 'I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe, + I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore;' + +remembering that he was still a mere student, and not recovered from +that fine intoxication in which classical literature drenches a young +imaginative soul, and that at last we find him 'resting in the hopes of +an eternal day.' 'Lochleven' is the spent echo of the 'Seasons,' although, +as we said before, its descriptions possess considerable merit. His 'Last +Day' is more ambitious than successful. If we grant the 'Cuckoo' to be +his, as we are inclined decidedly to do, it is a sure title to fame, +being one of the sweetest little poems in any language. Shakspeare would +have been proud of the verse-- + + 'Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year.' + +Bruce has not, however, it has always appeared to us, caught so well as +Wordsworth the differentia of the cuckoo,--its invisible, shadowy, +shifting, supernatural character--heard, but seldom seen--its note so +limited and almost unearthly:-- + + 'O Cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, + Or but a _wandering voice_?' + +How fine this conception of a separated voice--'The viewless spirit of a +_lonely_ sound,' plaining in the woods as if seeking for some incarnation +it cannot find, and saddening the spring groves by a note so contradictory +to the genius of the season. In reference to the note of the cuckoo we +find the following remarks among the fragments from the commonplace-book +of Dr Thomas Brown, printed by Dr Welsh:--'The name of the cuckoo has +generally been considered as a very pure instance of imitative harmony. +But in giving that name, we have most unjustly defrauded the poor bird of +a portion of its very small variety of sound. The second syllable is not +a mere echo of the first; it is the sound reversed, like the reading of +a sotadic line; and to preserve the strictness of the imitation we should +give it the name of Ook-koo.' _This_ is the prose of the cuckoo after its +poetry. + + +TO THE CUCKOO. + +1 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! + The messenger of spring! + Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, + And woods thy welcome sing. + +2 Soon as the daisy decks the green, + Thy certain voice we hear; + Hast thou a star to guide thy path, + Or mark the rolling year? + +3 Delightful visitant! with thee + I hail the time of flowers, + And hear the sound of music sweet, + From birds among the bowers. + +4 The school-boy, wandering through the wood + To pull the primrose gay, + Starts thy curious voice to hear, + And imitates the lay. + +5 What time the pea puts on the bloom, + Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, + An annual guest in other lands, + Another spring to hail. + +6 Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year. + +7 Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! + We'd make with joyful wing + Our annual visit o'er the globe, + Attendants on the spring. + + +ELEGY, WRITTEN IN SPRING. + +1 'Tis past: the North has spent his rage; + Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day; + The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, + And warm o'er ether western breezes play. + +2 Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, + From southern climes, beneath another sky, + The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: + Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. + +3 Far to the North grim Winter draws his train, + To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; + Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign, + Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar. + +4 Loosed from the bonds of frost, the verdant ground + Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, + Again puts forth her flowers, and all around, + Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. + +5 Behold! the trees new-deck their withered boughs; + Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane, + The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose; + The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. + +6 The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, + Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun: + The birds on ground, or on the branches green, + Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. + +7 Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, + From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; + And cheerful singing, up the air she steers; + Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. + +8 On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms + That fill the air with fragrance all around, + The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, + While o'er the wild his broken notes resound. + +9 While the sun journeys down the western sky, + Along the green sward, marked with Roman mound, + Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye, + The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. + +10 Now is the time for those who wisdom love, + Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road, + Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove, + And follow Nature up to Nature's God. + +11 Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws; + Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; + Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty cause, + And left the wondering multitude behind. + +12 Thus Ashley gathered academic bays; + Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, + Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, + And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. + +13 Thus have I walked along the dewy lawn; + My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn: + Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, + And gathered health from all the gales of morn. + +14 And even when Winter chilled the aged year, + I wandered lonely o'er the hoary plain: + Though frosty Boreas warned me to forbear, + Boreas, with all his tempests, warned in vain. + +15 Then sleep my nights, and quiet blessed my days; + I feared no loss, my mind was all my store; + No anxious wishes e'er disturbed my ease; + Heaven gave content and health--I asked no more. + +16 Now Spring returns: but not to me returns + The vernal joy my better years have known; + Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, + And all the joys of life with health are flown. + +17 Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, + Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, + Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, + And count the silent moments as they pass: + +18 The winged moments, whose unstaying speed + No art can stop, or in their course arrest; + Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, + And lay me down at peace with them at rest. + +19 Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate; + And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true. + Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate, + And bid the realms of light and life adieu. + +20 I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; + I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, + The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, + Which mortals visit, and return no more. + +21 Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! + Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, + Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, + And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. + +22 There let me wander at the shut of eve, + When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes: + The world and all its busy follies leave, + And talk of wisdom where my Daphnis lies. + +23 There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, + When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes; + Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, + Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. + + + + +CHRISTOPHER SMART. + + +We hear of 'Single-speech Hamilton.' We have now to say something of +'Single-poem Smart,' the author of one of the grandest bursts of +devotional and poetical feeling in the English language--the 'Song to +David.' This poor unfortunate was born at Shipbourne, Kent, in 1722. +His father was steward to Lord Barnard, who, after his death, continued +his patronage to the son, who was then eleven years of age. The Duchess +of Cleveland, through Lord Barnard's influence, bestowed on Christopher +an allowance of £40 a-year. With this he went to Pembroke Hall, Cam- +bridge, in 1739; was in 1745 elected a Fellow of Pembroke, and in 1747 +took his degree of M.A. At college, Smart began to display that reckless +dissipation which led afterwards to such melancholy consequences. He +studied hard, however, at intervals; wrote poetry both in Latin and +English; produced a comedy called a 'Trip to Cambridge; or, The Grateful +Fair,' which was acted in the hall of Pembroke College; and, in spite of +his vices and follies, was popular on account of his agreeable manners +and amiable dispositions. Having become acquainted with Newberry, +the benevolent, red-nosed bookseller commemorated in 'The Vicar of +Wakefield,'--for whom he wrote some trifles,--he married his step- +daughter, Miss Carnan, in the year 1753. He now removed to London, and +became an author to trade. He wrote a clever satire, entitled 'The +Hilliad,' against Sir John Hill, who had attacked him in an underhand +manner. He translated the fables of Phaedrus into verse,--Horace into +prose ('Smart's Horace' used to be a great favourite, under the rose, +with schoolboys); made an indifferent version of the Psalms and +Paraphrases, and a good one, at a former period, of Pope's 'Ode on St +Cecilia's Day,' with which that poet professed himself highly pleased. +He was employed on a monthly publication called _The Universal Visitor_. +We find Johnson giving the following account of this matter in Boswell's +Life:--'Old Gardner, the bookseller, employed Rolt and Smart to write a +monthly miscellany called _The Universal Visitor_.' There was a formal +written contract. They were bound to write nothing else,--they were to +have, I think, a third of the profits of the sixpenny pamphlet, and the +contract was for ninety-nine years. I wrote for some months in _The +Universal Visitor_ for poor Smart, while he was mad, not then knowing +the terms on which he was engaged to write, and thinking I was doing him +good. I hoped his wits would soon return to him. Mine returned to me, and +I wrote in _The Universal Visitor_ no longer.' + +Smart at last was called to pay the penalty of his blended labour and +dissipation. In 1763 he was shut up in a madhouse. His derangement had +exhibited itself in a religious way: he insisted upon people kneeling +down along with him in the street and praying. During his confinement, +writing materials were denied him, and he used to write his poetical +pieces with a key on the wainscot. Thus, 'scrabbling,' like his own hero, +on the wall, he produced his immortal 'Song to David.' He became by and +by sane; but, returning to his old habits, got into debt, and died in the +King's Bench prison, after a short illness, in 1770. + +The 'Song to David' has been well called one of the greatest curiosities +of literature. It ranks in this point with the tragedies written by Lee, +and the sermons and prayers uttered by Hall in a similar melancholy state +of mind. In these cases, as well as in Smart's, the thin partition +between genius and madness was broken down in thunder,--the thunder of a +higher poetry than perhaps they were capable of even conceiving in their +saner moments. Lee produced in that state--which was, indeed, nearly his +normal one--some glorious extravagancies. Hall's sermons, monologised +and overheard in the madhouse, are said to have transcended all that he +preached in his healthier moods. And, assuredly, the other poems by Smart +scarcely furnish a point of comparison with the towering and sustained +loftiness of some parts of the 'Song to David.' Nor is it loftiness +alone,--although the last three stanzas are absolute inspiration, and +you see the waters of Castalia tossed by a heavenly wind to the very +summit of Parnassus,--but there are innumerable exquisite beauties and +subtleties, dropt as if by the hand of rich haste, in every corner of +the poem. Witness his description of David's muse, as a + + 'Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, + The more _than Michal of his bloom_, + The _Abishag of his age_! + +The account of David's object-- + + 'To further knowledge, silence vice, + And plant perpetual paradise, + When _God had calmed the world_.' + +Of David's Sabbath-- + + ''Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, + And heavenly melancholy tuned, + To bless and bear the rest.' + +One of David's themes-- + + 'The multitudinous abyss, + Where secrecy remains in bliss, + And wisdom hides her skill.' + +And, not to multiply instances to repletion, this stanza about gems-- + + 'Of gems--their virtue and their price, + Which, hid in earth from man's device, + Their _darts of lustre sheath_; + The jasper of the master's stamp, + The topaz blazing like a lamp, + Among the mines beneath.' + +Incoherence and extravagance we find here and there; but it is not the +flutter of weakness, it is the fury of power: from the very stumble of +the rushing steed, sparks are kindled. And, even as Baretti, when he +read the _Rambler_, in Italy, thought within himself, If such are the +lighter productions of the English mind, what must be the grander and +sterner efforts of its genius? and formed, consequently, a strong desire +to visit that country; so might he have reasoned, If such poems as +'David' issue from England's very madhouses, what must be the writings +of its saner and nobler poetic souls? and thus might he, from the +parallax of a Smart, have been able to rise toward the ideal altitudes +of a Shakspeare or a Milton. Indeed, there are portions of the 'Song to +David,' which a Milton or a Shakspeare has never surpassed. The blaze of +the meteor often eclipses the light of + + 'The loftiest star of unascended heaven, + Pinnacled dim in the intense inane.' + + +SONG TO DAVID. + +1 O thou, that sitt'st upon a throne, + With harp of high, majestic tone, + To praise the King of kings: + And voice of heaven, ascending, swell, + Which, while its deeper notes excel, + Clear as a clarion rings: + +2 To bless each valley, grove, and coast, + And charm the cherubs to the post + Of gratitude in throngs; + To keep the days on Zion's Mount, + And send the year to his account, + With dances and with songs: + +3 O servant of God's holiest charge, + The minister of praise at large, + Which thou mayst now receive; + From thy blest mansion hail and hear, + From topmost eminence appear + To this the wreath I weave. + +4 Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean, + Sublime, contemplative, serene, + Strong, constant, pleasant, wise! + Bright effluence of exceeding grace; + Best man! the swiftness and the race, + The peril and the prize! + +5 Great--from the lustre of his crown, + From Samuel's horn, and God's renown, + Which is the people's voice; + For all the host, from rear to van, + Applauded and embraced the man-- + The man of God's own choice. + +6 Valiant--the word, and up he rose; + The fight--he triumphed o'er the foes + Whom God's just laws abhor; + And, armed in gallant faith, he took + Against the boaster, from the brook, + The weapons of the war. + +7 Pious--magnificent and grand, + 'Twas he the famous temple planned, + (The seraph in his soul:) + Foremost to give the Lord his dues, + Foremost to bless the welcome news, + And foremost to condole. + +8 Good--from Jehudah's genuine vein, + From God's best nature, good in grain, + His aspect and his heart: + To pity, to forgive, to save, + Witness En-gedi's conscious cave, + And Shimei's blunted dart. + +9 Clean--if perpetual prayer be pure, + And love, which could itself inure + To fasting and to fear-- + Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet, + To smite the lyre, the dance complete, + To play the sword and spear. + +10 Sublime--invention ever young, + Of vast conception, towering tongue, + To God the eternal theme; + Notes from yon exaltations caught, + Unrivalled royalty of thought, + O'er meaner strains supreme. + +11 Contemplative--on God to fix + His musings, and above the six + The Sabbath-day he blessed; + 'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, + And heavenly melancholy tuned, + To bless and bear the rest. + +12 Serene--to sow the seeds of peace, + Remembering when he watched the fleece, + How sweetly Kidron purled-- + To further knowledge, silence vice, + And plant perpetual paradise, + When God had calmed the world. + +13 Strong--in the Lord, who could defy + Satan, and all his powers that lie + In sempiternal night; + And hell, and horror, and despair + Were as the lion and the bear + To his undaunted might. + +14 Constant--in love to God, the Truth, + Age, manhood, infancy, and youth; + To Jonathan his friend + Constant, beyond the verge of death; + And Ziba, and Mephibosheth, + His endless fame attend. + +15 Pleasant--and various as the year; + Man, soul, and angel without peer, + Priest, champion, sage, and boy; + In armour or in ephod clad, + His pomp, his piety was glad; + Majestic was his joy. + +16 Wise--in recovery from his fall, + Whence rose his eminence o'er all, + Of all the most reviled; + The light of Israel in his ways, + Wise are his precepts, prayer, and praise, + And counsel to his child. + +17 His muse, bright angel of his verse, + Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, + For all the pangs that rage; + Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, + The more than Michal of his bloom, + The Abishag of his age. + +18 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. + +19 Angels--their ministry and meed, + Which to and fro with blessings speed, + Or with their citterns wait; + Where Michael, with his millions, bows, + Where dwells the seraph and his spouse, + The cherub and her mate. + +20 Of man--the semblance and effect + Of God and love--the saint elect + For infinite applause-- + To rule the land, and briny broad, + To be laborious in his laud, + And heroes in his cause. + +21 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. + +22 Trees, plants, and flowers--of virtuous root; + Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit, + Choice gums and precious balm; + Bless ye the nosegay in the vale, + And with the sweetness of the gale + Enrich the thankful psalm. + +23 Of fowl--even every beak and wing + Which cheer the winter, hail the spring, + That live in peace, or prey; + They that make music, or that mock, + The quail, the brave domestic cock, + The raven, swan, and jay. + +24 Of fishes--every size and shape, + Which nature frames of light escape, + Devouring man to shun: + The shells are in the wealthy deep, + The shoals upon the surface leap, + And love the glancing sun. + +25 Of beasts--the beaver plods his task; + While the sleek tigers roll and bask, + Nor yet the shades arouse; + Her cave the mining coney scoops; + Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops, + The kids exult and browse. + +26 Of gems--their virtue and their price, + Which, hid in earth from man's device, + Their darts of lustre sheath; + The jasper of the master's stamp, + The topaz blazing like a lamp, + Among the mines beneath. + +27 Blest was the tenderness he felt, + When to his graceful harp he knelt, + And did for audience call; + When Satan with his hand he quelled, + And in serene suspense he held + The frantic throes of Saul. + +28 His furious foes no more maligned + As he such melody divined, + And sense and soul detained; + Now striking strong, now soothing soft, + He sent the godly sounds aloft, + Or in delight refrained. + +29 When up to heaven his thoughts he piled, + From fervent lips fair Michal smiled, + As blush to blush she stood; + And chose herself the queen, and gave + Her utmost from her heart--'so brave, + And plays his hymns so good.' + +30 The pillars of the Lord are seven, + Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; + His wisdom drew the plan; + His Word accomplished the design, + From brightest gem to deepest mine, + From Christ enthroned to man. + +31 Alpha, the cause of causes, first + In station, fountain, whence the burst + Of light and blaze of day; + Whence bold attempt, and brave advance, + Have motion, life, and ordinance, + And heaven itself its stay. + +32 Gamma supports the glorious arch + On which angelic legions march, + And is with sapphires paved; + Thence the fleet clouds are sent adrift, + And thence the painted folds that lift + The crimson veil, are waved. + +33 Eta with living sculpture breathes, + With verdant carvings, flowery wreathes + Of never-wasting bloom; + In strong relief his goodly base + All instruments of labour grace, + The trowel, spade, and loom. + +34 Next Theta stands to the supreme-- + Who formed in number, sign, and scheme, + The illustrious lights that are; + And one addressed his saffron robe, + And one, clad in a silver globe, + Held rule with every star. + +35 Iota's tuned to choral hymns + Of those that fly, while he that swims + In thankful safety lurks; + And foot, and chapiter, and niche, + The various histories enrich + Of God's recorded works. + +36 Sigma presents the social droves + With him that solitary roves, + And man of all the chief; + Fair on whose face, and stately frame, + Did God impress his hallowed name, + For ocular belief. + +37 Omega! greatest and the best, + Stands sacred to the day of rest, + For gratitude and thought; + Which blessed the world upon his pole, + And gave the universe his goal, + And closed the infernal draught. + +38 O David, scholar of the Lord! + Such is thy science, whence reward, + And infinite degree; + O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe! + God's harp thy symbol, and thy type + The lion and the bee! + +39 There is but One who ne'er rebelled, + But One by passion unimpelled, + By pleasures unenticed; + He from himself his semblance sent, + Grand object of his own content, + And saw the God in Christ. + +40 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. + +41 Thou art--to give and to confirm, + For each his talent and his term; + All flesh thy bounties share: + Thou shalt not call thy brother fool; + The porches of the Christian school + Are meekness, peace, and prayer. + +42 Open and naked of offence, + Man's made of mercy, soul, and sense: + God armed the snail and wilk; + Be good to him that pulls thy plough; + Due food and care, due rest allow + For her that yields thee milk. + +43 Rise up before the hoary head, + And God's benign commandment dread, + Which says thou shalt not die: + 'Not as I will, but as thou wilt,' + Prayed He, whose conscience knew no guilt; + With whose blessed pattern vie. + +44 Use all thy passions!--love is thine, + And joy and jealousy divine; + Thine hope's eternal fort, + And care thy leisure to disturb, + With fear concupiscence to curb, + And rapture to transport. + +45 Act simply, as occasion asks; + Put mellow wine in seasoned casks; + Till not with ass and bull: + Remember thy baptismal bond; + Keep from commixtures foul and fond, + Nor work thy flax with wool. + +46 Distribute; pay the Lord his tithe, + And make the widow's heart-strings blithe; + Resort with those that weep: + As you from all and each expect, + For all and each thy love direct, + And render as you reap. + +47 The slander and its bearer spurn, + And propagating praise sojourn + To make thy welcome last; + Turn from old Adam to the New: + By hope futurity pursue: + Look upwards to the past. + +48 Control thine eye, salute success, + Honour the wiser, happier bless, + And for thy neighbour feel; + Grutch not of mammon and his leaven, + Work emulation up to heaven + By knowledge and by zeal. + +49 O David, highest in the list + Of worthies, on God's ways insist, + The genuine word repeat! + Vain are the documents of men, + And vain the flourish of the pen + That keeps the fool's conceit. + +50 Praise above all--for praise prevails; + Heap up the measure, load the scales, + And good to goodness add: + The generous soul her Saviour aids, + But peevish obloquy degrades; + The Lord is great and glad. + +51 For Adoration all the ranks + Of angels yield eternal thanks, + And David in the midst; + With God's good poor, which, last and least + In man's esteem, thou to thy feast, + O blessed bridegroom, bidst. + +52 For Adoration seasons change, + And order, truth, and beauty range, + Adjust, attract, and fill: + The grass the polyanthus checks; + And polished porphyry reflects, + By the descending rill. + +53 Rich almonds colour to the prime + For Adoration; tendrils climb, + And fruit-trees pledge their gems; + And Ivis, with her gorgeous vest, + Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, + And bell-flowers bow their stems. + +54 With vinous syrup cedars spout; + From rocks pure honey gushing out, + For Adoration springs: + All scenes of painting crowd the map + Of nature; to the mermaid's pap + The scaled infant clings. + +55 The spotted ounce and playsome cubs + Run rustling 'mongst the flowering shrubs, + And lizards feed the moss; + For Adoration beasts embark, + While waves upholding halcyon's ark + No longer roar and toss. + +56 While Israel sits beneath his fig, + With coral root and amber sprig + The weaned adventurer sports; + Where to the palm the jasmine cleaves, + For Adoration 'mong the leaves + The gale his peace reports. + +57 Increasing days their reign exalt, + Nor in the pink and mottled vault + The opposing spirits tilt; + And by the coasting reader spied, + The silverlings and crusions glide + For Adoration gilt. + +58 For Adoration ripening canes, + And cocoa's purest milk detains + The western pilgrim's staff; + Where rain in clasping boughs enclosed, + And vines with oranges disposed, + Embower the social laugh. + +59 Now labour his reward receives, + For Adoration counts his sheaves + To peace, her bounteous prince; + The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes, + And apples of ten thousand tribes, + And quick peculiar quince. + +60 The wealthy crops of whitening rice + 'Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice, + For Adoration grow; + And, marshalled in the fenced land, + The peaches and pomegranates stand, + Where wild carnations blow. + +61 The laurels with the winter strive; + The crocus burnishes alive + Upon the snow-clad earth: + For Adoration myrtles stay + To keep the garden from dismay, + And bless the sight from dearth. + +62 The pheasant shows his pompous neck; + And ermine, jealous of a speck, + With fear eludes offence: + The sable, with his glossy pride, + For Adoration is descried, + Where frosts the waves condense. + +63 The cheerful holly, pensive yew, + And holy thorn, their trim renew; + The squirrel hoards his nuts: + All creatures batten o'er their stores, + And careful nature all her doors + For Adoration shuts. + +64 For Adoration, David's Psalms + Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; + And he, who kneels and chants, + Prevails his passions to control, + Finds meat and medicine to the soul, + Which for translation pants. + +65 For Adoration, beyond match, + The scholar bullfinch aims to catch + The soft flute's ivory touch; + And, careless, on the hazel spray + The daring redbreast keeps at bay + The damsel's greedy clutch. + +66 For Adoration, in the skies, + The Lord's philosopher espies + The dog, the ram, and rose; + The planets' ring, Orion's sword; + Nor is his greatness less adored + In the vile worm that glows. + +67 For Adoration, on the strings + The western breezes work their wings, + The captive ear to soothe-- + Hark! 'tis a voice--how still, and small-- + That makes the cataracts to fall, + Or bids the sea be smooth! + +68 For Adoration, incense comes + From bezoar, and Arabian gums, + And from the civet's fur: + But as for prayer, or e'er it faints, + Far better is the breath of saints + Than galbanum or myrrh. + +69 For Adoration, from the down + Of damsons to the anana's crown, + God sends to tempt the taste; + And while the luscious zest invites + The sense, that in the scene delights, + Commands desire be chaste. + +70 For Adoration, all the paths + Of grace are open, all the baths + Of purity refresh; + And all the rays of glory beam + To deck the man of God's esteem, + Who triumphs o'er the flesh. + +71 For Adoration, in the dome + Of Christ, the sparrows find a home; + And on his olives perch: + The swallow also dwells with thee, + O man of God's humility, + Within his Saviour's church. + +72 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, + And drops upon the leafy limes; + Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: + Sweet is the lily's silver bell, + And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell + That watch for early prayer. + +73 Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, + Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; + Sweet when the lost arrive: + Sweet the musician's ardour beats, + While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, + The choicest flowers to hive. + +74 Sweeter, in all the strains of love, + The language of thy turtle-dove, + Paired to thy swelling chord; + Sweeter, with every grace endued, + The glory of thy gratitude, + Respired unto the Lord. + +75 Strong is the horse upon his speed; + Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, + Which makes at once his game: + Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; + Strong through the turbulent profound + Shoots xiphias to his aim. + +76 Strong is the lion--like a coal + His eyeball--like a bastion's mole + His chest against the foes: + Strong the gier-eagle on his sail, + Strong against tide the enormous whale + Emerges as he goes. + +77 But stronger still in earth and air, + And in the sea the man of prayer, + And far beneath the tide: + And in the seat to faith assigned, + Where ask is have, where seek is find, + Where knock is open wide. + +78 Beauteous the fleet before the gale; + Beauteous the multitudes in mail, + Ranked arms, and crested heads; + Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild. + Walk, water, meditated wild, + And all the bloomy beds. + +79 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; + And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn, + The virgin to her spouse: + Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, + When to the heaven of heavens they build + Their heart-directed vows. + +80 Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, + The Shepherd King upon his knees, + For his momentous trust; + With wish of infinite conceit, + For man, beast, mute, the small and great, + And prostrate dust to dust. + +81 Precious the bounteous widow's mite; + And precious, for extreme delight, + The largess from the churl: + Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, + And alba's blest imperial rays, + And pure cerulean pearl. + +82 Precious the penitential tear; + And precious is the sigh sincere; + Acceptable to God: + And precious are the winning flowers, + In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers, + Bound on the hallowed sod. + +83 More precious that diviner part + Of David, even the Lord's own heart, + Great, beautiful, and new: + In all things where it was intent, + In all extremes, in each event, + Proof--answering true to true. + +84 Glorious the sun in mid career; + Glorious the assembled fires appear; + Glorious the comet's train: + Glorious the trumpet and alarm; + Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; + Glorious the enraptured main: + +85 Glorious the northern lights astream; + Glorious the song, when God's the theme; + Glorious the thunder's roar: + Glorious hosannah from the den; + Glorious the catholic amen; + Glorious the martyr's gore: + +86 Glorious--more glorious is the crown + Of Him that brought salvation down, + By meekness called thy Son; + Thou that stupendous truth believed, + And now the matchless deed's achieved, + Determined, Dared, and Done. + + + + +THOMAS CHATTERTON. + + +The history of this 'marvellous boy' is familiar to all the readers of +English poetry, and requires only a cursory treatment here. Thomas +Chatterton was born in Bristol, November 20, 1752. His father, a teacher +in the free-school there, had died before his birth, and he was sent to +be educated at a charity-school. He first learned to read from a black- +letter Bible. At the age of fourteen, he was put apprentice to an +attorney; a situation which, however uncongenial, left him ample leisure +for pursuing his private studies. In an unlucky hour, some evil genius +seemed to have whispered to this extra-ordinary youth,--'Do not find or +force, but forge thy way to renown; the other paths to the summit of the +hill are worn and common-place; try a new and dangerous course, the +rather as I forewarn thee that thy time is short.' When, accordingly, +the new bridge at Bristol was finished in October 1768, Chatterton sent +to a newspaper a fictitious account of the opening of the old bridge, +alleging in a note that he had found the principal part of the +description in an ancient MS. And having thus fairly begun to work the +mint of forgery, it was amazing what a number of false coins he threw +off, and with what perfect ease and mastery! Ancient poems, pretending +to have been written four hundred and fifty years before; fragments of +sermons on the Holy Spirit, dated from the fifteenth century; accounts +of all the churches of Bristol as they had appeared three hundred years +before; with drawings and descriptions of the castle--most of them +professing to be drawn from the writings of 'ane gode prieste, Thomas +Rowley'--issued in thick succession from this wonderful, and, to use +the Shakspearean word in a twofold sense, 'forgetive' brain. He next +ventured to send to Horace Walpole, who was employed on a History of +British Painters, an account of eminent 'Carvellers and Peyneters,' who, +according to him, once flourished in Bristol. These labours he plied in +secret, and with the utmost enthusiasm. He used to write by the light of +the moon, deeming that there was a special inspiration in the rays of +that planet, and reminding one of poor Nat Lee inditing his insane +tragedies in his asylum under the same weird lustre. On Sabbaths he was +wont to stroll away into the country around Bristol, which is very +beautiful, and to draw sketches of those objects which impressed his +imagination. He often lay down on the meadows near St Mary's Redcliffe +Church, admiring the ancient edifice; and some years ago we saw a +chamber near the summit of that edifice where he used to sit and write, +his 'eye in a fine frenzy rolling,' and where we could imagine him, when +a moonless night fell, composing his wild Runic lays by the light of a +candle burning in a human skull. It was actually in one of the rooms of +this church that some ancient chests had been deposited, including one +called the 'Coffre of Mr Canynge,' an eminent merchant in Bristol, who +had rebuilt the church in the reign of Edward IV. This coffer had been +broken up by public authority in 1727, and some valuable deeds had been +taken out. Besides these, they contained various MSS., some of which +Chatterton's father, whose uncle was sexton of the church, had carried +off and used as covers to the copy-books of his scholars. This furnished +a hint to Chatterton's inventive genius. He gave out that among these +parchments he had found many productions of Mr Canynge's, and of the +aforesaid Thomas Rowley's, a priest of the fifteenth century, and a +friend of Canynge's. Chatterton had become a contributor to a periodical +of the day called _The Town and Country Magazine_, and to it from time +to time he sent these poems. A keen controversy arose as to their +genuineness. Horace Walpole shewed some of them, which Chatterton had +sent him, to Gray and Mason, who were deemed, justly, first-rate +authorities on antiquarian matters, and who at once pronounced them +forgeries. It is deeply to be regretted that these men, perceiving, as +they must have done, the great merit of these productions, had not made +more particular inquiries about them, and tried to help and save the +poet. Walpole, to say the least of it, treated him coldly, telling him, +when he had discovered the forgery, to attend to his own business, and +keeping some of his MSS. in his hands, till an indignant letter from the +author compelled him to restore them. + +Chatterton now determined to go to London. His three years' apprenticeship +had expired, and there was in Bristol no further field for his aspiring +genius. He found instant employment among the booksellers, and procured +an introduction to Beckford, the patriot mayor, who tried to get him +engaged upon the Opposition side in politics. Our capricious and +unprincipled poet, however, declared that he was a poor author that could +not write on both sides; and although his leanings were to the popular +party, yet on the death of Beckford he addressed a letter to Lord North +in support of his administration. He had projected some large works, such +as a History of England and a History of London, and wrote flaming +letters to his mother and sisters about his prospects, enclosing them at +the same time small remittances of money. But his bright hopes were soon +overcast. Instead of a prominent political character, he found himself a +mere bookseller's hack. To this his poverty no more than his will would +consent, for though that was great it was equalled by his pride. His life +in the country had been regular, although his religious principles were +loose; but in town, misery drove him to intemperance, and intemperance, +in its reaction, to remorse and a desperate tampering with the thought, + + 'There is one remedy for all.' + +At last, after a vain attempt to obtain an appointment as a surgeon's +mate to Africa, he made up his mind to suicide. A guinea had been sent +him by a gentleman, which he declined. Mrs Angel, his landlady, knowing +him to be in want, the day before his death offered him his dinner, but +this also he spurned; and, on the 25th of August 1770, having first +destroyed all his papers, he swallowed arsenic, and was found dead in +his bed. + +He was buried in a shell in the burial-place of Shoe-Lane Workhouse. +He was aged seventeen years nine months and a few days. Alas for + + 'The sleepless soul that perished in his pride!' + +Chatterton, had he lived, would, perhaps, have become a powerful poet, +or a powerful character of some kind. But we must now view him chiefly +as a prodigy. Some have treated his power as unnatural--resembling a +huge hydrocephalic head, the magnitude of which implies disease, +ultimate weakness, and early death. Others maintain that, apart from the +extraordinary elements that undoubtedly characterised Chatterton, and +constituted him a premature and prodigious birth intellectually, there +was also in parts of his poems evidence of a healthy vigour which only +needed favourable circumstances to develop into transcendent excellence. +Hazlitt, holding with the one of these opinions, cries, 'If Chatterton +had had a great work to do by living, he would have lived!' Others +retort on the critic, 'On the same principle, why did Keats, whom you +rate so high, perish so early?' The question altogether is nugatory, +seeing it can never be settled. Suffice it that these songs and rhymes +of Chatterton have great beauties, apart from the age and position of +their author. There may at times be madness, but there is method in it. +The flight of the rhapsody is ever upheld by the strength of the wing, +and while the reading discovered is enormous for a boy, the depth of +feeling exhibited is equally extraordinary; and the clear, firm judgment +which did not characterise his conduct, forms the root and the trunk of +much of his poetry. It was said of his eyes that it seemed as if fire +rolled under them; and it rolls still, and shall ever roll, below many +of his verses. + + +BRISTOWE TRAGEDY. + +1 The feathered songster, chanticleer, + Hath wound his bugle-horn, + And told the early villager + The coming of the morn. + +2 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks + Of light eclipse the gray, + And heard the raven's croaking throat + Proclaim the fated day. + +3 'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God + That sits enthroned on high! + Charles Bawdin and his fellows twain + To-day shall surely die.' + +4 Then with a jug of nappy ale + His knights did on him wait; + 'Go tell the traitor that to-day + He leaves this mortal state.' + +5 Sir Canterlone then bended low, + With heart brimful of woe; + He journeyed to the castle-gate, + And to Sir Charles did go. + +6 But when he came, his children twain, + And eke his loving wife, + With briny tears did wet the floor, + For good Sir Charles' life. + +7 'O good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone, + 'Bad tidings I do bring.' + 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles; + 'What says the traitor king?' + +8 'I grieve to tell; before that sun + Doth from the heaven fly, + He hath upon his honour sworn, + That thou shalt surely die.' + +9 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; + 'Of that I'm not afeard; + What boots to live a little space? + Thank Jesus, I'm prepared: + +10 'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, + I'd sooner die to-day + Than live his slave, as many are, + Though I should live for aye.' + +11 Then Canterlone he did go out, + To tell the mayor straight + To get all things in readiness + For good Sir Charles' fate. + +12 Then Master Canynge sought the king, + And fell down on his knee; + 'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your Grace + To move your clemency.' + +13 'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out; + You have been much our friend; + Whatever your request may be, + We will to it attend.' + +14 'My noble liege! all my request + Is for a noble knight, + Who, though perhaps he has done wrong, + He thought it still was right: + +15 'He has a spouse and children twain-- + All ruined are for aye, + If that you are resolved to let + Charles Bawdin die to-day.' + +16 'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' + The king in fury said; + 'Before the evening star doth shine, + Bawdin shall lose his head: + +17 'Justice does loudly for him call, + And he shall have his meed; + Speak, Master Canynge! what thing else + At present do you need?' + +18 'My noble liege!' good Canynge said, + 'Leave justice to our God, + And lay the iron rule aside;-- + Be thine the olive rod. + +19 'Was God to search our hearts and reins, + The best were sinners great; + Christ's vicar only knows no sin, + In all this mortal state. + +20 'Let mercy rule thine infant reign; + 'Twill fix thy crown full sure; + From race to race thy family + All sovereigns shall endure: + +21 'But if with blood and slaughter thou + Begin thy infant reign, + Thy crown upon thy children's brow + Will never long remain.' + +22 'Canynge, away! this traitor vile + Has scorned my power and me; + How canst thou then for such a man + Entreat my clemency?' + +23 'My noble liege! the truly brave + Will valorous actions prize; + Respect a brave and noble mind, + Although in enemies.' + +24 'Canynge, away! By God in heaven, + That did me being give, + I will not taste a bit of bread + While this Sir Charles doth live. + +25 'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, + This sun shall be his last.'-- + Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, + And from the presence passed. + +26 With heart brimful of gnawing grief, + He to Sir Charles did go, + And sat him down upon a stool, + And tears began to flow. + +27 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; + 'What boots it how or when? + Death is the sure, the certain fate + Of all us mortal men. + +28 'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul + Runs over at thine eye? + Is it for my most welcome doom + That thou dost child-like cry?' + +29 Quoth godly Canynge, 'I do weep, + That thou so soon must die, + And leave thy sons and helpless wife; + 'Tis this that wets mine eye.' + +30 'Then dry the tears that out thine eye + From godly fountains spring; + Death I despise, and all the power + Of Edward, traitor king. + +31 'When through the tyrant's welcome means + I shall resign my life, + The God I serve will soon provide + For both my sons and wife. + +32 'Before I saw the lightsome sun, + This was appointed me;-- + Shall mortal man repine or grudge + What God ordains to be? + +33 'How oft in battle have I stood, + When thousands died around; + When smoking streams of crimson blood + Imbrued the fattened ground? + +34 'How did I know that every dart, + That cut the airy way, + Might not find passage to my heart, + And close mine eyes for aye? + +35 'And shall I now from fear of death + Look wan and be dismayed? + No! from my heart fly childish fear, + Be all the man displayed. + +36 'Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend + And guard thee and thy son, + If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, + Why, then his will be done. + +37 'My honest friend, my fault has been + To serve God and my prince; + And that I no timeserver am, + My death will soon convince. + +38 'In London city was I born, + Of parents of great note; + My father did a noble arms + Emblazon on his coat: + +39 'I make no doubt that he is gone + 'Where soon I hope to go; + Where we for ever shall be blest, + From out the reach of woe. + +40 'He taught me justice and the laws + With pity to unite; + And likewise taught me how to know + The wrong cause from the right: + +41 'He taught me with a prudent hand + To feed the hungry poor; + Nor let my servants drive away + The hungry from my door: + +42 'And none can say but all my life + I have his counsel kept, + And summed the actions of each day + Each night before I slept. + +43 'I have a spouse; go ask of her + If I denied her bed; + I have a king, and none can lay + Black treason on my head. + +44 'In Lent, and on the holy eve, + From flesh I did refrain; + Why should I then appear dismayed + To leave this world of pain? + +45 'No, hapless Henry! I rejoice + I shall not see thy death; + Most willingly in thy just cause + Do I resign my breath. + +46 'O fickle people, ruined land! + Thou wilt know peace no moe; + While Richard's sons exalt themselves, + Thy brooks with blood will flow. + +47 'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, + And godly Henry's reign, + That you did change your easy days + For those of blood and pain? + +48 'What though I on a sledge be drawn, + And mangled by a hind? + I do defy the traitor's power,-- + He cannot harm my mind! + +49 'What though uphoisted on a pole, + My limbs shall rot in air, + And no rich monument of brass + Charles Bawdin's name shall bear? + +50 'Yet in the holy book above, + Which time can't eat away, + There, with the servants of the Lord, + My name shall live for aye. + +51 'Then welcome death! for life eterne + I leave this mortal life: + Farewell, vain world! and all that's dear, + My sons and loving wife! + +52 'Now death as welcome to me comes + As e'er the month of May; + Nor would I even wish to live, + With my dear wife to stay.' + +53 Quoth Canynge, ''Tis a goodly thing + To be prepared to die; + And from this world of pain and grief + To God in heaven to fly.' + +54 And now the bell began to toll, + And clarions to sound; + Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet + A-prancing on the ground: + +55 And just before the officers + His loving wife came in, + Weeping unfeigned tears of woe, + With loud and dismal din. + +56 'Sweet Florence! now, I pray, forbear; + In quiet let me die; + Pray God that every Christian soul + May look on death as I. + +57 'Sweet Florence! why those briny tears? + They wash my soul away, + And almost make me wish for life, + With thee, sweet dame, to stay. + +58 ''Tis but a journey I shall go + Unto the land of bliss; + Now, as a proof of husband's love, + Receive this holy kiss.' + +59 Then Florence, faltering in her say, + Trembling these words she spoke,-- + 'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! + My heart is well-nigh broke. + +60 'Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go + Without thy loving wife? + The cruel axe that cuts thy neck + Shall also end my life.' + +61 And now the officers came in + To bring Sir Charles away, + Who turned to his loving wife, + And thus to her did say: + +62 'I go to life, and not to death; + Trust thou in God above, + And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, + And in their hearts him love: + +63 'Teach them to run the noble race + That I their father run; + Florence! should death thee take--adieu!-- + Ye officers, lead on.' + +64 Then Florence raved as any mad, + And did her tresses tear;-- + 'Oh, stay, my husband, lord, and life!'-- + Sir Charles then dropped a tear;-- + +65 Till tired out with raving loud, + She fell upon the floor: + Sir Charles exerted all his might, + And marched from out the door. + +66 Upon a sledge he mounted then, + With looks full brave and sweet; + Looks that did show no more concern + Than any in the street. + +67 Before him went the council-men, + In scarlet robes and gold, + And tassels spangling in the sun, + Much glorious to behold: + +68 The friars of St Augustine next + Appeared to the sight, + All clad in homely russet weeds + Of godly monkish plight: + +69 In different parts a godly psalm + Most sweetly they did chaunt; + Behind their backs six minstrels came, + Who tuned the strong bataunt. + +70 Then five-and-twenty archers came; + Each one the bow did bend, + From rescue of King Henry's friends + Sir Charles for to defend. + +71 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, + Drawn on a cloth-laid sled + By two black steeds, in trappings white, + With plumes upon their head. + +72 Behind him five-and-twenty more + Of archers strong and stout, + With bended bow each one in hand, + Marched in goodly rout: + +73 Saint James's friars marched next, + Each one his part did chaunt; + Behind their backs six minstrels came + Who tuned the strong bataunt: + +74 Then came the mayor and aldermen, + In cloth of scarlet decked; + And their attending men, each one + Like eastern princes tricked: + +75 And after them a multitude + Of citizens did throng; + The windows were all full of heads, + As he did pass along. + +76 And when he came to the high cross, + Sir Charles did turn and say,-- + 'O Thou that savest man from sin, + Wash my soul clean this day!' + +77 At the great minster window sat + The king in mickle state, + To see Charles Bawdin go along + To his most welcome fate. + +78 Soon as the sledge drew nigh enough + That Edward he might hear, + The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, + And thus his words declare: + +79 'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! + Exposed to infamy; + But be assured, disloyal man! + I'm greater now than thee. + +80 'By foul proceedings, murder, blood, + Thou wearest now a crown; + And hast appointed me to die, + By power not thine own. + +81 'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; + I have been dead till now, + And soon shall live to wear a crown + For ever on my brow: + +82 'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years + Shall rule this fickle land, + To let them know how wide the rule + 'Twixt king and tyrant hand: + +83 'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! + Shall fall on thy own head'---- + From out of hearing of the king + Departed then the sled. + +84 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, + He turned his head away, + And to his brother Gloucester + He thus did speak and say: + +85 'To him that so much dreaded death + No ghastly terrors bring, + Behold the man! he spake the truth, + He's greater than a king!' + +86 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; + 'And may each of our foes + Bend down their necks to bloody axe, + And feed the carrion crows!' + +87 And now the horses gently drew + Sir Charles up the high hill; + The axe did glisten in the sun, + His precious blood to spill. + +88 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, + As up a gilded car + Of victory, by valorous chiefs, + Gained in the bloody war: + +89 And to the people he did say,-- + 'Behold, you see me die, + For serving loyally my king, + My king most rightfully. + +90 'As long as Edward rules this land, + No quiet you will know; + Your sons and husbands shall be slain, + And brooks with blood shall flow. + +91 'You leave your good and lawful king + When in adversity; + Like me unto the true cause stick, + And for the true cause die.' + +92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, + A prayer to God did make, + Beseeching him unto himself + His parting soul to take. + +93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head + Most seemly on the block; + Which from his body fair at once + The able headsman stroke: + +94 And out the blood began to flow, + And round the scaffold twine; + And tears, enough to wash't away, + Did flow from each man's eyne. + +95 The bloody axe his body fair + Into four quarters cut; + And every part, likewise his head, + Upon a pole was put. + +96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, + One on the minster-tower, + And one from off the castle-gate + The crowen did devour: + +97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, + A dreary spectacle; + His head was placed on the high cross, + In high street most nobile. + +98 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;-- + God prosper long our king, + And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, + In heaven God's mercy sing! + + + +MINSTREL'S SONG. + +1 O! sing unto my roundelay, + O! drop the briny tear with me; + Dance no more at holy-day, + Like a running river be: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, + White his rode[2] as the summer snow, + Red his face as the morning light, + Cold he lies in the grave below: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, + Quick in dance as thought can be, + Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; + O! he lies by the willow-tree: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, + In the briared dell below; + Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing + To the night-mares as they go: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +5 See! the white moon shines on high; + Whiter is my true love's shroud, + Whiter than the morning sky, + Whiter than the evening cloud: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +6 Here upon my true love's grave, + Shall the barren flowers be laid, + Not one holy saint to save + All the celness of a maid: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars + Round his holy corse to gree;[4] + Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires-- + Here my body still shall be: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, + Drain my heartë's-blood away; + Life and all its goods I scorn, + Dance by night, or feast by day: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6] + Bear me to your lethal tide. + 'I die! I come! my true love waits!' + Thus the damsel spake, and died. + +[1] 'Cryne:' hair. +[2] 'Rode:' complexion. +[3] 'Dent:' fix. +[4] 'Gree:' grow. +[5] 'Ouphant:' elfish. +[6] 'Reytes:' water-flags. + + +THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE. + +1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined, + Listening to hear the water glide along, + Minding how thorough the green meads it twined, + Whilst the caves responsed its muttering song, + At distant rising Avon to he sped, + Amenged[1] with rising hills did show its head; + +2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds + And wraytes[2] of alders of a bercie scent, + And sticking out with cloud-agested reeds, + The hoary Avon showed dire semblament, + Whilst blatant Severn, from Sabrina cleped, + Boars flemie o'er the sandës that she heaped. + +3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought + Of hardy champions knowen to the flood, + How on the banks thereof brave Aelle fought, + Aelle descended from Merce kingly blood, + Warder of Bristol town and castle stede, + Who ever and anon made Danes to bleed. + +4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite + Dight in the armour brace that Michael bore, + When he with Satan, king of Hell, did fight, + And earth was drenched in a sea of gore; + Or, soon as they did see the worldë's light, + Fate had wrote down, 'This man is born to fight.' + +5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say, + Why is thy actions left so spare in story? + Were I to dispone, there should liven aye, + In earth and heaven's rolls thy tale of glory; + Thy acts so doughty should for aye abide, + And by their test all after acts be tried. + +6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind, + As fair a saint as any town can boast, + Or be the earth with light or mirk ywrynde,[4] + I see his image walking through the coast: + Fitz-Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twenty moe, + In vision 'fore my fantasy did go. + +7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed, + And each digne[6] builder dequaced on my mind, + When from the distant stream arose a maid, + Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind; + Like to the silver moon in frosty night, + The damoiselle did come so blithe and sweet. + +8 No broidered mantle of a scarlet hue, + No shoe-pikes plaited o'er with riband gear, + No costly robes of woaden blue, + Nought of a dress, but beauty did she wear; + Naked she was, and looked sweet of youth, + All did bewrayen that her name was Truth. + +9 The easy ringlets of her nut-brown hair + What ne a man should see did sweetly hide, + Which on her milk-white bodykin so fair + Did show like brown streams fouling the white tide, + Or veins of brown hue in a marble cuarr,[7] + Which by the traveller is kenned from far. + +10 Astounded mickle there I silent lay, + Still scauncing wondrous at the walking sight; + My senses forgard,[8] nor could run away, + But was not forstraught[9] when she did alight + Anigh to me, dressed up in naked view, + Which might in some lascivious thoughts abrew. + +11 But I did not once think of wanton thought; + For well I minded what by vow I hete, + And in my pocket had a crochee[10] brought; + Which in the blossom would such sins anete; + I looked with eyes as pure as angels do, + And did the every thought of foul eschew. + +12 With sweet semblatë, and an angel's grace, + She 'gan to lecture from her gentle breast; + For Truth's own wordës is her mindë's face, + False oratories she did aye detest: + Sweetness was in each word she did ywreene, + Though she strove not to make that sweetness seen. + +13 She said, 'My manner of appearing here + My name and slighted myndruch may thee tell; + I'm Truth, that did descend from heaven-were, + Goulers and courtiers do not know me well; + Thy inmost thoughts, thy labouring brain I saw, + And from thy gentle dream will thee adawe.[11] + +14 Full many champions, and men of lore, + Painters and carvellers[12] have gained good name, + But there's a Canynge to increase the store, + A Canynge who shall buy up all their fame. + Take thou my power, and see in child and man + What true nobility in Canynge ran.' + +15 As when a bordelier[13] on easy bed, + Tired with the labours maynt[14] of sultry day, + In sleepë's bosom lays his weary head, + So, senses sunk to rest, my body lay; + Eftsoons my sprite, from earthly bands untied, + Emerged in flanched air with Truth aside. + +16 Straight was I carried back to times of yore, + Whilst Canynge swathed yet in fleshly bed, + And saw all actions which had been before, + And all the scroll of fate unravelled; + And when the fate-marked babe had come to sight, + I saw him eager gasping after light. + +17 In all his shepen gambols and child's play, + In every merry-making, fair, or wake, + I knew a purple light of wisdom's ray; + He eat down learning with a wastle cake. + As wise as any of the aldermen, + He'd wit enough to make a mayor at ten. + +18 As the dulce[15] downy barbe began to gre, + So was the well thighte texture of his lore + Each day enheedynge mockler[16] for to be, + Great in his counsel for the days he bore. + All tongues, all carols did unto him sing, + Wond'ring at one so wise, and yet so ying.[17] + +19 Increasing in the years of mortal life, + And hasting to his journey unto heaven, + He thought it proper for to choose a wife, + And use the sexes for the purpose given. + He then was youth of comely semelikede, + And he had made a maiden's heart to bleed. + +20 He had a father (Jesus rest his soul!) + Who loved money, as his cherished joy; + He had a brother (happy man be's dole!) + In mind and body his own father's boy: + What then could Canynge wishen as a part + To give to her who had made exchange of heart? + +21 But lands and castle tenures, gold and bighes,[18] + And hoards of silver rusted in the ent,[19] + Canynge and his fair sweet did that despise, + To change of truly love was their content; + They lived together in a house adigne,[20] + Of good sendaument commily and fine. + +22 But soon his brother and his sire did die, + And left to William states and renting-rolls, + And at his will his brother John supply. + He gave a chauntry to redeem their souls; + And put his brother into such a trade, + That he Lord Mayor of London town was made. + +23 Eftsoons his morning turned to gloomy night; + His dame, his second self, gave up her breath, + Seeking for eterne life and endless light, + And slew good Canynge; sad mistake of Death! + So have I seen a flower in summer-time + Trod down and broke and wither in its prime. + +24 Near Redcliff Church (oh, work of hand of Heaven! + Where Canynge showeth as an instrument) + Was to my bismarde eyesight newly given; + 'Tis past to blazon it to good content. + You that would fain the festive building see + Repair to Redcliff, and contented be. + +25 I saw the myndbruch of his notte soul + When Edward menaced a second wife; + I saw what Pheryons in his mind did roll: + Now fixed from second dames, a priest for life, + This is the man of men, the vision spoke; + Then bell for even-song my senses woke. + +[1] 'Amenged:' mixed. +[2] 'Wraytes:' flags. +[3] 'Swithin:' quickly. +[4] 'Ywrynde:' covered. +[5] 'Faitour:' vagrant. +[6] 'Digne:' worthy. +[7] 'Cuarr:' quarry. +[8] 'Forgard:' lose. +[9] 'Forstraught:' distracted. +[10] 'A crochee:' a cross. +[11] 'Adawe:' awake. +[12] 'Carvellers:' sculptors. +[13] 'A bordelier:' a cottager. +[14] 'Maynt:' many. +[15] 'Dulce:' sweet. +[16] 'Mockler:' more. +[17] 'Ying:' young. +[18] 'Bighes:' jewels. +[19] 'Ent:' bag. +[20] 'Adigne:' worthy. + + +KENRICK. + +TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON. + +When winter yelled through the leafless grove; when the black waves +rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of +the sun; when the silver brook stood still, and snow environed the top +of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blasted +fields, and the boughs of the leafless trees bent with the loads of +ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering +light of the western sky; Kenrick, terrible as the tempest, young as +the snake of the valley, strong as the mountain of the slain; his +armour shining like the stars in the dark night, when the moon is +veiled in sable, and the blasting winds howl over the wide plain; his +shield like the black rock, prepared himself for war. + +Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the first rays of the +morning star, swift as the flying deer, strong as the young oak, +fierce as an evening wolf, drew his sword; glittering like the blue +vapours in the valley of Horso; terrible as the red lightning, +bursting from the dark-brown clouds; his swift bark rode over the +foaming waves, like the wind in the tempest; the arches fell at his +blow, and he wrapped the towers in flames: he followed Kenrick, like +a wolf roaming for prey. + +Centwin of the vale arose, he seized the massy spear; terrible was his +voice, great was his strength; he hurled the rocks into the sea, and +broke the strong oaks of the forest. Slow in the race as the minutes +of impatience. His spear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, swept down +whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the stones of hail +at the approach of the sun. + +Awake, O Eldulph! thou that sleepest on the white mountain, with the +fairest of women. No more pursue the dark-brown wolf: arise from the +mossy bank of the falling waters; let thy garments be stained in +blood, and the streams of life discolour thy girdle; let thy flowing +hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into +terror. + +Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: +pursue the black companies of the enemy. + +Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the stars, act like +yourselves. + +Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, swelled with rain, the Saxons +moved along; like a blazing star the sword of Kenrick shone among the +Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he +burnt up the ranks of his enemy. + +Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward sported in blood; armies +melted at his stroke. Eldulph was a flaming vapour; destruction sat +upon his sword. Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock +before the sword of Mervin. + +Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on +his hand. + +Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the +roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain. + +The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the +howling winds. + +Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursuers; deck their brows with +chaplets of jewels; spread the branches of the oak beneath their feet. +Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon +his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his +knees are red with the gore of the foe. + +Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance +around him. + +Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the +praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to +the foundation of the black rock. + +Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious. + + +FEBRUARY, AN ELEGY. + +1 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay, + Aeonian doxies, sound the thrumming string; + Attempt no number of the plaintive Gray; + Let me like midnight cats, or Collins, sing. + +2 If in the trammels of the doleful line, + The bounding hail or drilling rain descend; + Come, brooding Melancholy, power divine, + And every unformed mass of words amend. + +3 Now the rough Goat withdraws his curling horns, + And the cold Waterer twirls his circling mop: + Swift sudden anguish darts through altering corns, + And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop. + +4 Now infant authors, maddening for renown, + Extend the plume, and hum about the stage, + Procure a benefit, amuse the town, + And proudly glitter in a title-page. + +5 Now, wrapped in ninefold fur, his squeamish Grace + Defies the fury of the howling storm; + And whilst the tempest whistles round his face, + Exults to find his mantled carcase warm. + +6 Now rumbling coaches furious drive along, + Full of the majesty of city dames, + Whose jewels, sparkling in the gaudy throng, + Raise strange emotions and invidious flames. + +7 Now Merit, happy in the calm of place, + To mortals as a Highlander appears, + And conscious of the excellence of lace, + With spreading frogs and gleaming spangles glares: + +8 Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh, + In form a shoe-boy, daubs the valued fruit, + And darting lightnings from his vengeful eye, + Raves about Wilkes, and politics, and Bute. + +9 Now Barry, taller than a grenadier, + Dwindles into a stripling of eighteen; + Or sabled in Othello breaks the ear, + Exerts his voice, and totters to the scene. + +10 Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind, + Applies his wax to personal defects; + But leaves untouched the image of the mind;-- + His art no mental quality reflects. + +11 Now Drury's potent king extorts applause, + And pit, box, gallery, echo, 'How divine!' + Whilst, versed in all the drama's mystic laws, + His graceful action saves the wooden line. + +12 Now--but what further can the muses sing? + Now dropping particles of water fall; + Now vapours riding on the north wind's wing, + With transitory darkness shadows all. + +13 Alas! how joyless the descriptive theme, + When sorrow on the writer's quiet preys; + And like a mouse in Cheshire cheese supreme, + Devours the substance of the lessening bays. + +14 Come, February, lend thy darkest sky, + There teach the wintered muse with clouds to soar: + Come, February, lift the number high; + Let the sharp strain like wind through alleys roar. + +15 Ye channels, wandering through the spacious street, + In hollow murmurs roll the dirt along, + With inundations wet the sabled feet, + Whilst gouts, responsive, join the elegiac song. + +16 Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill + Sound through meandering folds of Echo's horn; + Let the sweet cry of liberty be still, + No more let smoking cakes awake the morn. + +17 O Winter! put away thy snowy pride; + O Spring! neglect the cowslip and the bell; + O Summer! throw thy pears and plums aside; + O Autumn! bid the grape with poison swell. + +18 The pensioned muse of Johnson is no more! + Drowned in a butt of wine his genius lies. + Earth! Ocean! Heaven! the wondrous loss deplore, + The dregs of nature with her glory dies. + +19 What iron Stoic can suppress the tear! + What sour reviewer read with vacant eye! + What bard but decks his literary bier!-- + Alas! I cannot sing--I howl--I cry! + + + + +LORD LYTTELTON. + + +Dr Johnson said once of Chesterfield, 'I thought him a lord among wits, +but I find him to be only a wit among lords.' And so we may say of Lord +Lyttelton, 'He is a poet among lords, if not a lord among poets.' He was +the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton, of Hagley in Worcestershire, and was +born in 1709. He went to Eton and Oxford, where he distinguished himself. +Having gone the usual grand tour, he entered Parliament, and became an +opponent of Sir Robert Walpole. He was made secretary to the Prince of +Wales, and was in this capacity useful to Mallett and Thomson. In 1741, +he married Lucy Fortescue, of Devonshire, who died five years afterwards. +Lyttelton grieved sincerely for her, and wrote his affecting 'Monody' on +the subject. When his party triumphed, he was created a Lord of the +Treasury, and afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequer, with a peerage. He +employed much of his leisure in literary composition, writing a good +little book on the Conversion of St Paul, a laboured History of Henry II., +and some verses, including the stanza in the 'Castle of Indolence' +describing Thomson-- + + 'A bard there dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,' &c.-- + +and a very spirited prologue to Thomson's 'Coriolanus,' which was written +after that author's death, and says of him, + + --'His chaste muse employed her heaven-taught lyre + None but the noblest passions to inspire: + Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, + _One line which, dying he could wish to blot_.' + +Lyttelton himself died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. His History is +now little read. It took him, it is said, thirty years to write it, and +he employed another man to point it--a fact recalling what is told of +Macaulay, that he sent the first volume of his 'History of England' to +Lord Jeffrey, who overlooked the punctuation and criticised the style. +Of a series of Dialogues issued by this writer, Dr Johnson remarked, +with his usual pointed severity, 'Here is a man telling the world what +the world had all his life been telling him.' His 'Monody' expresses +real grief in an artificial style, but has some stanzas as natural in +the expression as they are pathetic in the feeling. + + +FROM THE 'MONODY.' + +At length escaped from every human eye, + From every duty, every care, +That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, +Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; +Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, +This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, +I now may give my burdened heart relief, + And pour forth all my stores of grief; +Of grief surpassing every other woe, +Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love + Can on the ennobled mind bestow, + Exceeds the vulgar joys that move +Our gross desires, inelegant and low. + + * * * * * + + In vain I look around + O'er all the well-known ground, +My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; + Where oft we used to walk, + Where oft in tender talk +We saw the summer sun go down the sky; + Nor by yon fountain's side, + Nor where its waters glide +Along the valley, can she now be found: +In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound + No more my mournful eye + Can aught of her espy, +But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. + + * * * * * + +Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, +Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns + By your delighted mother's side: + Who now your infant steps shall guide? +Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care +To every virtue would have formed your youth, +And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? + O loss beyond repair! + O wretched father! left alone, +To weep their dire misfortune and thy own: +How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with woe, + And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, +Perform the duties that you doubly owe! + Now she, alas! is gone, +From folly and from vice their helpless age to save? + + * * * * * + + O best of wives! O dearer far to me + Than when thy virgin charms + Were yielded to my arms: + How can my soul endure the loss of thee? + How in the world, to me a desert grown, + Abandoned and alone, + Without my sweet companion can I live? + Without thy lovely smile, + The dear reward of every virtuous toil, + What pleasures now can palled ambition give? + Even the delightful sense of well-earned praise, +Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise. + + For my distracted mind + What succour can I find? + On whom for consolation shall I call? + Support me, every friend; + Your kind assistance lend, + To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. + Alas! each friend of mine, + My dear departed love, so much was thine, + That none has any comfort to bestow. + My books, the best relief + In every other grief, + Are now with your idea saddened all: + Each favourite author we together read +My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead. + + We were the happiest pair of human kind; + The rolling year its varying course performed, + And back returned again; + Another and another smiling came, + And saw our happiness unchanged remain: + Still in her golden chain + Harmonious concord did our wishes bind: + Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. + O fatal, fatal stroke, + That all this pleasing fabric love had raised + Of rare felicity, + On which even wanton vice with envy gazed, + And every scheme of bliss our hearts had formed, + With soothing hope, for many a future day, + In one sad moment broke!-- + Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay; + Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, + Or against his supreme decree + With impious grief complain; + That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, +Was his most righteous will--and be that will obeyed. + + + + +JOHN CUNNINGHAM. + + +We know very little of the history of this pleasing poet. He was born in +1729, the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. At the age of seventeen he +wrote a farce; entitled 'Love in a Mist,' and shortly after came to +Britain as an actor. He was for a long time a performer in Digges' +company in Edinburgh, and subsequently resided in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. +Here he seems to have fallen into distressed circumstances, and was +supported by a benevolent printer, at whose house he died in 1773. His +poetry is distinguished by a charming simplicity. This characterises +'Kate of Aberdeen,' given below, and also his 'Content: a Pastoral,' in +which he says allegorically-- + + 'Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, + So simple yet sweet were her charms! + I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek, + And locked the dear maid in my arms. + + 'Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, + And if, by yon prattler, the stream, + Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep, + Her image still softens my dream.' + + +MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. + +1 The silver moon's enamoured beam + Steals softly through the night, + To wanton with the winding stream, + And kiss reflected light. + To beds of state go, balmy sleep, + (Tis where you've seldom been,) + May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep + With Kate of Aberdeen. + +2 Upon the green the virgins wait, + In rosy chaplets gay, + Till Morn unbar her golden gate, + And give the promised May. + Methinks I hear the maids declare, + The promised May, when seen, + Not half so fragrant, half so fair, + As Kate of Aberdeen. + +3 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, + We'll rouse the nodding grove; + The nested birds shall raise their throats, + And hail the maid I love: + And see--the matin lark mistakes, + He quits the tufted green: + Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, + 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. + +4 Now lightsome o'er the level mead, + Where midnight fairies rove, + Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, + Or tune the reed to love: + For see the rosy May draws nigh; + She claims a virgin queen! + And hark, the happy shepherds cry, + 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. + + + + +ROBERT FERGUSSON. + + +This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some +say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to +the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four +children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and +Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having +obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven- +teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish +Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical +knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural +Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a +passion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject +of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of +studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful +preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named +John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor +Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in +his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings in his pocket +proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of +his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell +into a severe fit of illness. + +He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and +afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to +_Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_. We remember in boyhood reading some odd +volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably +poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His +evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated +youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.' +That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of +one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns, +doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse. +Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated +by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was +warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary +benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance, +his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum. +Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered +a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The +history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and +Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact +duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the +moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,' +roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the +light. 'Thou stupid god,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By +and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his +mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated, +but his constitution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor +Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New +Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his +death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a +fortune in the East Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and +enclosing a remittance of £100 to defray the expenses of the journey. + +Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried +in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to +his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers. + +Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He +was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather +than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to +sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,' +are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is +nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low +compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft +to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, +with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- +man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On +the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he +exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, +to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay. + + +THE FARMER'S INGLE. + +Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, +Ante locum, si frigus erit.--VIRG. + +1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1] + Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre; + Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4] + An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire; + What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld, + An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; + Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, + Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; + Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain. + +2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, + Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift, + Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill, + An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift. + The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, + Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een, + That ilka turn is handled to his mind; + That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean; + For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean. + +3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require + A heartsome meltith,[14] an' refreshin' synd[15] + O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire: + Sair wark an' poortith downa[16] weel be joined. + Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks; + I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams; + The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks, + An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, + Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems. + +4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: + Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, + They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, + Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. + Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; + At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; + Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23] + Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, + Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound. + +5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed + By Caledonia's ancestors been done; + By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed + In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun. + 'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang; + That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; + Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang; + Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays; + For near our crest their heads they dought na raise. + +6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre; + The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29] + O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour, + Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30] + 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; + How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; + An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, + Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; + The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. + +7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now; + For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: + Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, + Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32] + In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low, + Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear, + O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35] + O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear, + Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear! + +8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be + Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill; + That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee; + An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln. + O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, + Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; + Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return, + And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear; + The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near. + +9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, + Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; + Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; + Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43] + On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, + Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, + Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw + Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44] + Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45] + +10 In its auld lerroch[46] yet the deas[47] remains, + Where the gudeman aft streeks[48] him at his ease; + A warm and canny lean for weary banes + O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. + Round him will baudrins[49] an' the collie come, + To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee, + To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb + O' kebbuck[50] whang'd, an' dainty fadge[51] to prie;[52] + This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee. + +11 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: + What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; + How big a birn[53] maun lie on bassie's[54] back, + For meal an' mu'ter[55] to the thirlin' mill. + Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids + Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies[56] bound; + Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,[57] + An' ca' the laiglen's[58] treasure on the ground; + Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound. + + +12 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,[59] + Their joints to slack frae industry a while; + The leaden god fa's heavy on their een, + An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil: + The cruizy,[60] too, can only blink and bleer; + The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow; + Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, + Upo' the cod[61] to clear their drumly pow,[62] + Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow. + +13 Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, + Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! + Lang may his sock[63] and cou'ter turn the gleyb,[64] + An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear! + May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green; + Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed! + May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,[65] + Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed; + An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed! + +[1] 'Keeks:' peeps. +[2] 'Owsen:' oxen. +[3] 'Sair dung:' fatigued. +[4] 'Steeks:' shuts. +[5] 'Dightin':' winnowing. +[6] 'What bangs fu' leal:' what shuts out most comfortably. +[7] 'Gars:' makes. +[8] 'Fley'd:' frightened. +[9] 'Wi' divots theekit:' thatched with turf. +[10] 'Chimley:' chimney. +[11] 'Smeek:' smoke. +[12] 'Hallan:' the inner wall of a cottage. +[13] 'Cosh:' comfortable. +[14] 'Meltith:' meal. +[15] 'Synd:' drink. +[16] 'Downa:' should not. +[17] 'Girdle:' a flat iron for toasting cakes. +[18] 'Bowie:' beer-barrel. +[19] 'Kail:' broth with greens. +[20] 'Kitchen:' anything eaten with bread. +[21] 'Gabs:' palates. +[22] 'Eident:' assidious. +[23] 'Spae:' fortell. +[24] 'Brulzies:' contests. +[25] 'Gardies:' arms. +[26] 'Yird:' earth. +[27] 'Cracks:' pleasant talk. +[28] 'Bicker:' the cup. +[29] 'gash:' debat. +[30] 'Their mailins' produce hash:' destroy the produce of their farms. +[31] 'The fient a cheep:' not a whimper. +[32] 'Maen:' moan. +[33] 'Rangles:' circles. +[34] 'Gudame's:' grandame. +[35] 'Wirrikow:' scare-crow. +[36] 'Win:' abide. +[37] 'Fleetch:' entice. +[38] 'Tint:' lost. +[39] 'Scowder'd:' scorched. +[40] 'Eild:' age. +[41] 'Bairnly:' childish. +[42] 'Stent:' task. +[43] 'Lave:' the rest. +[44] 'Oy:' grand child. +[45] 'Her foy:' her farewell entertainment. +[46] 'Lerroch:'corner. +[47] 'Deas:' bench. +[48] 'Streeks:' stretches. +[49] 'Baudrins:' the cat. +[50] 'Kebbuck:' cheese. +[51] 'Fadge:' loaf. +[52] 'To prie:' to taste. +[53] 'Birn:' burden. +[54] 'Bassie:' the horse. +[55] 'Mu'ter:' the miller's perquisite. +[56] 'Hawkies:'cows. +[57] 'Tids:' fits. +[58] 'The laiglen: 'the milk-pail. +[59] 'To green:' to long. +[60] 'The cruizy:' the lamp. +[61] 'Cod:' pillow. +[62] 'Drumly pow:' thick heads. +[63] 'Sock:' ploughshare. +[64] 'Gleyb:' soil. +[65] 'Bien: 'comfortable. + + + + +DR WALTER HARTE. + + +Campbell, in his 'Specimens,' devotes a large portion of space to Dr +Walter Harte, and has quoted profusely from a poem of his entitled +'Eulogius.' We may give some of the best lines here:-- + + 'This spot for dwelling fit Eulogius chose, + And in a month a decent homestall rose, + Something between a cottage and a cell; + Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell. + + 'The site was neither granted him nor given; + 'Twas Nature's, and the ground-rent due to Heaven. + + Wife he had none, nor had he love to spare,-- + An aged mother wanted all his care. + They thanked their Maker for a pittance sent, + Supped on a turnip, slept upon content.' + +Again, of a neighbouring matron, who died leaving Eulogius money-- + + 'This matron, whitened with good works and age, + Approached the Sabbath of her pilgrimage; + Her spirit to himself the Almighty drew, + _Breathed on the alembic, and exhaled the dew_.' + +And once more-- + + 'Who but Eulogius now exults for joy? + New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind employ; + Pride pushed forth buds at every branching shoot, + And virtue shrank almost beneath the root. + High raised on fortune's hill, new Alps he spies, + O'ershoots the valley which beneath him lies, + Forgets the depths between, and travels with his eyes.' + + + + +EDWARD LOVIBOND. + + +Hampton in Middlesex was the birthplace of our next poet, Edward Lovibond. +He was a gentleman of fortune, who chiefly employed his time in rural +occupations. He became a director of the East India Company. He helped his +friend Moore in conducting the periodical called _The World_, to which he +contributed several papers, including the very pleasing poem entitled +'The Tears of Old May-Day.' He died in 1775. + + +THE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY. + +WRITTEN ON THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754. + +1 Led by the jocund train of vernal hours + And vernal airs, uprose the gentle May; + Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flowers + That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray. + +2 Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were bright, + And amorous zephyrs fluttered on her breast: + With every shifting gleam of morning light, + The colours shifted of her rainbow vest. + +3 Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form, + A golden key and golden wand she bore; + This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm, + And that unlocks the summer's copious store. + +4 Onward in conscious majesty she came, + The grateful honours of mankind to taste: + To gather fairest wreaths of future fame, + And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past. + +5 Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite + Her virgin votaries, and at early dawn, + Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite, + Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled lawn. + +6 To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride + Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine: + Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide, + A purer offering at her rustic shrine. + +7 No more the Maypole's verdant height around + To valour's games the ambitious youth advance; + No merry bells and tabor's sprightlier sound + Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance. + +8 Sudden in pensive sadness drooped her head, + Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson died-- + 'O chaste victorious triumphs! whither fled? + My maiden honours, whither gone?' she cried. + +9 Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born, + The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise, + With time coeval and the star of morn, + The first, the fairest daughter of the skies. + +10 Then, when at Heaven's prolific mandate sprung + The radiant beam of new-created day, + Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung, + Hailed the glad dawn, and angels called me May. + +11 Space in her empty regions heard the sound, + And hills, and dales, and rocks, and valleys rung; + The sun exulted in his glorious round, + And shouting planets in their courses sung. + +12 For ever then I led the constant year; + Saw youth, and joy, and love's enchanting wiles; + Saw the mild graces in my train appear, + And infant beauty brighten in my smiles. + +13 No winter frowned. In sweet embrace allied, + Three sister seasons danced the eternal green; + And Spring's retiring softness gently vied + With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty mien. + +14 Too soon, when man profaned the blessings given, + And vengeance armed to blot a guilty age, + With bright Astrea to my native heaven + I fled, and flying saw the deluge rage; + +15 Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, + While sounding billows from the mountains rolled, + With bitter waves polluting all my streams, + My nectared streams, that flowed on sands of gold. + +16 Then vanished many a sea-girt isle and grove, + Their forests floating on the watery plain: + Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove, + My Atalantis sunk beneath the main. + +17 No longer bloomed primeval Eden's bowers, + Nor guardian dragons watched the Hesperian steep: + With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flowers, + Torn from the continent to glut the deep. + +18 No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deigned, + Yet oft descending to the languid earth, + With quickening powers the fainting mass sustained, + And waked her slumbering atoms into birth. + +19 And every echo taught my raptured name, + And every virgin breathed her amorous vows, + And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame, + Showered by the Muses, crowned my lofty brows. + +20 But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride, + My Albion's favoured realms, I rose adored; + And poured my wealth, to other climes denied; + From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored. + +21 Ah me! for now a younger rival claims + My ravished honours, and to her belong + My choral dances, and victorious games, + To her my garlands and triumphal song. + +22 O say what yet untasted beauties flow, + What purer joys await her gentler reign? + Do lilies fairer, violets sweeter blow? + And warbles Philomel a softer strain? + +23 Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise? + Does evening fan her with serener gales? + Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies, + Or wantons plenty in her happier vales? + +24 Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light + Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day; + And Cynthia, riding on the car of night, + Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way. + +25 Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs, + Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flower; + Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings + When silence listens at the midnight hour. + +26 Nor wonder, man, that Nature's bashful face, + And opening charms, her rude embraces fear: + Is she not sprung from April's wayward race, + The sickly daughter of the unripened year? + +27 With showers and sunshine in her fickle eyes, + With hollow smiles proclaiming treacherous peace, + With blushes, harbouring, in their thin disguise, + The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase? + +28 Is this the fair invested with my spoil + By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command? + Ungenerous Europe! let me fly thy soil, + And waft my treasures to a grateful land; + +29 Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore, + My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain; + Again to Afric's sultry sands restore + Embowering shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane: + +30 Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast, + There hush to silence elemental strife; + Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost, + And swell her barren womb with heat and life. + +31 Then Britain--Here she ceased. Indignant grief, + And parting pangs, her faltering tongue suppressed: + Veiled in an amber cloud she sought relief, + And tears and silent anguish told the rest. + + + + +FRANCIS FAWKES. + + +This 'learned and jovial parson,' as Campbell calls him, was born in 1721, +in Yorkshire. He studied at Cambridge, and became curate at Croydon, in +Surrey. Here he obtained the friendship of Archbishop Herring, and was by +him appointed vicar of Orpington in Kent, a situation which he ultimately +exchanged for the rectory of Hayes, in the same county. He translated +various minor Greek poets, including Anacreon, Sappho, Bion and Moschus, +Theocritus, &c. He died in 1777. His 'Brown Jug' breathes some of the +spirit of the first of these writers, and two or three lines of it were +once quoted triumphantly in Parliament by Sheil, while charging Peel, we +think it was, with appropriating arguments from Bishop Philpotts--'Harry +of Exeter.' + + 'Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, + Was once Toby Philpotts,' &c. + + +THE BROWN JUG. + +1 Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, + (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale,) + Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul + As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl; + In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel, + And among jolly topers lie bore off the bell. + +2 It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease + In his flower-woven arbour as gay as you please, + With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away, + And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, + His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, + And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. + +3 His body, when long in the ground it had lain, + And time into clay had resolved it again, + A potter found out in its covert so snug, + And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug + Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale; + So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale. + + + + +JOHN LANGHORNE. + + +This poetical divine was born in 1735, at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland. +Left fatherless at four years old, his mother fulfilled her double charge +of duty with great tenderness and assiduity. He was educated at Appleby, +and subsequently became assistant at the free-school of Wakefield, took +deacon's orders, and gave promise, although very young, of becoming a +popular preacher. After various vicissitudes of life and fortune, and +publishing a number of works in prose and verse, Langhorne repaired to +London, and obtained, in 1764, the curacy and lectureship of St John's, +Clerkenwell. He soon afterwards became assistant-preacher in Lincoln's +Inn Chapel, where he had a very intellectual audience to address, and +bore a somewhat trying ordeal with complete success. He continued for a +number of years in London, maintaining his reputation both as a preacher +and writer. His most popular works were the 'Letters of Theodosius and +Constantia,' and a translation of Plutarch's Lives, which Wrangham +afterwards corrected and improved, and which is still standard. He was +twice married, and survived both his wives. He obtained the living of +Blagden in Somersetshire, and in addition to it, in 1777, a prebend in +the Cathedral of Wells. He died in 1779, aged only forty-four; his death, +it is supposed, being accelerated by intemperance, although it does not +seem to have been of a gross or aggravated description. Langhorne, an +amiable man, and highly popular as well as warmly beloved in his day, +survives now in memory chiefly through his Plutarch's Lives, and through +a few lines in his 'Country Justice,' which are immortalised by the well- +known story of Scott's interview with Burns. Campbell puts in a plea +besides for his 'Owen of Carron,' but the plea, being founded on early +reading, is partial, and has not been responded to by the public. + + +FROM 'THE COUNTRY JUSTICE.' + +The social laws from insult to protect, +To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; +The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, +To smooth the bed of penury and pain; +The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, +The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore; +The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art, +To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; +Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell, +Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, +Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, +For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm; +For this the rural magistrate, of yore, +Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore. + +Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, +On silver waves that flow through smiling vales; +In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, +Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; +With many a group of antique columns crowned, +In Gothic guise such, mansion have I found. + +Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, +Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face, +Of the more manly structures here ye view; +They rose for greatness that ye never knew! +Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my spleen +With Venus and the Graces on your green! +Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, +Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, +The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, +Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! +But spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, +Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face! + +Ye royal architects, whose antic taste +Would lay the realms of sense and nature waste; +Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, +That folly only points each other way; +Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees, +Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the trees; +Yet let not too severe a censure fall +On the plain precincts of the ancient hall. + +For though no sight your childish fancy meets, +Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets; +Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, +And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail; +Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, +The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone; +And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes, +Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting gods. + +Long have these mighty monsters known disgrace, +Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place; +Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase rears +The field-day triumphs of two hundred years. + +The enormous antlers here recall the day +That saw the forest monarch forced away; +Who, many a flood, and many a mountain passed, +Not finding those, nor deeming these the last, +O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly, +Long ere the death-drop filled his failing eye! + +Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown old, +Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. +Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer, +The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, +And tells his old, traditionary tale, +Though known to every tenant of the vale. + +Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, +Marked with his weight, the mighty horns are spread: +Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, +Where the vast master with the vast sirloin +Vied in round magnitude--Respect I bear +To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair. + +These, and such antique tokens that record +The manly spirit, and the bounteous board, +Me more delight than all the gewgaw train, +The whims and zigzags of a modern brain, +More than all Asia's marmosets to view, +Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew. + +Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast thou strayed, +By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, +And seen with lionest, antiquated air, +In the plain hall the magistratial chair? +There Herbert sat--The love of human kind, +Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind, +In the free eye the featured soul displayed, +Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting shade: +Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, +Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, +Bend o'er her urn with many a generous fear, +Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear; +Fair equity, and reason scorning art, +And all the sober virtues of the heart-- +These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail +Where statutes order, or where statutes fail. + +Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan: +Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. + +He whom the mighty master of this ball +We fondly deem, or farcically call, +To own the patriarch's truth, however loth, +Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth. + +Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, +Born but to err, and erring to bewail, +Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, +And give to life one human weakness more? + +Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; +Still mark the strong temptation and the need: +On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, +At least more lenient let thy justice fall. + +For him who, lost to every hope of life, +Has long with fortune held unequal strife, +Known to no human love, no human care, +The friendless, homeless object of despair; +For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, +Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. +Alike, if folly or misfortune brought +Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; +Believe with social mercy and with me, +Folly's misfortune in the first degree. + +Perhaps on some inhospitable shore +The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore; +Who then, no more by golden prospects led, +Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed. +Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, +Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain; +Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, +The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, +Gave the sad presage of his future years, +The child of misery, baptized in tears! + + +GIPSIES. + +FROM THE SAME. + +The gipsy-race my pity rarely move; +Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love: +Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, more; +Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore. + +For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves +The tawny father with his offspring roves; +When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, +In mossy caves, where welling waters play, +Fanned by each gale that cools the fervid sky, +With this in ragged luxury they lie. +Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain +The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again; +Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, +For their prophetic mother's mantle call. + +Far other cares that wandering mother wait, +The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! +From her to hear, in evening's friendly shade, +Of future fortune, flies the village-maid, +Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, +And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold. + +But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures! +She opens not the womb of time, but yours. +Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, +Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung! +The parson's maid--sore cause had she to rue +The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too. +Long had that anxious daughter sighed to know +What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau, +Meant by those glances which at church he stole, +Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl; +Long had she sighed; at length a prophet came, +By many a sure prediction known to fame, +To Marian known, and all she told, for true: +She knew the future, for the past she knew. + + +A CASE WHERE MERCY SHOULD HAVE MITIGATED JUSTICE. + +FROM THE SAME. + +Unnumbered objects ask thy honest care, +Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer: +Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless, +Unnumbered evils call for thy redress. + +Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn, +Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn? +While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye, +A few seem straggling in the evening sky! +Not many suns have hastened down the day, +Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way, +Since there, a scene that stained their sacred light, +With horror stopped a felon in his flight; +A babe just born that signs of life expressed, +Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast. +The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued, +He had no time to waste, yet stood and viewed; +To the next cot the trembling infant bore, +And gave a part of what he stole before; +Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear, +He felt as man, and dropped a human tear. + +Far other treatment she who breathless lay, +Found from a viler animal of prey. + +Worn with long toil on many a painful road, +That toil increased by nature's growing load, +When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, +And all the mother thronged about her breast, +The ruffian officer opposed her stay, +And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, +So far beyond the town's last limits drove, +That to return were hopeless, had she strove; +Abandoned there, with famine, pain, and cold, +And anguish, she expired,--The rest I've told. + +'Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh, +That thief shall live, that overseer shall die.' + +Too late!--his life the generous robber paid, +Lost by that pity which his steps delayed! +No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, +No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; +No liberal justice first assigned the gaol, +Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his tale. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. + + +This is not the place for writing the life of the great lawyer whose +awful wig has been singed by the sarcasm of Junius. He was born in +London in 1723, and died in 1780. He had early coquetted with poetry, +but on entering the Middle Temple he bade a 'Farewell to his Muse' in +the verses subjoined. So far as lucre was concerned, he chose the better +part, and rose gradually on the ladder of law to be a knight and a judge +in the Court of Common Pleas. It has been conjectured, from some notes +on Shakspeare published by Stevens, that Sir William continued till the +end of his days to hold occasional flirtations with his old flame. + + +THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. + +As, by some tyrant's stern command, +A wretch forsakes his native land, +In foreign climes condemned to roam +An endless exile from his home; +Pensive he treads the destined way, +And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; +Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow +He stops, and turns his eyes below; +There, melting at the well-known view, +Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: +So I, thus doomed from thee to part, +Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art, +Reluctant move, with doubtful mind +Oft stop, and often look behind. + +Companion of my tender age, +Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, +How blithesome were we wont to rove +By verdant hill, or shady grove, +Where fervent bees, with humming voice, +Around the honeyed oak rejoice, +And aged elms with awful bend +In long cathedral walks extend! +Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, +Cheered by the warbling of the woods, +How blessed my days, my thoughts how free, +In sweet society with thee! +Then all was joyous, all was young, +And years unheeded rolled along: +But now the pleasing dream is o'er, +These scenes must charm me now no more. +Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-- +Farewell!--a long, a last adieu. +Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, +To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: +There selfish faction rules the day, +And pride and avarice throng the way; +Diseases taint the murky air, +And midnight conflagrations glare; +Loose Revelry and Riot bold +In frighted streets their orgies hold; +Or, where in silence all is drowned, +Fell Murder walks his lonely round; +No room for peace, no room for you, +Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! + +Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, +Nor all the art of Addison, +Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, +Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: +Instead of these a formal band, +In furs and coifs, around me stand; +With sounds uncouth and accents dry, +That grate the soul of harmony, +Each pedant sage unlocks his store +Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; +And points with tottering hand the ways +That lead me to the thorny maze. + +There, in a winding close retreat, +Is Justice doomed to fix her seat; +There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, +She keeps the wondering world in awe; +And there, from vulgar sight retired, +Like eastern queens, is more admired. + +Oh, let me pierce the sacred shade +Where dwells the venerable maid! +There humbly mark, with reverent awe, +The guardian of Britannia's law; +Unfold with joy her sacred page, +The united boast of many an age; +Where mixed, yet uniform, appears +The wisdom of a thousand years. +In that pure spring the bottom view, +Clear, deep, and regularly true; +And other doctrines thence imbibe +Than lurk within the sordid scribe; +Observe how parts with parts unite +In one harmonious rule of right; +See countless wheels distinctly tend +By various laws to one great end: +While mighty Alfred's piercing soul +Pervades, and regulates the whole. + +Then welcome business, welcome strife, +Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, +The visage wan, the poreblind sight, +The toil by day, the lamp at night, +The tedious forms, the solemn prate, +The pert dispute, the dull debate, +The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall, +For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! +Thus though my noon of life be passed, +Yet let my setting sun, at last, +Find out the still, the rural cell, +Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! +There let me taste the homefelt bliss. +Of innocence and inward peace; +Untainted by the guilty bribe; +Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; +No orphan's cry to wound my ear; +My honour and my conscience clear; +Thus may I calmly meet my end, +Thus to the grave in peace descend. + + + + +JOHN SCOTT. + + +This poet is generally known as 'Scott of Amwell.' This arises from the +fact that his father, a draper in Southwark, where John was born in +1730, retired ten years afterwards to Amwell. He had never been +inoculated with the small-pox, and such was his dread of the disease, +and that of his family, that for twenty years, although within twenty +miles of London, he never visited it. His parents, who belonged to the +amiable sect of Quakers, sent him to a day-school at Ware, but that too +he left upon the first alarm of infection. At seventeen, although his +education was much neglected, he began to relish reading, and was +materially assisted in his studies by a neighbour of the name of +Frogley, a master bricklayer, who, though somewhat illiterate, admired +poetry. Scott sent his first essays to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and +in his thirtieth year published four elegies, which met with a kind +reception, although Dr Johnson said only of them, 'They are very well, +but such as twenty people might write.' He produced afterwards 'The +Garden,' 'Amwell,' and other poems, besides some rather narrow 'Critical +Essays on the English Poets.' When thirty-six years of age, he submitted +to inoculation, and henceforward visited London frequently, and became +acquainted with Dr Johnson, Sir William Jones, Mrs Montague, and other +eminent characters. He was a very active promoter of local improvements, +and diligent in cultivating his grounds and garden. He was twice +married, his first wife being a daughter of his friend Frogley. He died +in 1783, not of that disease which he so 'greatly feared,' but of a +putrid fever, at Radcliff. One note of his, entitled 'Ode on Hearing the +Drum,' still reverberates on the ear of poetic readers. Wordsworth has +imitated it in his 'Andrew Jones.' Sir Walter makes Rachel Geddes say, +in 'Redgauntlet,' alluding to books of verse, 'Some of our people do +indeed hold that every writer who is not with us is against us, but +brother Joshua is mitigated in his opinions, and correspondeth with our +friend John Scott of Amwell, who hath himself constructed verses well +approved of even in the world.' + + +ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM. + +1 I hate that drum's discordant sound, + Parading round, and round, and round: + To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, + And lures from cities and from fields, + To sell their liberty for charms + Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms; + And when ambition's voice commands, + To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. + +2 I hate that drum's discordant sound, + Parading round, and round, and round: + To me it talks of ravaged plains, + And burning towns, and ruined swains, + And mangled limbs, and dying groans, + And widows' tears, and orphans' moans; + And all that misery's hand bestows, + To fill the catalogue of human woes. + + +THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. + +AN ODE. + +1 There's grandeur in this sounding storm, + That drives the hurrying clouds along, + That on each other seem to throng, + And mix in many a varied form; + While, bursting now and then between, + The moon's dim misty orb is seen, + And casts faint glimpses on the green. + +2 Beneath the blast the forests bend, + And thick the branchy ruin lies, + And wide the shower of foliage flies; + The lake's black waves in tumult blend, + Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, + And foaming on the rocky shore, + Whose caverns echo to their roar. + +3 The sight sublime enrapts my thought, + And swift along the past it strays, + And much of strange event surveys, + What history's faithful tongue has taught, + Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill + The page with fabled change can fill + Of ill to good, or good to ill. + +4 But can my soul the scene enjoy, + That rends another's breast with pain? + O hapless he, who, near the main, + Now sees its billowy rage destroy! + Beholds the foundering bark descend, + Nor knows but what its fate may end + The moments of his dearest friend! + + + + +ALEXANDER ROSS. + + +Of this fine old Scottish poet we regret that we can tell our readers so +little. He was born in 1698, became parish schoolmaster at Lochlee in +Angusshire, and published, by the advice of Dr Beattie, in 1768, a +volume entitled 'Helenore; or, The Fortunate Shepherdess: a Pastoral Tale +in the Scottish Dialect; along with a few Songs.' Some of these latter, +such as 'Woo'd, and Married, and a',' became very popular. Beattie loved +the 'good-humoured, social, happy old man,' who was 'passing rich' on +twenty pounds a-year, and wrote in the _Aberdeen Journal_ a poetical +letter in the Scotch language to promote the sale of his poem. Ross died +in 1784, about eighty-six years old, and is buried in a churchyard at the +east end of the loch. + +Lochlee is a very solitary and romantic spot. The road to it from the +low country, or Howe of the Mearns, conducts us through a winding, +unequal, but very interesting glen, which, after bearing at its foot +many patches of corn, yellowing amidst thick green copsewood and birch +trees, fades and darkens gradually into a stern, woodless, and rocky +defile, which emerges on a solitary loch, lying 'dern and dreary' amidst +silent hills. It is one of those lakes which divide the distance between +the loch and the tarn, being two miles in length and one in breadth. The +hills, which are stony and savage, sink directly down upon its brink. +A house or two are all the dwellings in view. The celebrated Thomas +Guthrie dearly loves this lake, lives beside it for months at a time, +and is often seen rowing his lonely boat in the midst of it, by sunlight +and by moonlight too. On the west, one bold, sword-like summit, Craig +Macskeldie by name, cuts the air, and relieves the monotony of the other +mountains. Fit rest has Ross found in that calm, rural burying-place, +beside 'the rude forefathers of the hamlet,' with short, sweet, flower- +sprinkled grass covering his dust, the low voice of the lake sounding +a few yards from his cold ear, and a plain gravestone uniting with his +native mountains to form his memorial. 'Fortunate Shepherd,' (shall we +call him?) to have obtained a grave so intensely characteristic of a +Scottish poet! + + +WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'. + +1 The bride cam' out o' the byre, + And, O, as she dighted her cheeks! + 'Sirs, I'm to be married the night, + And have neither blankets nor sheets; + Have neither blankets nor sheets, + Nor scarce a coverlet too; + The bride that has a' thing to borrow, + Has e'en right muckle ado.' + Woo'd, and married, and a', + Married, and woo'd, and a'! + And was she nae very weel off, + That was woo'd, and married, and a'? + +2 Out spake the bride's father, + As he cam' in frae the pleugh: + 'O, haud your tongue my dochter, + And ye'se get gear eneugh; + The stirk stands i' the tether, + And our braw bawsint yade, + Will carry ye hame your corn-- + What wad ye be at, ye jade?' + +3 Out spake the bride's mither: + 'What deil needs a' this pride? + I had nae a plack in my pouch + That night I was a bride; + My gown was linsey-woolsey, + And ne'er a sark ava; + And ye hae ribbons and buskins, + Mae than ane or twa.' + * * * * * + +4 Out spake the bride's brither, + As he cam' in wi' the kye: + 'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, + Had he kent ye as weel as I; + For ye're baith proud and saucy, + And no for a poor man's wife; + Gin I canna get a better, + I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' + * * * * * + + +THE ROCK AN' THE WEE PICKLE TOW. + +1 There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow, + And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't; + But lootin' her doun, her rock took a-lowe, + And that was an ill beginnin' o't. + She spat on 't, she flat on 't, and tramped on its pate, + But a' she could do it wad ha'e its ain gate; + At last she sat down on't and bitterly grat, + For e'er ha'in' tried the spinnin' o't. + +2 Foul fa' them that ever advised me to spin, + It minds me o' the beginnin' o't; + I weel might ha'e ended as I had begun, + And never ha'e tried the spinnin' o't. + But she's a wise wife wha kens her ain weird, + I thought ance a day it wad never be spier'd, + How let ye the lowe tak' the rock by the beard, + When ye gaed to try the spinnin' o't? + +3 The spinnin', the spinnin', it gars my heart sab + To think on the ill beginnin' o't; + I took't in my head to mak' me a wab, + And that was the first beginnin' o't. + But had I nine daughters, as I ha'e but three, + The safest and soundest advice I wad gi'e, + That they wad frae spinnin' aye keep their heads free, + For fear o' an ill beginnin' o't. + +4 But if they, in spite o' my counsel, wad run + The dreary, sad task o' the spinnin' o't; + Let them find a lown seat by the light o' the sun, + And syne venture on the beginnin' o't. + For wha's done as I've done, alake and awowe! + To busk up a rock at the cheek o' a lowe; + They'll say that I had little wit in my pow-- + O the muckle black deil tak' the spinnin' o't. + + + + +RICHARD GLOVER. + + +Glover was a man so remarkable as to be thought capable of having written +the letters of Junius, although no one now almost names his name or reads +his poetry. He was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in London, and born +(1712) in St Martin's Lane, Cannon Street. He was educated at a private +school in Surrey, but being designed for trade, was never sent to a +university, yet by his own exertions he became an excellent classical +scholar. At sixteen he wrote a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, +and at twenty-five produced nine books of his 'Leonidas.' Partly through +its own merits, partly through its liberal political sentiments, and +partly through the influence of Lord Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, +and the praise of Fielding and Chatham, it became very popular. In 1739, +he produced a poem entitled 'London; or, The Progress of Commerce,' and a +spirited ballad entitled 'Admiral Hosier's Ghost,' which we have given, +both designed to rouse the national spirit against the Spaniards. + +Glover was a merchant, and very highly esteemed among his commercial +brethren, although at one time unfortunate in business. When forced by +his failure to seek retirement, he produced a tragedy on the subject of +Boadicea, which ran the usual nine nights, although it has long since +ceased to be acted or read. In his later years his affairs improved; he +returned again to public life, was elected to Parliament, and approved +himself a painstaking and popular M.P. In 1770, he enlarged his +'Leonidas' from nine books to twelve, and afterwards wrote a sequel to +it, entitled 'The Athenais.' Glover spent his closing years in opulent +retirement, enjoying the intimacy and respect of the most eminent men of +the day, and died in 1785. + +'Leonidas' may be called the epic of the eighteenth century, and betrays +the artificial genius of its age. The poet rises to his flight like a +heavy heron--not a hawk or eagle. Passages in it are good, but the effect +of the whole is dulness. It reminds you of Cowper's 'Homer,' in which all +is accurate, but all is cold, and where even the sound of battle lulls +to slumber--or of Edwin Atherstone's 'Fall of Nineveh,' where you are +fatigued with uniform pomp, and the story struggles and staggers under a +load of words. Thomson exclaimed when he heard of the work of Glover, 'He +write an epic, who never saw a mountain!' And there was justice in the +remark. The success of 'Leonidas' was probably one cause of the swarm of +epics which appeared in the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of +the nineteenth century.--Cottle himself being, according to De Quincey, +'the author of four epic poems, _and_ a new kind of blacking.' Their day +seems now for ever at an end. + + +FROM BOOK XII + + Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen band after their + return from the inroad into the Persian camp, on the night before + the Battle of Thermopylae. + +Back to the pass in gentle march he leads +The embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs, +Where Medon sent such numbers to the shades, +In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown. +Soft breezes only from the Malian wave +O'er each grim face, besmeared with smoke and gore, +Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale, +A crystal rill near Oeta's verdant feet, +Dispel the languor from their harassed nerves, +Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their heads +Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears +Melissa, bearing in her hand divine +The eternal guardian of illustrious deeds, +The sweet Phoebean lyre. Her graceful train +Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range +Half down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks, +All with concordant strings, and accents clear, +A torrent pour of melody, and swell +A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, +Anticipating fame. Of endless joys +In blessed Elysium was the song. Go, meet +Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage, +Let them salute the children of their laws. +Meet Homer, Orpheus, and the Ascraean bard, +Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food +Refined, and more exalted, shall contend +Your splendid fate to warble through the bowers +Of amaranth and myrtle ever young, +Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. +In yonder fane deposited, your urns, +Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire. +Whatever offerings, genius, science, art +Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours, +The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit +You on the enlivened canvas, marble, brass, +In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song, +In every tongue, through every age and clime, +You of this earth the brightest flowers, not cropt, +Transplanted only to immortal bloom +Of praise with men, of happiness with gods. + + + +ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. + +ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS +BY ADMIRAL VERNON--Nov. 22, 1739. + +1 As near Porto-Bello lying + On the gently swelling flood, + At midnight with streamers flying, + Our triumphant navy rode: + There while Vernon sat all-glorious + From the Spaniards' late defeat; + And his crews, with shouts victorious, + Drank success to England's fleet: + +2 On a sudden shrilly sounding, + Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; + Then each heart with fear confounding, + A sad troop of ghosts appeared, + All in dreary hammocks shrouded, + Which for winding-sheets they wore, + And with looks by sorrow clouded, + Frowning on that hostile shore. + +3 On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, + When the shade of Hosier brave + His pale bands was seen to muster, + Rising from their watery grave: + O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, + Where the Burford[1] reared her sail, + With three thousand ghosts beside him, + And in groans did Vernon hail: + +4 'Heed, O heed, our fatal story, + I am Hosier's injured ghost, + You, who now have purchased glory + At this place where I was lost; + Though in Porto-Bello's ruin + You now triumph free from fears, + When you think on our undoing, + You will mix your joy with tears. + +5 'See these mournful spectres, sweeping + Ghastly o'er this hated wave, + Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; + These were English captains brave: + Mark those numbers pale and horrid, + Those were once my sailors bold, + Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, + While his dismal tale is told. + +6 'I, by twenty sail attended, + Did this Spanish town affright: + Nothing then its wealth defended + But my orders not to fight: + Oh! that in this rolling ocean + I had cast them with disdain, + And obeyed my heart's warm motion, + To have quelled the pride of Spain. + +7 'For resistance I could fear none, + But with twenty ships had done + What thou, brave and happy Vernon, + Hast achieved with six alone. + Then the Bastimentos never + Had our foul dishonour seen, + Nor the sea the sad receiver + Of this gallant train had been. + +8 'Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, + And her galleons leading home, + Though condemned for disobeying, + I had met a traitor's doom; + To have fallen, my country crying, + He has played an English part, + Had been better far than dying + Of a grieved and broken heart. + +9 'Unrepining at thy glory, + Thy successful arms we hail; + But remember our sad story, + And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. + Sent in this foul clime to languish, + Think what thousands fell in vain, + Wasted with disease and anguish, + Not in glorious battle slain. + +10 'Hence, with all my train attending + From their oozy tombs below, + Through the hoary foam ascending, + Here I feed my constant woe: + Here the Bastimentos viewing, + We recall our shameful doom, + And our plaintive cries renewing, + Wander through the midnight gloom. + +11 'O'er these waves for ever mourning + Shall we roam deprived of rest, + If to Britain's shores returning, + You neglect my just request. + After this proud foe subduing, + When your patriot friends you see, + Think on vengeance for my ruin, + And for England shamed in me.' + +[1] 'The Burford:' Admiral Vernon's ship. + + + + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. + + +There was also a Paul Whitehead, who wrote a satire entitled 'Manners,' +which is highly praised by Boswell, and mentioned contemptuously by +Campbell, and who lives in the couplet of Churchill-- + + 'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) + Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul.' + +William Whitehead was the son of a baker in Cambridge, was born in 1715, +and studied first at Winchester, and then in Clare Hall, in his own +city. He became tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey, wrote one or two +poor plays, and in 1757, on the death of Colley Cibber, was appointed +Poet-Laureate--the office having previously been refused by Gray. This +roused against him a large class of those 'beings capable of envying +even a poet-laureate,' to use Gray's expression, and especially the +wrath of Churchill, then the man-mountain of satiric literature, who, in +his 'Ghost,' says-- + + 'But he who in the laureate chair, + By grace, not merit, planted there, + In awkward pomp is seen to sit, + And by his patent proves his wit,' &c. + +To these attacks Whitehead, who was a good-natured and modest man, made +no reply. In his latter years the Laureate resided in the family of Lord +Jersey, and died in 1785. His poem called 'Variety' is light and pleasant, +and deserves a niche in our 'Specimens.' + + +VARIETY. + +A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE. + +A gentle maid, of rural breeding, +By Nature first, and then by reading, +Was filled with all those soft sensations +Which we restrain in near relations, +Lest future husbands should be jealous, +And think their wives too fond of fellows. + +The morning sun beheld her rove +A nymph, or goddess of the grove! +At eve she paced the dewy lawn, +And called each clown she saw, a faun! +Then, scudding homeward, locked her door, +And turned some copious volume o'er. +For much she read; and chiefly those +Great authors, who in verse, or prose, +Or something betwixt both, unwind +The secret springs which move the mind. +These much she read; and thought she knew +The human heart's minutest clue; +Yet shrewd observers still declare, +(To show how shrewd observers are,) +Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, +And novels, in profusion, came, +Imported fresh-and-fresh from France, +She only read the heart's romance. + +The world, no doubt, was well enough +To smooth the manners of the rough; +Might please the giddy and the vain, +Those tinselled slaves of folly's train: +But, for her part, the truest taste +She found was in retirement placed, +Where, as in verse it sweetly flows, +'On every thorn instruction grows.' + +Not that she wished to 'be alone,' +As some affected prudes have done; +She knew it was decreed on high +We should 'increase and multiply;' +And therefore, if kind Fate would grant +Her fondest wish, her only want, +A cottage with the man she loved +Was what her gentle heart approved; +In some delightful solitude +Where step profane might ne'er intrude; +But Hymen guard the sacred ground, +And virtuous Cupids hover round. +Not such as flutter on a fan +Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, +(Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses, +And hold their fingers to their noses,) +But simpering, mild, and innocent, +As angels on a monument. + +Fate heard her prayer: a lover came, +Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame; +One who had trod, as well as she, +The flowery paths of poesy; +Had warmed himself with Milton's heat, +Could every line of Pope repeat, +Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains, +'The lover's hopes,' 'the lover's pains.' + +Attentive to the charmer's tongue, +With him she thought no evening long; +With him she sauntered half the day; +And sometimes, in a laughing way, +Ran o'er the catalogue by rote +Of who might marry, and who not; +'Consider, sir, we're near relations--' +'I hope so in our inclinations.'-- +In short, she looked, she blushed consent; +He grasped her hand, to church they went; +And every matron that was there, +With tongue so voluble and supple, +Said for her part, she must declare, +She never saw a finer couple. +halcyon days! 'Twas Nature's reign, +'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain, +The fields assumed unusual bloom, +And every zephyr breathed perfume, +The laughing sun with genial beams +Danced lightly on the exulting streams; +And the pale regent of the night +In dewy softness shed delight. +'Twas transport not to be expressed; +'Twas Paradise!--But mark the rest. + +Two smiling springs had waked the flowers +That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers, +(Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears, +Who count by months, and not by years,) +Two smiling springs had chaplets wove +To crown their solitude, and love: +When lo, they find, they can't tell how, +Their walks are not so pleasant now. +The seasons sure were changed; the place +Had, somehow, got a different face. +Some blast had struck the cheerful scene; +The lawns, the woods, were not so green. +The purling rill, which murmured by, +And once was liquid harmony, +Became a sluggish, reedy pool: +The days grew hot, the evenings cool. +The moon, with all the starry reign, +Were melancholy's silent train. +And then the tedious winter night-- +They could not read by candle-light. + +Full oft, unknowing why they did, +They called in adventitious aid. +A faithful, favourite dog ('twas thus +With Tobit and Telemachus) +Amused their steps; and for a while +They viewed his gambols with a smile. +The kitten too was comical, +She played so oddly with her tail, +Or in the glass was pleased to find +Another cat, and peeped behind. + +A courteous neighbour at the door +Was deemed intrusive noise no more. +For rural visits, now and then, +Are right, as men must live with men. +Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town, + +A new recruit, a dear delight! +Made many a heavy hour go down, +At morn, at noon, at eve, at night: +Sure they could hear her jokes for ever, +She was so sprightly, and so clever! + +Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; +What joy, alas! could converse bring +With awkward creatures bred at home?-- +The dog grew dull, or troublesome. +The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit, +And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. +And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, +Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. +--'And then, my dear, I can't abide +This always sauntering side by side.' +'Enough!' he cries, 'the reason's plain: +For causes never rack your brain. +Our neighbours are like other folks, +Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, +Are still delightful, still would please, +Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. +Look round, with an impartial eye, +On yonder fields, on yonder sky; +The azure cope, the flowers below, +With all their wonted colours glow. +The rill still murmurs; and the moon +Shines, as she did, a softer sun. +No change has made the seasons fail, +No comet brushed us with his tail. +The scene's the same, the same the weather-- +We live, my dear, too much together.' + +Agreed. A rich old uncle dies, +And added wealth the means supplies. +With eager haste to town they flew, +Where all must please, for all was new. + +But here, by strict poetic laws, +Description claims its proper pause. + +The rosy morn had raised her head +From old Tithonus' saffron bed; +And embryo sunbeams from the east, +Half-choked, were struggling through the mist, +When forth advanced the gilded chaise; +The village crowded round to gaze. +The pert postilion, now promoted +From driving plough, and neatly booted, +His jacket, cap, and baldric on, +(As greater folks than he have done,) +Looked round; and, with a coxcomb air, +Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair +Bowed graceful, from a separate door, +And Jenny, from the stool before. + +Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes +New objects every moment rise. +Each carriage passing on the road, +From the broad waggon's ponderous load +To the light car, where mounted high +The giddy driver seems to fly, +Were themes for harmless satire fit, +And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit. +Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful, +No noise was harsh, no danger frightful. +The dash and splash through thick and thin, +The hairbreadth 'scapes, the bustling inn, +(Where well-bred landlords were so ready +To welcome in the 'squire and lady,) +Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, +Determined to be pleased, and please. + +Now nearer town, and all agog, +They know dear London by its fog. +Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, +Leave Hounslow's dangerous heath behind, +Through Brentford win a passage free +By roaring, 'Wilkes and Liberty!' +At Knightsbridge bless the shortening way, +Where Bays's troops in ambush lay, +O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, +With palaces to grace its side, +Till Bond Street with its lamps a-blaze +Concludes the journey of three days. + +Why should we paint, in tedious song, +How every day, and all day long, +They drove at first with curious haste +Through Lud's vast town; or, as they passed +'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs +Of streets on streets, and squares on squares, +Describe how strong their wonder grew +At buildings--and at builders too? + +Scarce less astonishment arose +At architects more fair than those-- +Who built as high, as widely spread +The enormous loads that clothed their head. +For British dames new follies love, +And, if they can't invent, improve. +Some with erect pagodas vie, +Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry, +Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest, +Convolved, contorted, and compressed; +With intermingling trees, and flowers, +And corn, and grass, and shepherd's bowers, +Stage above stage the turrets run, +Like pendent groves of Babylon, +Till nodding from the topmost wall +Otranto's plumes envelop all! +Whilst the black ewes, who owned the hair, +Feed harmless on, in pastures fair, +Unconscious that their tails perfume, +In scented curls, the drawing-room. + +When Night her murky pinions spread, +And sober folks retire to bed, +To every public place they flew, +Where Jenny told them who was who. +Money was always at command, +And tripped with pleasure hand in hand. +Money was equipage, was show, +Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho; +The _passe-partout_ through every vein +Of dissipation's hydra reign. + +O London, thou prolific source, +Parent of vice, and folly's nurse! +Fruitful as Nile, thy copious springs +Spawn hourly births--and all with stings: +But happiest far the he, or she, + +I know not which, that livelier dunce +Who first contrived the coterie, + +To crush domestic bliss at once. +Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames, +As Nero fiddled to the flames. + +Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak +With reverence, though in numbers weak; +Thy beauties satire's frown beguile, +We spare the follies for the pile. +Flounced, furbelowed, and tricked for show, +With lamps above, and lamps below, +Thy charms even modern taste defied, +They could not spoil thee, though they tried. + +Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings +Must sweep thee off with vulgar things! +Let architects of humbler name +On frail materials build their fame, +Their noblest works the world might want, +Wyatt should build in adamant. + +But what are these to scenes which lie +Secreted from the vulgar eye, +And baffle all the powers of song?-- +A brazen throat, an iron tongue, +(Which poets wish for, when at length +Their subject soars above their strength,) +Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, +Who only reads the public news +And idly utters what she gleans +From chronicles and magazines, +Recoiling feels her feeble fires, +And blushing to her shades retires, +Alas! she knows not how to treat +The finer follies of the great, +Where even, Democritus, thy sneer +Were vain as Heraclitus' tear. + +Suffice it that by just degrees +They reached all heights, and rose with ease; +(For beauty wins its way, uncalled, +And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.) +Each gambling dame she knew, and he +Knew every shark of quality; +From the grave cautious few who live +On thoughtless youth, and living thrive, +To the light train who mimic France, +And the soft sons of _nonchalance_. +While Jenny, now no more of use, +Excuse succeeding to excuse, +Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew +To shilling whist, and chicken loo. + +Advanced to fashion's wavering head, +They now, where once they followed, led. +Devised new systems of delight, +A-bed all day, and up all night, +In different circles reigned supreme. +Wives copied her, and husbands him; +Till so divinely life ran on, +So separate, so quite _bon-ton_, +That meeting in a public place, +They scarcely knew each other's face. + +At last they met, by his desire, +A _tête-a-tête_ across the fire; +Looked in each other's face awhile, +With half a tear, and half a smile. +The ruddy health, which wont to grace +With manly glow his rural face, +Now scarce retained its faintest streak; +So sallow was his leathern cheek. +She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed, +With rouge had striven in vain to hide +What once was beauty, and repair +The rapine of the midnight air. + +Silence is eloquence, 'tis said. +Both wished to speak, both hung the head. +At length it burst.----''Tis time,' he cries, +'When tired of folly, to be wise. +Are you too tired?'--then checked a groan. +She wept consent, and he went on: + +'How delicate the married life! +You love your husband, I my wife! +Not even satiety could tame, +Nor dissipation quench the flame. + +'True to the bias of our kind, +'Tis happiness we wish to find. +In rural scenes retired we sought +In vain the dear, delicious draught, +Though blest with love's indulgent store, +We found we wanted something more. +'Twas company, 'twas friends to share +The bliss we languished to declare. +'Twas social converse, change of scene, +To soothe the sullen hour of spleen; +Short absences to wake desire, +And sweet regrets to fan the fire. + +'We left the lonesome place; and found, +In dissipation's giddy round, +A thousand novelties to wake +The springs of life and not to break. +As, from the nest not wandering far, +In light excursions through the air, +The feathered tenants of the grove +Around in mazy circles move, +Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, +Or taste the blossom on the bough. +We sported freely with the rest; +And still, returning to the nest, +In easy mirth we chatted o'er +The trifles of the day before. + +'Behold us now, dissolving quite +In the full ocean of delight; +In pleasures every hour employ, +Immersed in all the world calls joy; +Our affluence easing the expense +Of splendour and magnificence; +Our company, the exalted set +Of all that's gay, and all that's great: +Nor happy yet!--and where's the wonder!-- +We live, my dear, too much asunder.' + +The moral of my tale is this, +Variety's the soul of bless; +But such variety alone +As makes our home the more our own. +As from the heart's impelling power +The life-blood pours its genial store; +Though taking each a various way, +The active streams meandering play +Through every artery, every vein, +All to the heart return again; +From thence resume their new career, +But still return and centre there: +So real happiness below +Must from the heart sincerely flow; +Nor, listening to the syren's song, +Must stray too far, or rest too long. +All human pleasures thither tend; +Must there begin, and there must end; +Must there recruit their languid force, +And gain fresh vigour from their source. + + + + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. + + +This poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, in 1734. His father was +minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after +attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately +a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he +repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his +patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of +view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the +Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his 'Pollio,' his 'Concubine,' +--a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, +which became popular,--and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of +the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, +was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and +established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the +press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near +Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore +Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much +distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins' +daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at +Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788. + +His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, +and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to +Homer. 'Cumnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of +'Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful +locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a +song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, +as Burns says, of 'the first poet.' + + +CUMNOR HALL. + +1 The dews of summer night did fall, + The moon, sweet regent of the sky, + Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, + And many an oak that grew thereby. + +2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies, + The sounds of busy life were still, + Save an unhappy lady's sighs, + That issued from that lonely pile. + +3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love + That thou so oft hast sworn to me, + To leave me in this lonely grove, + Immured in shameful privity? + +4 'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, + Thy once beloved bride to see; + But be she alive, or be she dead, + I fear, stern Earl,'s the same to thee. + +5 'Not so the usage I received + When happy in my father's hall; + No faithless husband then me grieved, + No chilling fears did me appal. + +6 'I rose up with the cheerful morn, + No lark so blithe, no flower more gay; + And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, + So merrily sung the livelong day. + +7 'If that my beauty is but small, + Among court ladies all despised, + Why didst thou rend it from that hall, + Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? + +8 'And when you first to me made suit, + How fair I was, you oft would say! + And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, + Then left the blossom to decay. + +9 'Yes! now neglected and despised, + The rose is pale, the lily's dead; + But he that once their charms so prized, + Is sure the cause those charms are fled. + +10 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey, + And tender love's repaid with scorn, + The sweetest beauty will decay: + What floweret can endure the storm? + +11 'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, + Where every lady's passing rare, + That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, + Are not so glowing, not so fair. + +12 'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds + Where roses and where lilies vie, + To seek a primrose, whose pale shades + Must sicken when those gauds are by? + +13 ''Mong rural beauties I was one; + Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; + Some country swain might me have won, + And thought my passing beauty rare. + +14 'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, + It is not beauty lures thy vows; + Rather ambition's gilded crown + Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. + +15 'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, + The injured surely may repine, + Why didst thou wed a country maid, + When some fair princess might be thine? + +16 'Why didst thou praise my humble charms, + And, oh! then leave them to decay? + Why didst thou win me to thy arms, + Then leave me to mourn the livelong day? + +17 'The village maidens of the plain + Salute me lowly as they go: + Envious they mark my silken train, + Nor think a countess can have woe. + +18 'The simple nymphs! they little know + How far more happy's their estate; + To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; + To be content, than to be great. + +19 'How far less blessed am I than them, + Daily to pine and waste with care! + Like the poor plant, that, from its stem + Divided, feels the chilling air. + +20 'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy + The humble charms of solitude; + Your minions proud my peace destroy, + By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. + +21 'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, + The village death-bell smote my ear; + They winked aside, and seemed to say, + "Countess, prepare--thy end is near." + +22 'And now, while happy peasants sleep, + Here I sit lonely and forlorn; + No one to soothe me as I weep, + Save Philomel on yonder thorn. + +23 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay; + Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; + And many a body seems to say, + "Countess, prepare--thy end is near."' + +24 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; + And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, + And let fall many a bitter tear. + +25 And ere the dawn of day appeared, + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, + Full many a piercing scream was heard, + And many a cry of mortal fear. + +26 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, + An aërial voice was heard to call, + And thrice the raven flapped his wing + Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. + +27 The mastiff howled at village door, + The oaks were shattered on the green; + Woe was the hour, for never more + That hapless Countess e'er was seen. + +28 And in that manor, now no more + Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball; + For ever since that dreary hour + Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. + +29 The village maids, with fearful glance, + Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; + Nor never lead the merry dance + Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. + +30 Full many a traveller has sighed, + And pensive wept the Countess' fall, + As wandering onwards they've espied + The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. + + + +THE MARINER'S WIFE. + +1 But are ye sure the news is true? + And are ye sure he's weel? + Is this a time to think o' wark? + Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck at a', + There's nae luck about the house, + When our gudeman's awa. + +2 Is this a time to think o' wark, + When Colin's at the door? + Rax down my cloak--I'll to the quay, + And see him come ashore. + +3 Rise up and mak a clean fireside, + Put on the mickle pat; + Gie little Kate her cotton goun, + And Jock his Sunday's coat. + +4 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, + Their stocking white as snaw; + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-- + He likes to see them braw. + +5 There are twa hens into the crib, + Hae fed this month and mair; + Mak haste and thraw their necks about, + That Colin weel may fare. + +6 My Turkey slippers I'll put on, + My stocking pearl blue-- + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, + For he's baith leal and true. + +7 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; + His breath's like caller air; + His very fit has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + +8 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. + + + + +LORD NUGENT. + + +Robert Craggs, afterwards created Lord Nugent, was an Irishman, a younger +son of Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Robert, Lord Trimlestown, and +born in 1709. He was in 1741 elected M.P. for St Mawes, in Cornwall, and +became in 1747 comptroller to the Prince of Wales' household. He after- +wards made peace with the Court, and received various promotions and +marks of favour besides the peerage. In 1739, he published anonymously +a volume of poems possessing considerable merit. He was converted from +Popery, and wrote some vigorous verses on the occasion. Unfortunately, +however, he relapsed, and again celebrated the event in a very weak poem, +entitled 'Faith.' He died in 1788. Although a man of decided talent, as +his 'Ode to Mankind' proves, Nugent does not stand very high either in +the catalogue of Irish patriots or of 'royal and noble authors.' + + +ODE TO MANKIND. + +1 Is there, or do the schoolmen dream? + Is there on earth a power supreme, + The delegate of Heaven, + To whom an uncontrolled command, + In every realm o'er sea and land, + By special grace is given? + +2 Then say, what signs this god proclaim? + Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame, + A throne his hallowed shrine? + The borrowed pomp, the armed array, + Want, fear, and impotence, betray + Strange proofs of power divine! + +3 If service due from human kind, + To men in slothful ease reclined, + Can form a sovereign's claim: + Hail, monarchs! ye, whom Heaven ordains, + Our toils unshared, to share our gains, + Ye idiots, blind and lame! + +4 Superior virtue, wisdom, might, + Create and mark the ruler's right, + So reason must conclude: + Then thine it is, to whom belong + The wise, the virtuous, and the strong, + Thrice sacred multitude! + +5 In thee, vast All! are these contained, + For thee are those, thy parts ordained, + So nature's systems roll: + The sceptre's thine, if such there be; + If none there is, then thou art free, + Great monarch! mighty whole! + +6 Let the proud tyrant rest his cause + On faith, prescription, force, or laws, + An host's or senate's voice! + His voice affirms thy stronger due, + Who for the many made the few, + And gave the species choice. + +7 Unsanctified by thy command, + Unowned by thee, the sceptred hand + The trembling slave may bind; + But loose from nature's moral ties, + The oath by force imposed belies + The unassenting mind. + +8 Thy will's thy rule, thy good its end; + You punish only to defend + What parent nature gave: + And he who dares her gifts invade, + By nature's oldest law is made + Thy victim or thy slave. + +9 Thus reason founds the just degree + On universal liberty, + Not private rights resigned: + Through various nature's wide extent, + No private beings e'er were meant + To hurt the general kind. + +10 Thee justice guides, thee right maintains, + The oppressor's wrongs, the pilferer's gains, + Thy injured weal impair. + Thy warmest passions soon subside, + Nor partial envy, hate, nor pride, + Thy tempered counsels share. + +11 Each instance of thy vengeful rage, + Collected from each clime and age, + Though malice swell the sum, + Would seem a spotless scanty scroll, + Compared with Marius' bloody roll, + Or Sylla's hippodrome. + +12 But thine has been imputed blame, + The unworthy few assume thy name, + The rabble weak and loud; + Or those who on thy ruins feast, + The lord, the lawyer, and the priest; + A more ignoble crowd. + +13 Avails it thee, if one devours, + Or lesser spoilers share his powers, + While both thy claim oppose? + Monsters who wore thy sullied crown, + Tyrants who pulled those monsters down, + Alike to thee were foes. + +14 Far other shone fair Freedom's band, + Far other was the immortal stand, + When Hampden fought for thee: + They snatched from rapine's gripe thy spoils, + The fruits and prize of glorious toils, + Of arts and industry. + +15 On thee yet foams the preacher's rage, + On thee fierce frowns the historian's page, + A false apostate train: + Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb; + Unpitied in their harder doom, + Thy thousands strow the plain. + +16 These had no charms to please the sense, + No graceful port, no eloquence, + To win the Muse's throng: + Unknown, unsung, unmarked they lie; + But Caesar's fate o'ercasts the sky, + And Nature mourns his wrong. + +17 Thy foes, a frontless band, invade; + Thy friends afford a timid aid, + And yield up half the right. + Even Locke beams forth a mingled ray, + Afraid to pour the flood of day + On man's too feeble sight. + +18 Hence are the motley systems framed, + Of right transferred, of power reclaimed; + Distinctions weak and vain. + Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd; + For unreclaimed, and untransferred, + Her powers and rights remain. + +19 While law the royal agent moves, + The instrument thy choice approves, + We bow through him to you. + But change, or cease the inspiring choice, + The sovereign sinks a private voice, + Alike in one, or few! + +20 Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart + Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part, + And only dares betray; + With reptile wiles, alas! prevail, + Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail, + To pilfer power away? + +21 Oh! shall the bought, and buying tribe, + The slaves who take, and deal the bribe, + A people's claims enjoy! + So Indian murderers hope to gain + The powers and virtues of the slain, + Of wretches they destroy. + +22 'Avert it, Heaven! you love the brave, + You hate the treacherous, willing slave, + The self-devoted head; + Nor shall an hireling's voice convey + That sacred prize to lawless sway, + For which a nation bled.' + +23 Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource! + Directing reason, active force, + Propitious Heaven bestows. + But ne'er shall flame the thundering sky, + To aid the trembling herd that fly + Before their weaker foes. + +24 In names there dwell no magic charms, + The British virtues, British arms + Unloosed our fathers' band: + Say, Greece and Rome! if these should fail, + What names, what ancestors avail, + To save a sinking land? + +25 Far, far from us such ills shall be, + Mankind shall boast one nation free, + One monarch truly great: + Whose title speaks a people's choice, + Whose sovereign will a people's voice, + Whose strength a prosperous state. + + + + +JOHN LOGAN. + + +John Logan was born in the year 1748. He was the son of a farmer at +Soutra, in the parish of Fala, Mid-Lothian. He was educated for the +church at Edinburgh, where he became intimate with Robertson, afterwards +the historian. So, at least, Campbell asserts; but he strangely calls him +a student of the same standing, whereas, in fact, Robertson saw light in +1721, and had been a settled minister five years before Logan was born. +After finishing his studies, he became tutor in the family of Mr Sinclair +of Ulbster, and the late well-known Sir John Sinclair was one of his +pupils. When licensed to preach, Logan became popular, and was in his +twenty-fifth year appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. In 1781, +he read in Edinburgh a course of lectures on the Philosophy of History, +and in 1782, he printed one of them, on the Government of Asia. In the +same year he published a volume of poems, which were well received. In +1783, he wrote a tragedy called 'Runnymede,' which was, owing to some +imagined incendiary matter, prohibited from being acted on the London +boards, but which was produced on the Edinburgh stage, and afterwards +published. This, along with some alleged irregularities of conduct on the +part of Logan, tended to alienate his flock, and he was induced to retire +on a small annuity. He betook himself to London, where, in conjunction +with the Rev. Mr Thomson,--who had left the parish of Monzievaird, in +Perthshire, owing to a scandal,--he wrote for the _English Review_, and +was employed to defend Warren Hastings. This he did in an able manner, +although a well-known story describes him as listening to Sheridan, on +the Oude case, with intense interest, and exclaiming, after the first +hour, 'This is mere declamation without proof'--after the next two, 'This +is a man of extraordinary powers'--and ere the close of the matchless +oration, 'Of all the monsters in history, Warren Hastings is the vilest.' +Logan died in the year 1788, in his lodgings, Marlborough Street. His +sermons were published shortly after his death, and if parts of them are, +as is alleged, pilfered from a Swiss divine, (George Joachim Zollikofer,) +they have not remained exclusively with the thief, since no sermons have +been so often reproduced in Scottish pulpits as the elegant orations +issued under the name of Logan. + +We have already declined to enter on the controversy about 'The Cuckoo,' +intimating, however, our belief, founded partly upon Logan's unscrupulous +character and partly on internal evidence, that it was originally written +by Bruce, but probably polished to its present perfection by Logan, whose +other writings give us rather the impression of a man of varied +accomplishments and excellent taste, than of deep feeling or original +genius. If Logan were not the author of 'The Cuckoo,' there was a special +baseness connected with the fact, that when Burke sought him out in +Edinburgh, solely from his admiration of that poem, he owned the soft and +false impeachment, and rolled as a sweet morsel praise from the greatest +man of the age, which he knew was the rightful due of another. + + + +THE LOVERS. + +1 _Har_. 'Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, + My father's house is hushed in sleep; + In dreams the lover meets his bride, + She sees her lover at her side; + The mourner's voice is now suppressed, + A while the weary are at rest: + 'Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep; + I only wake, and wake to weep. + +2 The window's drawn, the ladder waits, + I spy no watchman at the gates; + No tread re-echoes through the hall, + No shadow moves along the wall. + I am alone. 'Tis dreary night, + Oh, come, thou partner of my flight! + Shield me from darkness, from alarms; + Oh, take me trembling to thine arms! + +3 The dog howls dismal in the heath, + The raven croaks the dirge of death; + Ah me! disaster's in the sound! + The terrors of the night are round; + A sad mischance my fears forebode, + The demon of the dark's abroad, + And lures, with apparition dire, + The night-struck man through flood and fire. + +4 The owlet screams ill-boding sounds, + The spirit walks unholy rounds; + The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls; + The shades of hell usurp the poles; + The moon retires; the heaven departs. + From opening earth a spectre starts: + My spirit dies--Away, my fears! + My love, my life, my lord, appears! + +5 _Hen_. I come, I come, my love! my life! + And, nature's dearest name, my wife! + Long have I loved thee; long have sought: + And dangers braved, and battles fought; + In this embrace our evils end; + From this our better days ascend; + The year of suffering now is o'er, + At last we meet to part no more! + +6 My lovely bride! my consort, come! + The rapid chariot rolls thee home. + _Har_. I fear to go----I dare not stay. + Look back.----I dare not look that way. + _Hen_. No evil ever shall betide + My love, while I am at her side. + Lo! thy protector and thy friend, + The arms that fold thee will defend. + +7 _Har_. Still beats my bosom with alarms: + I tremble while I'm in thy arms! + What will impassioned lovers do? + What have I done--to follow you? + I leave a father torn with fears; + I leave a mother bathed in tears; + A brother, girding on his sword, + Against my life, against my lord. + +8 Now, without father, mother, friend, + On thee my future days depend; + Wilt thou, for ever true to love, + A father, mother, brother, prove? + O Henry!----to thy arms I fall, + My friend! my husband! and my all! + Alas! what hazards may I run? + Shouldst thou forsake me--I'm undone. + +9 _Hen_. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, + And let a husband wipe thy tears; + For ever joined our fates combine, + And I am yours, and you are mine. + The fires the firmament that rend, + On this devoted head descend, + If e'er in thought from thee I rove, + Or love thee less than now I love! + +10 Although our fathers have been foes, + From hatred stronger love arose; + From adverse briars that threatening stood, + And threw a horror o'er the wood, + Two lovely roses met on high, + Transplanted to a better sky; + And, grafted in one stock, they grow. + In union spring, in beauty blow. + +11 _Har_. My heart believes my love; but still + My boding mind presages ill: + For luckless ever was our love, + Dark as the sky that hung above. + While we embraced, we shook with fears, + And with our kisses mingled tears; + We met with murmurs and with sighs, + And parted still with watery eyes. + +12 An unforeseen and fatal hand + Crossed all the measures love had planned; + Intrusion marred the tender hour, + A demon started in the bower; + If, like the past, the future run, + And my dark day is but begun, + What clouds may hang above my head? + What tears may I have yet to shed? + +13 _Hen_. Oh, do not wound that gentle breast, + Nor sink, with fancied ills oppressed; + For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, + And love is virtue in thy heart. + That bosom ne'er shall heave again + But to the poet's tender strain; + And never more these eyes o'erflow + But for a hapless lover's woe. + +14 Long on the ocean tempest-tossed, + At last we gain the happy coast; + And safe recount upon the shore + Our sufferings past, and dangers o'er: + Past scenes, the woes we wept erewhile, + Will make our future minutes smile: + When sudden joy from sorrow springs, + How the heart thrills through all its strings! + +15 _Har_. My father's castle springs to sight; + Ye towers that gave me to the light! + O hills! O vales! where I have played; + Ye woods, that wrap me in your shade! + O scenes I've often wandered o'er! + O scenes I shall behold no more! + I take a long, last, lingering view: + Adieu! my native land, adieu! + +16 O father, mother, brother dear! + O names still uttered with a tear! + Upon whose knees I've sat and smiled, + Whose griefs my blandishments beguiled; + Whom I forsake in sorrows old, + Whom I shall never more behold! + Farewell, my friends, a long farewell, + Till time shall toll the funeral knell. + +17 _Hen_. Thy friends, thy father's house resign; + My friends, my house, my all is thine: + Awake, arise, my wedded wife, + To higher thoughts, and happier life! + For thee the marriage feast is spread, + For thee the virgins deck the bed; + The star of Venus shines above, + And all thy future life is love. + +18 They rise, the dear domestic hours! + The May of love unfolds her flowers; + Youth, beauty, pleasure spread the feast, + And friendship sits a constant guest; + In cheerful peace the morn ascends, + In wine and love the evening ends; + At distance grandeur sheds a ray, + To gild the evening of our day. + +19 Connubial love has dearer names, + And finer ties, and sweeter claims, + Than e'er unwedded hearts can feel, + Than wedded hearts can e'er reveal; + Pure as the charities above, + Rise the sweet sympathies of love; + And closer cords than those of life + Unite the husband to the wife. + +20 Like cherubs new come from the skies, + Henries and Harriets round us rise; + And playing wanton in the hall, + With accent sweet their parents call; + To your fair images I run, + You clasp the husband in the son; + Oh, how the mother's heart will bound! + Oh, how the father's joy be crowned! + + +WRITTEN IN A VISIT TO THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN. + +1 'Tis past! no more the Summer blooms! + Ascending in the rear, + Behold congenial Autumn comes, + The Sabbath of the year! + What time thy holy whispers breathe, + The pensive evening shade beneath, + And twilight consecrates the floods; + While nature strips her garment gay, + And wears the vesture of decay, + Oh, let me wander through the sounding woods! + +2 Ah! well-known streams!--ah! wonted groves, + Still pictured in my mind! + Oh! sacred scene of youthful loves, + Whose image lives behind! + While sad I ponder on the past, + The joys that must no longer last; + The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier + The dying music of the grove, + And the last elegies of love, + Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear! + +3 Alas! the hospitable hall, + Where youth and friendship played, + Wide to the winds a ruined wall + Projects a death-like shade! + The charm is vanished from the vales; + No voice with virgin-whisper hails + A stranger to his native bowers: + No more Arcadian mountains bloom, + Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume; + The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers! + +4 Companions of the youthful scene, + Endeared from earliest days! + With whom I sported on the green, + Or roved the woodland maze! + Long exiled from your native clime, + Or by the thunder-stroke of time + Snatched to the shadows of despair; + I hear your voices in the wind, + Your forms in every walk I find; + I stretch my arms: ye vanish into air! + +5 My steps, when innocent and young, + These fairy paths pursued; + And wandering o'er the wild, I sung + My fancies to the wood. + I mourned the linnet-lover's fate, + Or turtle from her murdered mate, + Condemned the widowed hours to wail: + Or while the mournful vision rose, + I sought to weep for imaged woes, + Nor real life believed a tragic tale! + +6 Alas! misfortune's cloud unkind + May summer soon o'ercast! + And cruel fate's untimely wind + All human beauty blast! + The wrath of nature smites our bowers, + And promised fruits and cherished flowers, + The hopes of life in embryo sweeps; + Pale o'er the ruins of his prime, + And desolate before his time, + In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps! + +7 Relentless power! whose fated stroke + O'er wretched man prevails! + Ha! love's eternal chain is broke, + And friendship's covenant fails! + Upbraiding forms! a moment's ease-- + O memory! how shall I appease + The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost? + What charm can bind the gushing eye, + What voice console the incessant sigh, + And everlasting longings for the lost? + +8 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood + That hides me in its gloom, + While lost in melancholy mood + I muse upon the tomb. + Their chequered leaves the branches shed; + Whirling in eddies o'er my head, + They sadly sigh that Winter's near: + The warning voice I hear behind, + That shakes the wood without a wind, + And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. + +9 Nor will I court Lethean streams, + The sorrowing sense to steep; + Nor drink oblivion of the themes + On which I love to weep. + Belated oft by fabled rill, + While nightly o'er the hallowed hill + Aërial music seems to mourn; + I'll listen Autumn's closing strain; + Then woo the walks of youth again, + And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely urn! + + +COMPLAINT OF NATURE. + +1 Few are thy days and full of woe, + O man of woman born! + Thy doom is written, dust thou art, + And shalt to dust return. + +2 Determined are the days that fly + Successive o'er thy head; + The numbered hour is on the wing + That lays thee with the dead. + +3 Alas! the little day of life + Is shorter than a span; + Yet black with thousand hidden ills + To miserable man. + +4 Gay is thy morning, flattering hope + Thy sprightly step attends; + But soon the tempest howls behind, + And the dark night descends. + +5 Before its splendid hour the cloud + Comes o'er the beam of light; + A pilgrim in a weary land, + Man tarries but a night. + +6 Behold, sad emblem of thy state! + The flowers that paint the field; + Or trees that crown the mountain's brow, + And boughs and blossoms yield. + +7 When chill the blast of Winter blows, + Away the Summer flies, + The flowers resign their sunny robes, + And all their beauty dies. + +8 Nipt by the year the forest fades; + And shaking to the wind, + The leaves toss to and fro, and streak + The wilderness behind. + +9 The Winter past, reviving flowers + Anew shall paint the plain, + The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, + And flourish green again. + +10 But man departs this earthly scene, + Ah! never to return! + No second Spring shall e'er revive + The ashes of the urn. + +11 The inexorable doors of death + What hand can e'er unfold? + Who from the cerements of the tomb + Can raise the human mould? + +12 The mighty flood that rolls along + Its torrents to the main, + The waters lost can ne'er recall + From that abyss again. + +13 The days, the years, the ages, dark + Descending down to night, + Can never, never be redeemed + Back to the gates of light. + +14 So man departs the living scene, + To night's perpetual gloom; + The voice of morning ne'er shall break + The slumbers of the tomb. + +15 Where are our fathers? Whither gone + The mighty men of old? + The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, + In sacred books enrolled? + +16 Gone to the resting-place of man, + The everlasting home, + Where ages past have gone before, + Where future ages come, + +17 Thus nature poured the wail of woe, + And urged her earnest cry; + Her voice, in agony extreme, + Ascended to the sky. + +18 The Almighty heard: then from his throne + In majesty he rose; + And from the heaven, that opened wide, + His voice in mercy flows: + +19 'When mortal man resigns his breath, + And falls a clod of clay, + The soul immortal wings its flight + To never-setting day. + +20 'Prepared of old for wicked men + The bed of torment lies; + The just shall enter into bliss + Immortal in the skies.' + + + + +THOMAS BLACKLOCK. + + +The amiable Dr Blacklock deserves praise for his character and for his +conduct under very peculiar circumstances, much more than for his +poetry. He was born at Annan, where his father was a bricklayer, in +1721. When about six months old, he lost his eyesight by small-pox. His +father used to read to him, especially poetry, and through the kindness +of friends he acquired some knowledge of the Latin tongue. His father +having been accidentally killed when Thomas was nineteen, it might +have fared hard with him, but Dr Stevenson, an eminent medical man +in Edinburgh, who had seen some verses composed by the blind youth, +took him to the capital, sent him to college to study divinity, and +encouraged him to write and to publish poetry. His volume, to which +was prefixed an account of the author, by Professor Spence of Oxford, +attracted much attention. Blacklock was licensed to preach in 1759, and +three years afterwards was married to a Miss Johnstone of Dumfries, an +exemplary but plain-looking lady, whose beauty her husband was wont to +praise so warmly that his friends were thankful that his infirmity was +never removed, and thought how justly Cupid had been painted blind. He +was even, through the influence of the Earl of Selkirk, appointed to the +parish of Kirkcudbright, but the parishioners opposed his induction on +the plea of his want of sight, and, in consideration of a small annuity, +he withdrew his claims. He finally settled down in Edinburgh, where he +supported himself chiefly by keeping young gentlemen as boarders in his +house. His chief amusements were poetry and music. His conduct to (1786) +and correspondence with Burns are too well known to require to be +noticed at length here. He published a paper of no small merit in the +'Encyclopaedia Britannica' on Blindness, and is the author of a work +entitled 'Paraclesis; or, Consolations of Religion,'--which surely none +require more than the blind. He died of a nervous fever on the 7th of +July 1791, so far fortunate that he did not live to see the ruin of his +immortal _protégé_. + +Blacklock was a most amiable, genial, and benevolent being. He was +sometimes subject to melancholy--_un_like many of the blind, and one +especially, whom we name not, but who, still living, bears a striking +resemblance to Blacklock in fineness of mind, warmth of heart, and high- +toned piety, but who is cheerful as the day. As to his poetry, it is +undoubtedly wonderful, considering the circumstances of its production, +if not _per se_. Dr Johnson says to Boswell,--'As Blacklock had the +misfortune to be blind, we may be absolutely sure that the passages in +his poems descriptive of visible objects are combinations of what he +remembered of the works of other writers who could see. That foolish +fellow Spence has laboured to explain philosophically how Blacklock may +have done, by his own faculties, what it is impossible he should do. The +solution, as I have given it, is plain. Suppose I know a man to be so +lame that he is absolutely incapable to move himself, and I find him in a +different room from that in which I left him, shall I puzzle myself with +idle conjectures that perhaps his nerves have, by some unknown change, +all at once become effective? No, sir; it is clear how he got into a +different room--he was CARRIED.' + +Perhaps there is a fallacy in this somewhat dogmatic statement. Perhaps +the blind are not so utterly dark but they may have certain dim +_simulacra_ of external objects before their eyes and minds. Apart from +this, however, Blacklock's poetry endures only from its connexion with +the author's misfortune, and from the fact that through the gloom he +groped greatly to find and give the burning hand of the peasant poet the +squeeze of a kindred spirit,--kindred, we mean, in feeling and heart, +although very far removed in strength of intellect and genius. + + +THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE. + +While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, +And touch each feature with a trembling hand; +Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride, +To mix the colours, and the pencil guide. + +Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind; +How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind! +By self the fop in magic colours shown, +Though, scorned by every eye, delights his own: +When age and wrinkles seize the conquering maid, +Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade. +Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay; +Thy charms to others as to me display. + +Straight is my person, but of little size; +Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes; +My youthful down is, like my talents, rare; +Politely distant stands each single hair. +My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear; +So smooth, a child may listen without fear; +Not formed in cadence soft and warbling lays, +To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways. +My form so fine, so regular, so new, +My port so manly, and so fresh my hue; +Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say, +'See, see _Memento Mori_ cross the way.' +The ravished Proserpine at last, we know, +Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau; +But, thanks to nature! none from me need fly; +One heart the devil could wound--so cannot I. + +Yet, though my person fearless may be seen, +There is some danger in my graceful mien: +For, as some vessel tossed by wind and tide, +Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to side; +In just vibration thus I always move: +This who can view and not be forced to love? + +Hail! charming self! by whose propitious aid +My form in all its glory stands displayed: +Be present still; with inspiration kind, +Let the same faithful colours paint the mind. + +Like all mankind, with vanity I'm blessed, +Conscious of wit I never yet possessed. +To strong desires my heart an easy prey, +Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway. +This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe; +The next, I wonder why I should do so. +Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye; +Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie. +I ne'er for satire torture common sense; +Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense. +Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown; +Wish well to all, and yet do good to none. +Unmerited contempt I hate to bear; +Yet on my faults, like others, am severe. +Dishonest flames my bosom never fire; +The bad I pity, and the good admire; +Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days, +And scribble--not for pudding, but for praise. + +These careless lines, if any virgin hears, +Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years, +She may consent a generous flame to own, +And I no longer sigh the nights alone. +But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice, +Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice; +Cry, 'Save us, Heaven! a spectre, not a man!' +Her hartshorn snatch or interpose her fan: +If I my tender overture repeat; +Oh! may my vows her kind reception meet! +May she new graces on my form bestow, +And with tall honours dignify my brow! + + +ODE TO AURORA, ON MELISSA'S BIRTHDAY. + +Of time and nature eldest born, +Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn, +Emerge, in purest dress arrayed, +And chase from heaven night's envious shade, +That I once more may, pleased, survey, +And hail Melissa's natal day. +Of time and nature eldest born, +Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn; +In order at the eastern gate +The hours to draw thy chariot wait; +Whilst zephyr, on his balmy wings +Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, +With odours sweet to strew thy way, +And grace the bland revolving day. + +But as thou leadst the radiant sphere, +That gilds its birth, and marks the year, +And as his stronger glories rise, +Diffused around the expanded skies, +Till clothed with beams serenely bright, +All heaven's vast concave flames with light; +So, when, through life's protracted day, +Melissa still pursues her way, +Her virtues with thy splendour vie, +Increasing to the mental eye: +Though less conspicuous, not less dear, +Long may they Bion's prospect cheer; +So shall his heart no more repine, +Blessed with her rays, though robbed of thine. + + + + +MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN. + + +Here we find two ladies amicably united in the composition of one of +Scotland's finest songs, the 'Flowers of the Forest.' Miss Jane Elliot of +Minto, sister of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, wrote the first and the +finest of the two versions. Mrs Cockburn, the author of the second, was a +remarkable person. Her maiden name was Alicia Rutherford, and she was the +daughter of Mr Rutherford of Fernilee, in Selkirkshire. She married Mr +Patrick Cockburn, a younger son of Adam Cockburn of Ormiston, Lord +Justice-Clerk of Scotland. She became prominent in the literary circles +of Edinburgh, and an intimate friend of David Hume, with whom she carried +on a long and serious correspondence on religious subjects, in which it +is understood the philosopher opened up his whole heart, but which is +unfortunately lost. Mrs Cockburn, who was born in 1714, lived to 1794, +and saw and proclaimed the wonderful promise of Walter Scott. She wrote +a great deal, but the 'Flowers of the Forest' is the only one of her +effusions that has been published. A ludicrous story is told of her son, +who was a dissipated youth, returning one night drunk, while a large +party of _savans_ was assembled in the house, and locking himself up in +the room in which their coats and hats were deposited. Nothing would +rouse him; and the company had to depart in the best substitutes they +could find for their ordinary habiliments,--Hume (characteristically) in +a dreadnought, Monboddo in an old shabby hat, &c.--the echoes of the +midnight Potterrow resounding to their laughter at their own odd figures. +It is believed that Mrs Cockburn's song was really occasioned by the +bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, although she chose +to throw the new matter of lamentation into the old mould of song. + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. + +BY MISS JANE ELLIOT. + +1 I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, + Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; + But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- + The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + +2 At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, + The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; + Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, + Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. + +3 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, + The 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. + +4 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies 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 a' wede away. + +5 Dule 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 foucht aye the foremost, + The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. + +6 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, + Women and bairns are heartless and wae; + Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- + The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. + +BY MRS COCKBURN. + +1 I've seen the smiling + Of Fortune beguiling; +I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: + Sweet was its blessing, + Kind its caressing; +But now 'tis fled--fled far away. + +2 I've seen the forest + Adorned the foremost +With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; + Sae bonnie was their blooming! + Their scent the air perfuming! +But now they are withered and weeded away. + +3 I've seen the morning + With gold the hills adorning, +And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. + I've seen Tweed's silver streams, + Shining in the sunny beams, +Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. + +4 Oh, fickle Fortune, + Why this cruel sporting? +Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? + Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, + Nae mair your frowns can fear me; +For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM JONES. + + +This extraordinary person, the 'Justinian of India,' the master of +twenty-eight languages, who into the short space of forty-eight years +(he was born in 1746, and died 27th of April 1794) compressed such a +vast quantity of study and labour, is also the author of two volumes +of poetry, of unequal merit. We quote the best thing in the book. + + +A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. + +1 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, + And bid these arms thy neck enfold; + That rosy cheek, that lily hand, + Would give thy poet more delight + Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold, + Than all the gems of Samarcand. + +2 Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, + And bid thy pensive heart be glad, + Whate'er the frowning zealots say: + Tell them, their Eden cannot show + A stream so clear as Rocnabad, + A bower so sweet as Mosellay. + +3 Oh! when these fair perfidious maids, + Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, + Their dear destructive charms display, + Each glance my tender breast invades, + And robs my wounded soul of rest, + As Tartars seize their destined prey. + +4 In vain with love our bosoms glow: + Can all our tears, can all our sighs, + New lustre to those charms impart? + Can cheeks, where living roses blow, + Where nature spreads her richest dyes, + Require the borrowed gloss of art? + +5 Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme, + And talk of odours, talk of wine, + Talk of the flowers that round us bloom: + 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream; + To love and joy thy thoughts confine, + Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. + +6 Beauty has such resistless power, + That even the chaste Egyptian dame + Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy: + For her how fatal was the hour, + When to the banks of Nilus came + A youth so lovely and so coy! + +7 But, ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear, + (Youth should attend when those advise + Whom long experience renders sage): + While music charms the ravished ear, + While sparkling cups delight our eyes, + Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age. + +8 What cruel answer have I heard? + And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still: + Can aught be cruel from thy lip? + Yet say, how fell that bitter word + From lips which streams of sweetness fill, + Which nought but drops of honey sip? + +9 Go boldly forth, my simple lay, + Whose accents flow with artless ease, + Like orient pearls at random strung: + Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; + But, oh! far sweeter, if they please + The nymph for whom these notes are sung. + + + + +SAMUEL BISHOP. + + +This gentleman was born in 1731, and died in 1795. He was an English +clergyman, master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, and author of a +volume of Latin pieces, entitled 'Feriae Poeticae,' and of various other +poetical pieces. We give some verses to his wife, from which it appears +that he remained an ardent lover long after having become a husband. + + +TO MRS BISHOP, + +WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE. + +'A knife,' dear girl, 'cuts love,' they say! +Mere modish love, perhaps it may-- +For any tool, of any kind, +Can separate--what was never joined. + +The knife, that cuts our love in two, +Will have much tougher work to do; +Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit, +Down to the vulgar size of merit; +To level yours, with modern taste, +Must cut a world of sense to waste; +And from your single beauty's store, +Clip what would dizen out a score. + +That self-same blade from me must sever +Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever: +All memory of endearments past, +All hope of comforts long to last; +All that makes fourteen years with you, +A summer, and a short one too; +All that affection feels and fears, +When hours without you seem like years. + +Till that be done, and I'd as soon +Believe this knife will chip the moon, +Accept my present, undeterred, +And leave their proverbs to the herd. + +If in a kiss--delicious treat!-- +Your lips acknowledge the receipt, +Love, fond of such substantial fare, +And proud to play the glutton there, +'All thoughts of cutting will disdain, +Save only--'cut and come again.' + + +TO THE SAME, + +ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH +WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RING. + +'Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed'-- +So, fourteen years ago, I said.---- +Behold another ring!--'For what?' +'To wed thee o'er again?'--Why not? + +With that first ring I married youth, +Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; +Taste long admired, sense long revered, +And all my Molly then appeared. +If she, by merit since disclosed, +Prove twice the woman I supposed, +I plead that double merit now, +To justify a double vow. + +Here then to-day, with faith as sure, +With ardour as intense, as pure, +As when, amidst the rites divine, +I took thy troth, and plighted mine, +To thee, sweet girl, my second ring +A token and a pledge I bring: +With this I wed, till death us part, +Thy riper virtues to my heart; +Those virtues which, before untried, +The wife has added to the bride: +Those virtues, whose progressive claim, +Endearing wedlock's very name, +My soul enjoys, my song approves, +For conscience' sake, as well as love's. + +And why? They show me every hour, +Honour's high thought, Affection's power, +Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, +And teach me all things--but repentance. + + + + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE. + + +This lady was born at Cardew Hall, near Carlisle, and remained there +from the date of her birth (1747) till she was twenty years of age, when +she accompanied her sister--who had married Colonel Graham of Duchray, +Perthshire--to Scotland, and continued there some years. She became +enamoured of Scottish music and poetry, and thus qualified herself for +writing such sweet lyrics as 'The Nabob,' and 'What ails this heart o' +mine?' On her return to Cumberland she wrote several pieces illustrative +of Cumbrian manners. She died unmarried in 1794. Her poetical pieces, +some of which had been floating through the country in the form of +popular songs, were collected by Mr Patrick Maxwell, and published in +1842. The two we have quoted rank with those of Lady Nairne in nature +and pathos. + + +THE NABOB. + +1 When silent time, wi' lightly foot, + Had trod on thirty years, + I sought again my native land + Wi' mony hopes and fears. + Wha kens gin the dear friends I left + May still continue mine? + Or gin I e'er again shall taste + The joys I left langsyne? + +2 As I drew near my ancient pile, + My heart beat a' the way; + Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak + O' some dear former day; + Those days that followed me afar, + Those happy days o' mine, + Whilk made me think the present joys + A' naething to langsyne! + +3 The ivied tower now met my eye, + Where minstrels used to blaw; + Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand, + Nae weel-kenned face I saw; + Till Donald tottered to the door, + Wham I left in his prime, + And grat to see the lad return + He bore about langsyne. + +4 I ran to ilka dear friend's room, + As if to find them there, + I knew where ilk ane used to sit, + And hang o'er mony a chair; + Till soft remembrance throw a veil + Across these een o' mine, + I closed the door, and sobbed aloud, + To think on auld langsyne! + +5 Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, + Wad next their welcome pay, + Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's, + And wished my groves away. + 'Cut, cut,' they cried, 'those aged elms, + Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' + Na! na! our fathers' names grow there, + Memorials o' langsyne. + +6 To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, + They took me to the town; + But sair on ilka weel-kenned face + I missed the youthfu' bloom. + At balls they pointed to a nymph + Wham a' declared divine; + But sure her mother's blushing cheeks + Were fairer far langsyne! + +7 In vain I sought in music's sound + To find that magic art, + Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays + Has thrilled through a' my heart. + The sang had mony an artfu' turn; + My ear confessed 'twas fine; + But missed the simple melody + I listened to langsyne. + +8 Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, + Forgie an auld man's spleen, + Wha' midst your gayest scenes still mourns + The days he ance has seen. + When time has passed and seasons fled, + Your hearts will feel like mine; + And aye the sang will maist delight + That minds ye o' langsyne! + + +WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? + +1 What ails this heart o' mine? + What ails this watery ee? + What gars me a' turn pale as death + When I tak leave o' thee? + When thou art far awa', + Thou'lt dearer grow to me; + But change o' place and change o' folk + May gar thy fancy jee. + +2 When I gae out at e'en, + Or walk at morning air, + Ilk rustling bush will seem to say + I used to meet thee there. + Then I'll sit down and cry, + And live aneath the tree, + And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, + I'll ca't a word frae thee. + +3 I'll hie me to the bower + That thou wi' roses tied, + And where wi' mony a blushing bud + I strove myself to hide. + I'll doat on ilka spot + Where I ha'e been wi' thee; + And ca' to mind some kindly word + By ilka burn and tree. + + + + +JAMES MACPHERSON. + + +Now we come to one who, with all his faults, was not only a real, but a +great poet. The events of his life need not detain us long. He was born +at Kingussie, Inverness-shire, in 1738, and educated at Aberdeen. At +twenty he published a very juvenile production in verse, called 'The +Highlandman: a Heroic Poem, in six cantos.' He taught for some time the +school of Ruthven, near his native place, and became afterwards tutor +in the family of Graham of Balgowan. While attending a scion of this +family--afterwards Lord Lynedoch--at Moffat Wells, Macpherson became +acquainted with Home, the author of 'Douglas,' and shewed to him some +fragments of Gaelic poetry, translated by himself. Home was delighted +with these specimens, and the consequence was, that our poet, under the +patronage of Home, Blair, Adam Fergusson, and Dr Carlyle, (the once +famous 'Jupiter Carlyle,' minister of Inveresk--called 'Jupiter' because +he used to sit to sculptors for their statues of 'Father Jove,' and +declared by Sir Walter Scott to have been the 'grandest demigod he ever +saw,') published, in a small volume of sixty pages, his 'Fragments of +Ancient Poetry, translated from the Gaelic or Erse language.' This +_brochure_ became popular, and Macpherson was provided with a purse to +go to the Highlands to collect additional pieces. The result was, in +1762, 'Fingal: an Epic Poem;' and, in the next year, 'Temora,' another +epic poem. Their sale was prodigious, and the effect not equalled till, +twenty-four years later, the poems of Burns appeared. He realised £1200 +by these productions. In 1764 he accompanied Governor Johnston to +Pensacola as his secretary, but quarrelled with him, and returned to +London. Here he became a professional pamphleteer, always taking the +ministerial side, and diversifying these labours by publishing a +translation of Homer, in the style of his Ossian, which, as Coleridge +says of another production, was 'damned unanimously.' Our readers are +familiar with his row with Dr Johnson, who, when threatened with +personal chastisement for his obstinate and fierce incredulity in the +matter of Ossian, thus wrote the author:-- + +'To Mr JAMES MACPHERSON. + +'I received your foolish and impudent letter. Any violence offered me +I shall do the best to repel, and what I cannot do for myself, the law +shall do for me. I hope I shall not be deterred from detecting what I +think a cheat by the menaces of a ruffian. + +'What would you have me to retract? I thought your book an imposture. I +think it an imposture still. For this opinion I have given my reasons to +the public, which I dare you to refute. Your rage I defy. Your abilities, +since your Homer, are not so formidable, and what I hear of your morals +inclines me to pay regard, not to what you shall say, but to what you +shall prove. You may print this if you will. + +'SAM. JOHNSON.' + +Nothing daunted by this, and a hundred other similar rebuffs; Macpherson, +like Mallett before him, but with twenty times his abilities, pursued +his peculiar course. He was appointed agent for the Nabob of Arcot, +and became M.P. for Carnelford. In this way he speedily accumulated a +handsome fortune, and in 1789, while still a youngish man, he retired to +his native parish, where he bought the estate of Raitts, and founded a +splendid villa, called Belleville, where, in ease and affluence, he spent +his remaining days. Surviving Johnson, his ablest opponent, by twelve +years, he died on the 17th of February 1796, in the full view of Ossian's +country. One of his daughters became his heir, and another was the first +wife of Sir David Brewster. Macpherson in his will ordered that his body +should be buried in Westminster Abbey, and left a sum of money to erect a +monument to him near Belleville. He lies, accordingly, in Poets' Corner, +and a marble obelisk to his memory may be seen near Kingussie, in the +centre of some trees. + +There is nothing new that is true, or true that is new, to be said about +the questions connected with Ossian's Poems. That Macpherson is the sole +author is a theory now as generally abandoned as the other, which held +that he was simply a free translator of the old bard. To the real +fragments of Ossian, which he found in the Highlands, he acted very much +as he did to the ancient property of Raitts, in his own native parish. +This he purchased in its crude state, and beautified into a mountain +paradise. He changed, however, its name into Belleville, and it had been +better if he had behaved in a similar way with the poems, and published +them as, with some little groundwork from another, the veritable writings +of James Macpherson, Esq. The ablest opponent of his living reputation +was, as we said, Johnson; and the ablest enemy of his posthumous fame has +been Macaulay. We are at a loss to understand _his_ animosity to the +author of Ossian. Were the Macphersons and Macaulays ever at feud, and +did the historian lose his great-great-grandmother in some onslaught made +on the Hebrides by the progenitors of the pseudo-Ossian? Macpherson as +a man we respect not, and we are persuaded that the greater part of +Ossian's Poems can be traced no further than his teeming brain. Nor are +we careful to defend his poetry from the common charges of monotony, +affectation, and fustian. But we deem Macaulay grossly unjust in his +treatment of Macpherson's genius and its results, and can fortify our +judgment by that of Sir Walter Scott and Professor Wilson, two men as far +superior to the historian in knowledge of the Highlands and of Highland +song, and in genuine poetic taste, as they were confessedly in original +imagination. The former says, 'Macpherson was certainly a man of high +talents, and his poetic powers are honourable to his country.' Wilson, in +an admirable paper in _Blackwood_ for November 1839, while admitting many +faults in Ossian, eloquently proclaims the presence in his strains of +much of the purest, most pathetic, and most sublime poetry, instancing +the 'Address to the Sun' as equal to anything in Homer or Milton. Both +these great writers have paid Macpherson a higher compliment still,--they +have imitated him, and the speeches of Allan Macaulay (a far greater +genius than his namesake), Ranald MacEagh, and Elspeth MacTavish, in the +'Waverley Novels,' and such, articles by Christopher North as 'Cottages,' +'Hints for the Holidays,' and a 'Glance at Selby's Ornithology,' are all +coloured by familiarity and fellow-feeling with Ossian's style. Best of +all, the Highlanders as a nation have accepted Ossian as their bard; he +is as much the poet of Morven as Burns of Coila, and it is as hopeless to +dislodge the one from the Highland as the other from the Lowland heart. +The true way to learn to appreciate Ossian's poetry is not to hurry, as +Macaulay seems to have done, in a steamer from Glasgow to Oban, and +thence to Ballachulish, and thence through Glencoe, (mistaking a fine +lake for a 'sullen pool' on his way, and ignoring altogether its peculiar +features of grandeur,) and thence to Inverness or Edinburgh; but it is to +live for years--as Macpherson did while writing Ossian, and Wilson also +did to some extent--under the shadow of the mountains,--to wander through +lonely moors amidst drenching mists and rains,--to hold trysts with +thunder-storms on the summit of savage hills,--to bathe after nightfall +in dreary tarns,--to lie over the ledge and dip one's fingers in the +spray of cataracts,--to plough a solitary path into the heart of forests, +and to sleep and dream for hours amidst their sunless glades,--to meet +on twilight hills the apparition of the winter moon rising over snowy +wastes,--to descend by her ghastly light precipices where the eagles +are sleeping,--and, returning home, to be haunted by night-visions of +mightier mountains, wilder desolations, and giddier descents;--experience +somewhat like this is necessary to form a true 'Child of the Mist,' and +to give the full capacity for sharing in or appreciating the shadowy, +solitary, pensive, and magnificent spirit which tabernacles in Ossian's +poetry. + +Never, at least, can we forget how, in our boyhood, while feeling, but +quite unable to express, the emotions which were suggested by the bold +shapes of mountains resting against the stars, mirrored from below in +lakes and wild torrents, and quaking sometimes in concert with the +quaking couch of the half-slumbering earthquake, the poems of Ossian +served to give our thoughts an expression which they could not otherwise +have found--how they at once strengthened and consolidated enthusiasm, +and are now regarded with feelings which, wreathed around earliest +memories and the strongest fibres of the heart, no criticism can ever +weaken or destroy. + + +OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. + +I feel the sun, O Malvina!--leave me to my rest. Perhaps +they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! +The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of +Carthon: I feel it warm around. + +O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my +fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? +Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide +themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the +western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a +companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the +mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and +grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou +art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy +course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder +rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from +the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou +lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether +thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou +tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, +like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou +shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the +morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! +Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of +the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist +is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the +traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. + + +DESOLATION OF BALCLUTHA. + +I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. +The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the +people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed +from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook +there its lonely head; the moss whistled to the wind. The +fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall +waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina; +silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of +mourning, O bards! over the land of strangers. They have but +fallen before us: for one day we must fall. Why dost thou +build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from +thy towers to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the +desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles +round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert +come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm +shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the +song, send round the shell: let joy be heard in my hall. +When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if thou shalt fail, +thou mighty light! if thy brightness is but for a season, +like Fingal, our fame shall survive thy beams. Such was the +song of Fingal in the day of his joy. + + +FINGAL AND THE SPIRIT OF LODA. + +Night came down on the sea; Roma's bay received the ship. A +rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the +top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A +narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged +trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn +from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there! +the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The +flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around: but +the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief +distressed. + +The wan, cold moon, rose in the east; sleep descended on the +youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading +fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in +the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to +behold the flame of Sarno's tower. + +The flame was dim and distant, the moon hid her red face in +the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was +the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and +shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his +dark face; his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal +advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on high. + +Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou +come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy +gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of +clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls +them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my +presence, son of night! Call thy winds, and fly! + +Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. +The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of +the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my +nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the +winds: the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is +calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant. + +Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king; let Comhal's +son be forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my hills, into thy +peaceful plains? Do I meet thee, with a spear, on thy cloud, +spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why +shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled +from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the wind +frighten the king of Morven? No: he knows the weakness of +their arms! + +Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind, and +fly! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of +the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at +the storm of my power. His battle is around Carric-thura; +and he will prevail! Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel +my flaming wrath! + +He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his +dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword; the +blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel +winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into +air, like a column of smoke, which the staff of the boy +disturbs, as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace. + +The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he +rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound, the waves +heard it on the deep. They stopped in their course with +fear: the friends of Fingal started at once, and took their +heavy spears. They missed the king; they rose in rage; all +their arms resound! + + +ADDRESS TO THE MOON. + +Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face +is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars +attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in +thy presence, O moon! they brighten their dark-brown sides. +Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The +stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their +sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course, +when the darkness of thy countenance grows? hast thou thy +hall, like Ossian? dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? +have thy sisters fallen from heaven? are they who rejoiced +with thee at night no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair +light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself +shalt fail one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The +stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in +thy presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy +brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, +O wind! that the daughter of night may look forth! that the +shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white +waves in light. + + +FINGAL'S SPIRIT-HOME. + +His friends sit around the king, on mist! They hear the +songs of Ullin: he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises +the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand +meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a +blush is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown faces of her +fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. 'Art thou come so +soon?' said Fingal, 'daughter of generous Toscar. Sadness +dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the +breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It +comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is +mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy +rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises +yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The +maids are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, +mournest there!' + + +THE CAVE. + +1 The wind is up, the field is bare, + Some hermit lead me to his cell, + Where Contemplation, lonely fair, + With blessed content has chose to dwell. + +2 Behold! it opens to my sight, + Dark in the rock, beside the flood; + Dry fern around obstructs the light; + The winds above it move the wood. + +3 Reflected in the lake, I see + The downward mountains and the skies, + The flying bird, the waving tree, + The goats that on the hill arise. + +4 The gray-cloaked herd[1] drives on the cow; + The slow-paced fowler walks the heath; + A freckled pointer scours the brow; + A musing shepherd stands beneath. + +5 Curved o'er the ruin of an oak, + The woodman lifts his axe on high; + The hills re-echo to the stroke; + I see--I see the shivers fly! + +6 Some rural maid, with apron full, + Brings fuel to the homely flame; + I see the smoky columns roll, + And, through the chinky hut, the beam. + +7 Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss, + Two well-met hunters talk at ease; + Three panting dogs beside repose; + One bleeding deer is stretched on grass. + +8 A lake at distance spreads to sight, + Skirted with shady forests round; + In midst, an island's rocky height + Sustains a ruin, once renowned. + +9 One tree bends o'er the naked walls; + Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh; + By intervals a fragment falls, + As blows the blast along the sky. + +10 The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide + With labouring oars along the flood; + An angler, bending o'er the tide, + Hangs from the boat the insidious wood. + +11 Beside the flood, beneath the rocks, + On grassy bank, two lovers lean; + Bend on each other amorous looks, + And seem to laugh and kiss between. + +12 The wind is rustling in the oak; + They seem to hear the tread of feet; + They start, they rise, look round the rock; + Again they smile, again they meet. + +13 But see! the gray mist from the lake + Ascends upon the shady hills; + Dark storms the murmuring forests shake, + Rain beats around a hundred rills. + +14 To Damon's homely hut I fly; + I see it smoking on the plain; + When storms are past and fair the sky, + I'll often seek my cave again. + +[1] 'Herd': neat-herd. + + + + +WILLIAM MASON. + + +This gentleman is now nearly forgotten, except as the friend, biographer, +and literary executor of Gray. He was born in 1725, and died in 1797. +His tragedies, 'Elfrida' and 'Caractacus,' are spirited declamations +in dramatic form, not dramas. His odes have the turgidity without the +grandeur of Gray's. His 'English Garden' is too long and too formal. His +Life of Gray was an admirable innovation on the form of biography then +prevalent, interspersing, as it does, journals and letters with mere +narrative. Mason was a royal chaplain, held the living of Ashton, and +was precentor of York Cathedral. We quote the best of his minor poems. + + +EPITAPH ON MRS MASON, +IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL. + +1 Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: + Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: + To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care + Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave, + And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? + Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? + Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine: + Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. + +2 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; + Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; + And if so fair, from vanity as free; + As firm in friendship, and as fond in love; + Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, + ('Twas even to thee,) yet the dread path once trod, + Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, + And bids 'the pure in heart behold their God.' + + +AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, KNIGHT, +COMPTROLLER-GENERAL OF HIS MAJESTY'S WORKS, ETC. + +Knight of the Polar Star! by fortune placed +To shine the Cynosure of British taste; +Whose orb collects in one refulgent view +The scattered glories of Chinese virtù; +And spreads their lustre in so broad a blaze, +That kings themselves are dazzled while they gaze: +Oh, let the Muse attend thy march sublime, +And, with thy prose, caparison her rhyme; +Teach her, like thee, to gild her splendid song, +With scenes of Yven-Ming, and sayings of Li-Tsong; +Like thee to scorn dame Nature's simple fence; +Leap each ha-ha of truth and common sense; +And proudly rising in her bold career, +Demand attention from the gracious ear +Of him, whom we and all the world admit, +Patron supreme of science, taste, and wit. +Does envy doubt? Witness, ye chosen train, +Who breathe the sweets of his Saturnian reign; +Witness, ye Hills, ye Johnsons, Scots, Shebbeares, +Hark to my call, for some of you have ears. +Let David Hume, from the remotest north, +In see-saw sceptic scruples hint his worth; +David, who there supinely deigns to lie +The fattest hog of Epicurus' sty; +Though drunk with Gallic wine, and Gallic praise, +David shall bless Old England's halcyon days; +The mighty Home, bemired in prose so long, +Again shall stalk upon the stilts of song: +While bold Mac-Ossian, wont in ghosts to deal, +Bids candid Smollett from his coffin steal; +Bids Mallock quit his sweet Elysian rest, +Sunk in his St John's philosophic breast, +And, like old Orpheus, make some strong effort +To come from Hell, and warble Truth at Court. +There was a time, 'in Esher's peaceful grove, +When Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love,' +That Pope beheld them with auspicious smile, +And owned that beauty blest their mutual toil. +Mistaken bard! could such a pair design +Scenes fit to live in thy immortal line? +Hadst thou been born in this enlightened day, +Felt, as we feel, taste's oriental ray, +Thy satire sure had given them both a stab, +Called Kent a driveller, and the nymph a drab. +For what is Nature? Ring her changes round, +Her three flat notes are water, plants, and ground; +Prolong the peal, yet, spite of all your clatter, +The tedious chime is still ground, plants, and water. +So, when some John his dull invention racks, +To rival Boodle's dinners, or Almack's; +Three uncouth legs of mutton shock our eyes, +Three roasted geese, three buttered apple-pies. +Come, then, prolific Art, and with thee bring +The charms that rise from thy exhaustless spring; +To Richmond come, for see, untutored Browne +Destroys those wonders which were once thy own. +Lo, from his melon-ground the peasant slave +Has rudely rushed, and levelled Merlin's cave; +Knocked down the waxen wizard, seized his wand, +Transformed to lawn what late was fairy-land; +And marred, with impious hand, each sweet design +Of Stephen Duck, and good Queen Caroline. +Haste, bid yon livelong terrace re-ascend, +Replace each vista, straighten every bend; +Shut out the Thames; shall that ignoble thing +Approach the presence of great Ocean's king? +No! let barbaric glories feast his eyes, +August pagodas round his palace rise, +And finished Richmond open to his view, +'A work to wonder at, perhaps a Kew.' +Nor rest we here, but, at our magic call, +Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards crawl; +Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove, +Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love; +In some fair island will we turn to grass +(With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass. +Giants from Africa shall guard the glades, +Where hiss our snakes, where sport our Tartar maids; +Or, wanting these, from Charlotte Hayes we bring +Damsels, alike adroit to sport and sting. +Now to our lawns of dalliance and delight, +Join we the groves of horror and affright; +This to achieve no foreign aids we try,-- +Thy gibbets, Bagshot! shall our wants supply; +Hounslow, whose heath sublimer terror fills, +Shall with her gibbets lend her powder-mills. +Here, too, O king of vengeance, in thy fane, +Tremendous Wilkes shall rattle his gold chain; +And round that fane, on many a Tyburn tree, +Hang fragments dire of Newgate-history; +On this shall Holland's dying speech be read, +Here Bute's confession, and his wooden head: +While all the minor plunderers of the age, +(Too numerous far for this contracted page,) +The Rigbys, Calcrafts, Dysons, Bradshaws there, +In straw-stuffed effigy, shall kick the air. +But say, ye powers, who come when fancy calls, +Where shall our mimic London rear her walls? +That eastern feature, Art must next produce, +Though not for present yet for future use, +Our sons some slave of greatness may behold, +Cast in the genuine Asiatic mould: +Who of three realms shall condescend to know +No more than he can spy from Windsor's brow; +For him, that blessing of a better time, +The Muse shall deal a while in brick and lime; +Surpass the bold [Greek: ADELPHI] in design, +And o'er the Thames fling one stupendous line +Of marble arches, in a bridge, that cuts +From Richmond Ferry slant to Brentford Butts. +Brentford with London's charms will we adorn; +Brentford, the bishopric of Parson Horne. +There, at one glance, the royal eye shall meet +Each varied beauty of St James's Street; +Stout Talbot there shall ply with hackney chair, +And patriot Betty fix her fruit-shop there. +Like distant thunder, now the coach of state +Rolls o'er the bridge, that groans beneath its weight. +The court hath crossed the stream; the sports begin; +Now Noel preaches of rebellion's sin: +And as the powers of his strong pathos rise, +Lo, brazen tears fall from Sir Fletcher's eyes. +While skulking round the pews, that babe of grace, +Who ne'er before at sermon showed his face, +See Jemmy Twitcher shambles; stop! stop thief! +He's stolen the Earl of Denbigh's handkerchief, +Let Barrington arrest him in mock fury, +And Mansfield hang the knave without a jury. +But hark, the voice of battle shouts from far, +The Jews and Maccaronis are at war: +The Jews prevail, and, thundering from the stocks, +They seize, they bind, they circumcise Charles Fox. +Fair Schwellenbergen smiles the sport to see, +And all the maids of honour cry 'Te! He!' +Be these the rural pastimes that attend +Great Brunswick's leisure: these shall best unbend +His royal mind, whene'er from state withdrawn, +He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn; +These shall prolong his Asiatic dream, +Though Europe's balance trembles on its beam. +And thou, Sir William! while thy plastic hand +Creates each wonder which thy bard has planned, +While, as thy art commands, obsequious rise +Whate'er can please, or frighten, or surprise, +Oh, let that bard his knight's protection claim, +And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame. + + + + +JOHN LOWE. + + +The author of 'Mary's Dream' was born in 1750, at Kenmore, Galloway, and +was the son of a gardener. He became a student of divinity, and acted +as tutor in the family of a Mr McGhie of Airds. A daughter of Mr McGhie +was attached to a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, and on the +occasion of his death Lowe wrote his beautiful 'Mary's Dream,' the +exquisite simplicity and music of the first stanza of which has often +been admired. Lowe was betrothed to a sister of 'Mary,' but having +emigrated to America, he married another, fell into dissipated habits, +and died in a miserable plight at Fredericksburgh in 1798. He wrote many +other pieces, but none equal to 'Mary's Dream.' + + +MARY'S DREAM. + +1 The moon had climbed the highest hill + Which rises o'er the source of Dee, + And from the eastern summit shed + Her silver light on tower and tree; + When Mary laid her down to sleep, + Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, + When, soft and low, a voice was heard, + Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!' + +2 She from her pillow gently raised + Her head, to ask who there might be, + And saw young Sandy shivering stand, + With visage pale, and hollow ee. + 'O Mary dear, cold is my clay; + It lies beneath a stormy sea. + Far, far from thee I sleep in death; + So, Mary, weep no more for me! + +3 'Three stormy nights and stormy days + We tossed upon the raging main; + And long we strove our bark to save, + But all our striving was in vain. + Even then, when horror chilled my blood, + My heart was filled with love for thee: + The storm is past, and I at rest; + So, Mary, weep no more for me! + +4 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare; + We soon shall meet upon that shore, + Where love is free from doubt and care, + And thou and I shall part no more!' + Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, + No more of Sandy could she see; + But soft the passing spirit said, + 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' + + + + +JOSEPH WARTON. + + +This accomplished critic and poet was born in 1722. He was son to the +Vicar of Basingstoke, and brother to Thomas Warton. (See a former volume +for his life.) Joseph was educated at Winchester College, and became +intimate there with William Collins. He wrote when quite young some +poetry in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. He was in due time removed to Oriel +College, where he composed two poems, entitled 'The Enthusiast,' and 'The +Dying Indian.' In 1744, he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at Oxford, +and was ordained to his father's curacy at Basingstoke. He went thence +to Chelsea, but did not remain there long, owing to some disagreement +with his parishioners, and returned to Basingstoke. In 1746, he published +a volume of Odes, and in the preface expressed his hope that it might +be successful as an attempt to bring poetry back from the didactic and +satirical taste of the age, to the truer channels of fancy and description. +The motive of this attempt was, however, more praiseworthy than its success +was conspicuous. + +In 1748, Warton was presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory of +Winslade, and he straightway married a Miss Daman, to whom he had for +some time been attached. In the same year he began, and in 1753 he +finished and printed, an edition of Virgil in English and Latin. Of this +large, elaborate work, Warton himself supplied only the life of Virgil, +with three essays on pastoral, didactic, and epic poetry, and a poetical +version of the Eclogues and the Georgics, more correct but less spirited +than Dryden's. He adopted Pitt's version of the Aeneid, and his friends +furnished some of the dissertations, notes, &c. Shortly after, he +contributed twenty-four excellent papers, including some striking +allegories, and some good criticisms on Shakspeare, to the _Adventurer_. +In 1754, he was appointed to the living of Tunworth, and the next year +was elected second master of Winchester School. Soon after this he +published anonymously 'An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope,' +which, whether because he failed in convincing the public that his +estimate of Pope was the correct one, or because he stood in awe of +Warburton, he did not complete or reprint for twenty-six years. It is a +somewhat gossiping book, but full of information and interest. + +In May 1766, he was made head-master of Winchester. In 1768, he lost his +wife, and next year married a Miss Nicholas of Winchester. In 1782, he +was promoted, through Bishop Lowth, to a prebend's post in St Paul's, and +to the living of Thorley, which he exchanged for that of Wickham. Other +livings dropped in upon him, and in 1793 he resigned the mastership of +Winchester, and went to reside at Wickham. Here he employed himself in +preparing an edition of Pope, which he published in 1797. In 1800 he +died. + +Warton, like his brother, did good service in resisting the literary +despotism of Pope, and in directing the attention of the public to the +forgotten treasures of old English poetry. He was a man of extensive +learning, a very fair and candid, as well as acute critic, and his 'Ode +to Fancy' proves him to have possessed no ordinary genius. + + +ODE TO FANCY. + +O parent of each lovely Muse, +Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, +O'er all my artless songs preside, +My footsteps to thy temple guide, +To offer at thy turf-built shrine, +In golden cups no costly wine, +No murdered fatling of the flock, +But flowers and honey from the rock. +O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, +With buskined leg, and bosom bare, +Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, +Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned, +Waving in thy snowy hand +An all-commanding magic wand, +Of power to bid fresh gardens blow, +'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow, +Whose rapid wings thy flight convey +Through air, and over earth and sea, +While the vast various landscape lies +Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. +O lover of the desert, hail! +Say, in what deep and pathless vale, +Or on what hoary mountain's side, +'Mid fall of waters, you reside, +'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene, +With green and grassy dales between, +'Mid forests dark of aged oak, +Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, +Where never human art appeared, +Nor even one straw-roofed cot was reared, +Where Nature seems to sit alone, +Majestic on a craggy throne; +Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, +To thy unknown sequestered cell, +Where woodbines cluster round the door, +Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, +And on whose top a hawthorn blows, +Amid whose thickly-woven boughs +Some nightingale still builds her nest, +Each evening warbling thee to rest: +Then lay me by the haunted stream, +Rapt in some wild, poetic dream, +In converse while methinks I rove +With Spenser through a fairy grove; +Till, suddenly awaked, I hear +Strange whispered music in my ear, +And my glad soul in bliss is drowned +By the sweetly-soothing sound! +Me, goddess, by the right hand lead +Sometimes through the yellow mead, +Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, +And Venus keeps her festive court; +Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, +And lightly trip with nimble feet, +Nodding their lily-crowned heads, +Where Laughter rose-lipped Hebe leads; +Where Echo walks steep hills among, +Listening to the shepherd's song: +Yet not these flowery fields of joy +Can long my pensive mind employ; +Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, +To meet the matron Melancholy, +Goddess of the tearful eye, +That loves to fold her arms, and sigh; +Let us with silent footsteps go +To charnels and the house of woe, +To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, +Where each sad night some virgin comes, +With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, +Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek; +Or to some abbey's mouldering towers, +Where, to avoid cold wintry showers, +The naked beggar shivering lies, +While whistling tempests round her rise, +And trembles lest the tottering wall +Should on her sleeping infants fall. +Now let us louder strike the lyre, +For my heart glows with martial fire,-- +I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, +My big tumultuous bosom beat; +The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear, +A thousand widows' shrieks I hear, +Give me another horse, I cry, +Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; +Whence is this rage?--what spirit, say, +To battle hurries me away? +'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, +Transports me to the thickest war, +There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, +Where Tumult and Destruction reign; +Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed +Tramples the dying and the dead; +Where giant Terror stalks around, +With sullen joy surveys the ground, +And, pointing to the ensanguined field, +Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! +Oh, guide me from this horrid scene, +To high-arched walks and alleys green, +Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun +The fervours of the mid-day sun; +The pangs of absence, oh, remove! +For thou canst place me near my love, +Canst fold in visionary bliss, +And let me think I steal a kiss, +While her ruby lips dispense +Luscious nectar's quintessence! +When young-eyed Spring profusely throws +From her green lap the pink and rose, +When the soft turtle of the dale +To Summer tells her tender tale; +When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, +And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; +When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, +Shakes his silver beard with cold; +At every season let my ear +Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. +O warm, enthusiastic maid, +Without thy powerful, vital aid, +That breathes an energy divine, +That gives a soul to every line, +Ne'er may I strive with lips profane +To utter an unhallowed strain, +Nor dare to touch the sacred string, +Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing. +Oh, hear our prayer! oh, hither come +From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, +On which thou lovest to sit at eve, +Musing o'er thy darling's grave; +O queen of numbers, once again +Animate some chosen swain, +Who, filled with unexhausted fire, +May boldly smite the sounding lyre, +Who with some new unequalled song +May rise above the rhyming throng, +O'er all our listening passions reign, +O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, +With terror shake, and pity move, +Rouse with revenge, or melt with love; +Oh, deign to attend his evening walk, +With him in groves and grottoes talk; +Teach him to scorn with frigid art +Feebly to touch the enraptured heart; +Like lightning, let his mighty verse +The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; +With native beauties win applause +Beyond cold critics' studied laws; +Oh, let each Muse's fame increase! +Oh, bid Britannia rival Greece! + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS. + + +SONG. + +FROM 'THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES.' DUBLIN, 1772. + +1 Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit + Do various passions raise; + And, like the lightning, yield a bright, + But momentary blaze. + +2 Eliza's milder, gentler sway, + Her conquests fairly won, + Shall last till life and time decay, + Eternal as the sun. + +3 Thus the wild flood with deafening roar + Bursts dreadful from on high; + But soon its empty rage is o'er, + And leaves the channel dry: + +4 While the pure stream, which still and slow + Its gentler current brings, + Through every change of time shall flow + With unexhausted springs. + + +VERSES, + +COPIED FROM THE WINDOW OF AN OBSCURE LODGING-HOUSE, +IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF LONDON. + +Stranger! whoe'er thou art, whose restless mind, +Like me within these walls is cribbed, confined; +Learn how each want that heaves our mutual sigh +A woman's soft solicitudes supply. +From her white breast retreat all rude alarms, +Or fly the magic circle of her arms; +While souls exchanged alternate grace acquire, +And passions catch from passion's glorious fire: +What though to deck this roof no arts combine, +Such forms as rival every fair but mine; +No nodding plumes, our humble couch above, +Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love; +No silver lamp with sculptured Cupids gay, +O'er yielding beauty pours its midnight ray; +Yet Fanny's charms could Time's slow flight beguile, +Soothe every care, and make each dungeon smile: +In her, what kings, what saints have wished, is given, +Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven. + + +THE OLD BACHELOR. + +AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER. + +1 In Phoebus' region while some bards there be + That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar; + Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me, + Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar! + Haply a scene of meaner view to scan, + Beneath their laurelled praise my verse may give, + To trace the features of unnoticed man; + Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! + Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, + From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach. + +2 A wight there was, who single and alone + Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, + Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known + His heart to captive, or his thought engage: + Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind + Might female worth or beauty give to wear, + Yet to the nobler sex he held confined + The genuine graces of the soul sincere, + And well could show with saw or proverb quaint + All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint. + +3 In plain attire this wight apparelled was, + (For much he conned of frugal lore and knew,) + Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, + From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: + But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, + Or feast, or birthday, should it chance to be, + A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore, + And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, + Gold clasped his shoon, by maiden brushed so sheen, + And his rough beard he shaved, and donned his linen clean. + +4 But in his common garb a coat he wore, + A faithful coat that long its lord had known, + That once was black, but now was black no more, + Attinged by various colours not its own. + All from his nostrils was the front embrowned, + And down the back ran many a greasy line, + While, here and there, his social moments owned + The generous signet of the purple wine. + Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appeared, + Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeared. + +5 One only maid he had, like turtle true, + But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; + For many a time her tongue bewrayed the shrew, + And in meet words unpacked her peevish mind. + Ne formed was she to raise the soft desire + That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, + Ne formed was she to light the tender fire, + By many a bard is sung in many a strain: + Hooked was her nose, and countless wrinkles told + What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old. + +6 When the clock told the wonted hour was come + When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew, + Eight patient would she watch his wending home, + His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. + If long his time was past, and leaden sleep + O'er her tired eyelids 'gan his reign to stretch, + Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep, + And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach; + Haply if potent gin had armed her tongue, + All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung. + +7 For though, the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle + O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign, + On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile, + Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign: + For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink + Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, + And for the medicine's sake, might envy think, + Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral; + Yet much the proffer did she loathe, and say + No dram might maiden taste, and often answered nay. + +8 So as in single animals he joyed, + One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed; + The first the cate-devouring mice destroyed, + Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled: + All in the sunbeams basked the lazy cat, + Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; + On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat, + And loud he barked should Puss his right invade. + The human pair oft marked them as they lay, + And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they. + +9 A room he had that faced the southern ray, + Where oft he walked to set his thoughts in tune, + Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway, + All to the music of his creeking shoon. + And at the end a darkling closet stood, + Where books he kept of old research and new, + In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood, + And rusty nails and phials not a few: + Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, + And papers squared and trimmed for use unmeet to tell. + +10 For still in form he placed his chief delight, + Nor lightly broke his old accustomed rule, + And much uncourteous would he hold the wight + That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool; + And oft in meet array their ranks he placed, + And oft with careful eye their ranks reviewed; + For novel forms, though much those forms had graced, + Himself and maiden-minister eschewed: + One path he trod, nor ever would decline + A hair's unmeasured breadth from off the even line. + +11 A Club select there was, where various talk + On various chapters passed the lingering hour, + And thither oft he bent his evening walk, + And warmed to mirth by wine's enlivening power. + And oft on politics the preachments ran, + If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume: + And oft important matters would they scan, + And deep in council fix a nation's doom: + And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer, + Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved to hear. + +12 For men like him they were of like consort, + Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn, + Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport, + And blessed their stars that kept the curse from them! + No honest love they knew, no melting smile + That shoots the transports to the throbbing heart! + Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile + Lascivious smiling through the mask of art: + And so of women deemed they as they knew, + And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew. + +13 But most abhorred they hymeneal rites, + And boasted oft the freedom of their fate: + Nor 'vailed, as they opined, its best delights + Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait; + And often would they tell of henpecked fool + Snubbed by the hard behest of sour-eyed dame. + And vowed no tongue-armed woman's freakish rule + Their mirth should quail, or damp their generous flame: + Then pledged their hands, and tossed their bumpers o'er, + And Io! Bacchus! sung, and owned no other power. + +14 If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose + Within some breast of less obdurate frame, + Lo! where its hideous form a phantom shows + Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name. + Him Scorn attended with a glance askew, + And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, + Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew, + And vexed the region round the Cupid's throne: + 'Far be from us,' they cried, 'the treacherous bane, + Far be the dimply guile, and far the flowery chain!' + + +CARELESS CONTENT. + +1 I am content, I do not care, + Wag as it will the world for me; + When fuss and fret was all my fare, + It got no ground as I could see: + So when away my caring went, + I counted cost, and was content. + +2 With more of thanks and less of thought, + I strive to make my matters meet; + To seek what ancient sages sought, + Physic and food in sour and sweet: + To take what passes in good part, + And keep the hiccups from the heart. + +3 With good and gentle-humoured hearts, + I choose to chat where'er I come, + Whate'er the subject be that starts; + But if I get among the glum, + I hold my tongue to tell the truth, + And keep my breath to cool my broth. + +4 For chance or change of peace or pain, + For Fortune's favour or her frown, + For lack or glut, for loss or gain, + I never dodge, nor up nor down: + But swing what way the ship shall swim, + Or tack about with equal trim. + +5 I suit not where I shall not speed, + Nor trace the turn of every tide; + If simple sense will not succeed, + I make no bustling, but abide: + For shining wealth, or scaring woe, + I force no friend, I fear no foe. + +6 Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, + Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right, + I shun the rancours and the routs; + And wishing well to every wight, + Whatever turn the matter takes, + I deem it all but ducks and drakes. + +7 With whom I feast I do not fawn, + Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; + If wonted welcome be withdrawn, + I cook no kind of a complaint: + With none disposed to disagree, + But like them best who best like me. + +8 Not that I rate myself the rule + How all my betters should behave + But fame shall find me no man's fool, + Nor to a set of men a slave: + I love a friendship free and frank, + And hate to hang upon a hank. + +9 Fond of a true and trusty tie, + I never loose where'er I link; + Though if a business budges by, + I talk thereon just as I think; + My word, my work, my heart, my hand, + Still on a side together stand. + +10 If names or notions make a noise, + Whatever hap the question hath, + The point impartially I poise, + And read or write, but without wrath; + For should I burn, or break my brains, + Pray, who will pay me for my pains? + +11 I love my neighbour as myself, + Myself like him too, by his leave; + Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, + Came I to crouch, as I conceive: + Dame Nature doubtless has designed + A man the monarch of his mind. + +12 Now taste and try this temper, sirs, + Mood it and brood it in your breast; + Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, + That man does right to mar his rest, + Let me be deft, and debonair, + I am content, I do not care. + + +A PASTORAL. + +1 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, + When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; + Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: + Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! + But now she is gone, and has left me behind, + What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! + When things were as fine as could possibly be, + I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she. + +2 With such a companion to tend a few sheep, + To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep: + I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay, + My heart was as light as a feather all day; + But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, + So strangely uneasy, as never was known. + My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, + And my heart--I am sure it weighs more than a pound. + +3 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, + And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; + Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, + 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: + But now she is absent, I walk by its side, + And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; + Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? + Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. + +4 My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, + And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; + How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, + When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime! + But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, + I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass: + Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, + To see you so merry while I am so sad. + +5 My dog I was ever well pleased to see + Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; + And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, + 'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. + But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look + Cry 'Sirrah;' and give him a blow with my crook: + And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray + Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away? + +6 When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, + How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! + What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, + The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! + But now she has left me, though all are still there, + They none of them now so delightful appear: + 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, + Made so many beautiful prospects arise. + +7 Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, + The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; + Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, + And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. + But now she is absent, though still they sing on, + The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: + Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, + Gave everything else its agreeable sound. + +8 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? + And where is the violet's beautiful blue? + Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile? + That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? + Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed, + And made yourselves fine for--a place in her breast: + You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, + To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. + +9 How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! + While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: + Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, + I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. + Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, + And rest so much longer for't when she is here. + Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, + Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. + +10 Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, + Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? + To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; + But what swain is so silly to live without love! + No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, + For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. + Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair; + Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. + + +ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE. + +Little tube of mighty power, +Charmer of an idle hour, +Object of my warm desire, +Lip of wax and eye of fire; +And thy snowy taper waist, +With my finger gently braced; +And thy pretty swelling crest, +With my little stopper pressed; +And the sweetest bliss of blisses, +Breathing from thy balmy kisses. +Happy thrice, and thrice again, +Happiest he of happy men; +Who when again the night returns, +When again the taper burns, +When again the cricket's gay, +(Little cricket full of play,) +Can afford his tube to feed +With the fragrant Indian weed: +Pleasure for a nose divine, +Incense of the god of wine. +Happy thrice, and thrice again, +Happiest he of happy men. + + +AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. + +1 Away! let nought to love displeasing, + My Winifreda, move your care; + Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, + Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. + +2 What though no grants of royal donors, + With pompous titles grace our blood; + We'll shine in more substantial honours, + And, to be noble, we'll be good. + +3 Our name while virtue thus we tender, + Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; + And all the great ones, they shall wonder + How they respect such little folk. + +4 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, + No mighty treasures we possess; + We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, + And be content without excess. + +5 Still shall each kind returning season + Sufficient for our wishes give; + For we will live a life of reason, + And that's the only life to live. + +6 Through youth and age, in love excelling, + We'll hand in hand together tread; + Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, + And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. + +7 How should I love the pretty creatures, + While round my knees they fondly clung! + To see them look their mother's features, + To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! + +8 And when with envy Time transported, + Shall think to rob us of our joys; + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing in my boys. + + +RICHARD BENTLEY'S SOLE POETICAL COMPOSITION. + +1 Who strives to mount Parnassus' hill, + And thence poetic laurels bring, + Must first acquire due force and skill, + Must fly with swan's or eagle's wing. + +2 Who Nature's treasures would explore, + Her mysteries and arcana know, + Must high as lofty Newton soar, + Must stoop as delving Woodward low. + +3 Who studies ancient laws and rites, + Tongues, arts, and arms, and history; + Must drudge, like Selden, days and nights, + And in the endless labour die. + +4 Who travels in religious jars, + (Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,) + Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars, + In ocean wide or sinks or strays. + +5 But grant our hero's hope, long toil + And comprehensive genius crown, + All sciences, all arts his spoil, + Yet what reward, or what renown? + +6 Envy, innate in vulgar souls, + Envy steps in and stops his rise; + Envy with poisoned tarnish fouls + His lustre, and his worth decries. + +7 He lives inglorious or in want, + To college and old books confined: + Instead of learned, he's called pedant; + Dunces advanced, he's left behind: + Yet left content, a genuine Stoic he, + Great without patron, rich without South Sea. + + +LINES ADDRESSED TO POPE.[1] + +1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page + Its own celestial fire; + While critics and while bards in rage + Admiring, won't admire: + +2 While wayward pens thy worth assail, + And envious tongues decry; + These times, though many a friend bewail, + These times bewail not I. + +3 But when the world's loud praise is thine, + And spleen no more shall blame; + When with thy Homer thou shalt shine + In one unclouded fame: + +4 When none shall rail, and every lay + Devote a wreath to thee; + That day (for come it will) that day + Shall I lament to see. + +[1] Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by +Johnson.--_See_ Boswell. + + + +THE END. + + + + +INDEX + + VOL. +A Ballad upon a Wedding, SUCKLING, i. +Abel's Blood, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the + Legion Club, SWIFT, iii. +A Cradle Hymn, WATTS, iii. +Address to the Nightingale, BARNFIELD, i. +A Description of Castara, HABINGTON, ii. +A Distempered Fancy, MORE, ii. +Admiral Hosier's Ghost, GLOVER, iii. +Address to the Moon, MACPHERSON, iii. +A Friend, PHILLIPS, ii. +A Fragment of Sappho, PHILIPS, iii. +Allegorical Characters from 'The Mirror for +Magistrates,' SACKVILLE, i. +ALEXANDER, WILLIAM, EARL OF STIRLING, i. +A Loose Saraband, LOVELACE, ii. +A Meditation, WOTTON, i. +An Epitaph, BEAUMONT, i. +An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers, MASON, iii. +An Ode to the Right Hon. Lord Gower, FENTON, iii. +An American Love Ode, WARTON THE ELDER, iii. +Apostrophe to Freedom, BARBOUR, i. +A Praise to his Lady, ANONYMOUS, i. +A Pastoral Dialogue, CAREW, i. +A Pastoral, iii. +Apostrophe to Fletcher the Dramatist, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Persian Song of Hafiz, JONES, iii. +Arcadia, CHALKHILL, ii. +Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks, CHAMBERLAYNE, ii. +Ascension-Day, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Vision upon the "Fairy Queen," RALEIGH, i. +A Valediction, BROWNE, i. +A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque, COTTON, ii. +Away! Let nought to Love Displeasing, iii. + +BAMPFYLDE, JOHN, iii. +BARBOUR, JOHN, i. +BARCLAY, ALEXANDER i. +BARNFIELD, RICHARD i. +Battle of Black Earnside BLIND HARRY, i. +Baucis and Philemon SWIFT, iii. +BEAUMONT, FRANCIS i. +BEAUMONT, DR JOSEPH ii. +BISHOP, SAMUEL iii. +BLACKMORE, SIR RICHARD iii. +BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM iii. +BLACKLOCK, THOMAS iii. +BLAMIRE, SUSANNA iii. +BLIND HARRY i. +Breathing toward the Heavenly Country WATTS, iii. +Bristowe Tragedy CHATTERTON, iii. +BROWN, JOHN iii. +BROWNE, ISAAC HAWKINS iii. +BROWNE, WILLIAM i. +BROOKE, HENRY iii. +BRUCE, MICHAEL iii. +BURTON, ROBERT i. +Burial VAUGHAN, ii. +BOOTH, BARTON iii. +BRAMSTON iii. + +Canace Condemned to Death by her Father LYDGATE, i. +Careless Content iii. +CAREW, THOMAS i. +CARTWRIGHT, WILLIAM i. +CAREY, HENRY iii. +Celia Singing STANLEY, ii. +CHALKHILL, JOHN ii. +CHAMBERLAYNE, WILLIAM ii. +CHATTERTON, THOMAS iii. +Cherry Ripe HERRICK, ii. +Cheerfulness VAUGHAN, ii. +CHESTERFIELD, LORD iii. +Childhood VAUGHAN, ii. +Close of 'Christ's Victory and Triumph' FLETCHER, i. +Cock-crowing VAUGHAN, ii. +COCKBURN, MRS iii. +Complaint of Nature LOGAN, iii. +CORBET, RICHARD i. +Corinna's Going a-Maying HERRICK, ii. +COOPER, JOHN GILBERT iii. +COTTON, CHARLES ii. +COTTON, NATHANIEL iii. +COWLEY, ABRAHAM ii. +CRAWFORD, ROBERT iii. +Creation, BLACKMORE, iii. +Cumnor Hall, MICKLE, iii. +CUNNINGHAM, JOHN, iii. + +DANIEL, SAMUEL, i. +DAVIES, SIR JOHN, i. +Davideis--Book II., COWLEY, ii. +DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM, ii. +Description of King's Mistress, JAMES I., i. +Death of Sir Henry de Bohun, BARBOUR, i. +Description of Morning, DRAYTON, i. +Description of Parthenia, FLETCHER, i. +Destruction and Renovation of all Things, DR H. MORE, ii. +Desolation of Balclutha, MACPHERSON, iii. +Dinner given by the Town Mouse to the Country + Mouse, HENRYSON, i. +Directions for Cultivating a Hop Garden, TUSSER, i. +DODSLEY, ROBERT, iii. +DONNE, JOHN, i. +DOUGLAS, GAVIN, i. +DRAYTON, MICHAEL, i. +DRUMMOND, WILLIAM, i. +DU BARTAS, i. +DUNBAR, WILLIAM, i. +Dwelling of the Witch Orandra, CHALKHILL, ii. + +Early Love, DANIEL, i. +EDWARDS, RICHARD, i. +Elegy XIII., HAMMOND, iii. +Elegy written in Spring, BRUCE, iii. +ELLIOT, Miss JANE, iii. +End, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke, JONSON, i. +Epistle addressed to the Honourable W. E. HABINGTON, ii. +Epitaph on Mrs Mason, MASON, iii. +Evening, BROWNE, i. +Eve, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Exordium of Third Part of 'Pyschozoia', DR H. MORE, ii. + +FAIRFAX, EDWARD, i. +Farewell to the Vanities of the World, WOTTON, i. +FANSHAWE, SIR RICHARD, ii. +FAWKES, FRANCIS, iii. +FENTON, ELIJAH, iii. +Few Happy Matches, WATTS, iii. +February--an Elegy, CHATTERTON, iii. +FERGUSSON, ROBERT, iii. +Fingal and the Spirit of Loda, MACPHERSON, iii. +Fingal's Spirit-Home, MACPHERSON, iii. +FLETCHER, GILES +FLETCHER, PHINEAS +From 'The Phoenix' Nest' ANONYMOUS, i. +From the Same ANONYMOUS, i. +From 'Britannia's Pastorals' W. BROWNE, i. +From 'The Shepherd's Hunting' WITHER, i. +From the Same WITHER, ii. +From 'Gondibert,' Canto II. DAVENANT, ii. +From 'Gondibert,' Canto IV. DAVENANT, ii. +From 'An Essay on Translated Verse' EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ii. +From 'The Gentle Shepherd,' Act I., Scene II. RAMSAY, iii. +From 'The Monody' LYTTELTON, iii. +From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii. +From the Same LANGHORNE, iii. +From 'Leonidas,' Book XII. GLOVER, iii. + +GARTH, SIR SAMUEL iii. +GASCOIGNE, GEORGE i. +Gipsies--From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii. +GLOVER, RICHARD iii. +Good-morrow GASCOIGNE, i. +Good-night GASCOIGNE, i. +GOULD iii. +GOWER, JOHN i. +Gratification which the Lover's Passion receives + from the Sense of Hearing GOWER, i. +GRAINGER, DR JAMES iii. +GREVILLE, MRS iii. + +HABINGTON, WILLIAM ii. +HALL, JOSEPH, BISHOP OF NORWICH ii. +Hallo, my Fancy ii. +HAMMOND, JAMES iii. +HAMILTON, WILLIAM iii. +Happiness of the Shepherd's Life P. FLETCHER, i. +HARDING, JOHN i. +HARRINGTON, JOHN i. +Harpalus' Complaint of Phillida's Love + bestowed on Corin i. +HARTE, DR WALTER iii. +HAWES, STEPHEN i. +HENRYSON, ROBERT i. +Henry, Duke of Buckingham, in the Infernal + Regions T. SACKVILLE, i. +HERRICK, ROBERT ii. +Hell DR J. BEAUMONT, ii. +HEATH, ROBERT ii. +HEADLEY, HENRY iii. +Holy Sonnets, DONNE, i. +Housewifely Physic, TUSSER, i. +HUME, ALEXANDER, i. + +Image of Death, SOUTHWELL, i. +Imperial Rome Personified, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Imitation of Thomson, ISAAC BROWNE, iii. +Imitation of Pope, ISAAC BBOWNE, iii. +Imitation of Swift, ISAAC BROWNE, iii. +Instability of Human Greatness, P. FLETCHER, i. +Introduction to the Poem on the Soul of Man, DAVIES, i. +Invitation to Izaak Walton, COTTON, ii. +In praise of the renowned Lady Anne, Countess + of Warwick, TURBERVILLE, i. +Isaac's Marriage, VAUGHAN, ii. + +JAGO, REV. RICHARD, iii. +JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND, i. +Jacob's Pillow and Pillar, VAUGHAN, ii. +Jephthah's Daughter, HERRICK, ii. +JOHN THE CHAPLAIN, i. +JONSON, BEN, i. +JONES, SIR WILLIAM, iii. +Joseph's Dream, DE BEAUMONT, ii. +Journey into France, CORBET, i. + +KAY, JOHN, i. +Kenrick--translated from the Saxon, CHATTERTON, iii. +KING, DE HENRY, ii. + +La Belle Confidante, STANLEY, ii. +LANGHORNE, JOHN, iii. +Life, COWLEY, ii. +Life, KING, ii. +Lines addressed to Pope, LEWIS, iii. +LLOYD, ROBERT, iii. +Lochaber no more, RAMSAY, iii. +LOGAN, JOHN, iii. +London Lyckpenny, The LYDGATE, i. +Look Home, SOUTHWELL, i. +Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i. +Love admits no Rival, RALEIGH, i. +Love's Darts, CARTWRIGHT, i. +LOVELACE, RICHARD, ii. +Love-Sick, VAUGHAN, ii. +LOVIBOND, EDWARD, iii. +LOWE, JOHN, iii. +LYDGATE, JOHN, i. +LYNDSAY, SIR DAVID, i. +LYTTELTON, LORD, iii. + +MACPHERSON, JAMES iii. +MAITLAND, SIR RICHARD, OF LETHINGTON i. +MALLETT, DAVID iii. +Man's Fall and Recovery VAUGHAN, ii. +Marriage of Christ and the Church P. FLETCHER, i. +MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE ii. +Mary's Dream LOWE, iii. +MARVELL, ANDREW ii. +MASON, WILLIAM iii. +May-Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen CUNNINGHAM, iii. +Meldrum's Duel with the English Champion + Talbert LYNDSAY, i. +Melancholy described by Mirth DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii. +Melancholy describing herself DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii. +MERRICK, JAMES iii. +MESTON, WILLIAM iii. +MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS iii. +Misery VAUGHAN, ii. +MONTGOMERY, ALEXANDER i. +MOORE, EDWARD iii. +MOORE, SIR JOHN HENRY iii. +MORE, DR HENRY ii. +Morning in May DOUGLAS, i. +Moral Reflections on the Wind TUSSER, i. +Mount of Olives VAUGHAN, ii. +My Mind to me a Kingdom is ii. + +Note on Anacreon STANLEY ii. +NUGENT, LORD (ROBERT CRAGGS) iii. + +Oberon's Palace HERRICK, ii. +Oberon's Feast HERRICK, ii. +OCCLEVE, THOMAS i. +Ode to Solitude GRAINGER, iii. +Ode on hearing the Drum JOHN SCOTT, iii. +Ode to Mankind NUGENT, iii. +Ode to Aurora BLACKLOCK, iii. +Ode to Fancy JOSEPH WARTON, iii. +Ode to a Tobacco-pipe iii. +Of Wit COWLEY, ii. +Of Solitude COWLEY, ii. +OLDYS, WILLIAM iii. +On Tombs in Westminster BEAUMONT, i. +On Man's Resemblance to God DU BARTAS, i. +On the Portrait of Shakspeare JONSON, i. +On Melancholy BURTON, i. +On the Death of Sir Bevil Granville CARTWRIGHT, i. +On the Praise of Poetry COWLEY, ii. +On Paradise Lost MARVELL, ii. +Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i. + +On a Charnel-house, VAUGHAN, ii. +On Gombauld's 'Endymion,' VAUGHAN, ii. +On Poetry, SWIFT, iii. +On the Death of Dr Swift, SWIFT, iii. +Opening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia,' DR MORE, ii. +Ossian's Address to the Sun, MACPHERSON, iii. + +Palm-Sunday, VAUGHAN, ii. +Paradise, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +PENROSE, THOMAS, iii. +Persuasions to Love, CAREW, i. +PHILIPS, AMBROSE, iii. +PHILIPS, JOHN, iii. +PHILLIPS, CATHERINE, ii. +Picture of the Town, VAUGHAN, ii. +POMFRET, JOHN, iii. +POPE, DR WALTER, iii. +Power of Genius over Envy, W. BROWNE, i. +Priestess of Diana, CHALKHILL, ii. +Protest of Love, HEATH, ii. +Providence, VAUGHAN, ii. +Psalm CIV., VAUGHAN, ii. + +RALEIGH, SIR WALTER, i. +RAMSAY, ALLAN, iii. +RANDOLPH, THOMAS, i. +Regeneration, VAUGHAN, ii. +Repentance, VAUGHAN, ii. +Resurrection and Immortality, VAUGHAN, ii. +Richard II. the Morning before his Murder + in Pomfret Castle, DANIEL, i. +Richard Bentley's Sole Poetical Composition, iii. +Righteousness, VAUGHAN, ii. +Rinaldo at Mount Olivet, FAIRFAX, i. +ROBERTS, WILLIAM HAYWARD, iii. +ROSCOMMON, THE EARL OF, ii. +ROSS, ALEXANDER, iii. +Rules and Lessons, VAUGHAN, ii. + +SACKVILLE, THOMAS, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET, i. +SACKVILLE, CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET, iii. +Sally in our Alley, CAREY, iii. +Satire I., HALL, ii. +Satire VII., HALL, ii. +Satire on Holland, MARVELL, ii. +SAVAGE, RICHARD, iii. +SCOTT, JOHN, iii. +SCOTT, THOMAS, iii. +Selections from Sonnets, DANIEL, i. +SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES, iii. +SEWELL, DR GEORGE, iii. +SHAW, CUTHBERT, iii. +Sic Vita, KING, ii. +SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP, i. +SKELTON, JOHN, i. +SMART, CHRISTOPHER, iii. +Song of Sorceress seeking to Tempt + Jesus, G. FLETCHER, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, SUCKLING, i. +Song, SUCKLING, i. +Song, W. BROWNE, i. +Song, W. BROWNE, i. +Song to Althea from Prison, LOVELACE, ii. +Song, LOVELACE, ii. +Song, HERRICK, ii. +Song, KING, ii. +Song, WILMOT, ii. +Song, WILMOT, ii. +Song, C. SACKVILLE, iii. +Song, SEDLEY, iii. +Song to David, SMART, iii. +Song, ANONYMOUS, iii. +Sonnet on Isabella Markham, HARRINGTON, i. +Sonnet, WATSON, i. +Sonnet, ALEXANDER, i. +Sonnets, SIDNEY, i. +Sonnets, DRUMMOND, i. +Soul compared to a Lantern, DR H. MORE, ii. +SOUTHWELL, EGBERT, i. +Spiritual Poems, DRUMMOND, i. +Spirituality of the Soul, DAVIES, i. +St Mary Magdalene, VAUGHAN, ii. +STANLEY, THOMAS, ii. +STEVENS, GEORGE ALEXANDER, iii. +STORRER, THOMAS, i. +SUCKLING, SIR JOHN, i. +Supplication in Contemption of Side-tails, LYNDSAY, i. +SYLVESTER, JOSHUA, i. +SWIFT, JONATHAN, iii. +SCOTT, ALEXANDER, i. + +That all things sometimes find Ease of their + Pain save only the Lover, UNKNOWN, i. +Thanks for a Summer's Day, HUME, i. +The Angler's Wish, WALTON, ii. +The Author's Picture BLACKLOCK, iii. +The Birks of Invermay MALLETT, iii. +The Bastard SAVAGE, iii. +The Braes of Yarrow HAMILTON, iii. +The Bush aboon Traquair CRAWFORD, iii. +The Brown Jug FAWKES, iii. +The Cave MACPHERSON, iii. +The Choice POMFRET, iii. +The Chameleon MERRICK, iii. +The Chariot of the Sun DU BARTAS, i. +The Chariot of the Sun GOWER, i. +The Chronicle: A Ballad COWLEY, ii. +The Country's Recreations RALEIGH, i. +The Country Life HERRICK, ii. +The Complaint COWLEY, ii. +The Constellation VAUGHAN, ii. +The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell DUNBAR, i. +The Dawning VAUGHAN, ii. +The Death of Wallace BLIND HARRY, i. +The Despair COWLEY, ii. +The Dispensary GARTH, iii. +The Emigrants MARVELL, ii. +The Farmer's Ingle FERGUSSON, iii. +The Feast VAUGHAN, ii. +The Flowers of the Forest MISS ELLIOT, iii. +The Same MRS COCKBURN, iii. +The Fairy Queen ii. +The Garland VAUGHAN, ii. +The Garment of Good Ladies HENRYSON, i. +The Golden Age VAUGHAN, ii. +The Inquiry C. PHILLIPS, ii. +The Jews VAUGHAN, ii. +The Kiss: A Dialogue HERRICK, ii. +The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse BLACKSTONE, iii. +The Last Time I came o'er the Moor RAMSAY, iii. +The Loss STANLEY, ii. +The Lovers LOGAN, iii. +The Mad Maid's Song HERRICK, ii. +The Mariner's Wife MICKLE, iii. +The Merle and the Nightingale DUNBAR, i. +The Miseries of a Poet's Life LLOYD, iii. +The Motto--'Tentanda via est,' &c. COWLEY, ii. +The Nativity G. FLETCHER, i. +The Nabob BLAMIRE, iii. +The Nymph complaining of the Death of her Fawn MARVELL, ii. +The Nymphs to their May Queen WATSON, i. +The Old Bachelor, ANONYMOUS, iii. +The Old and Young Courtier, ii. +The Palm-Tree, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Passion, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Picture of the Body, JONSON, i. +The Plagues of Egypt, COWLEY, ii. +The Praise of Woman, RANDOLPH, i. +The Progress of the Soul, DONNE, i. +The Rainbow, VAUGHAN, ii. +The River Forth Feasting, DRUMMOND, i. +The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow, A. ROSS, iii. +The Rose, WATTS, iii. +The Seed growing secretly (Mark iv. 26), VAUGHAN, ii. +The Search, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Self-subsistence of the Soul, DAVIES, i. +The Shepherd's Resolution, WITHER, ii. +The Steadfast Shepherd, WITHER, ii. +The Silent Lover, RALEIGH, i. +The Sluggard, WATTS, iii. +The Shower, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Story of William Canynge, CHATTERTON, iii. +The Splendid Shilling, J. PHILIPS, iii. +The Spring: A Sonnet from the Spanish, FANSHAWE, ii. +The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets, &c., GOWER, i. +The Tears of Old May-day, LOVIBOND, iii. +The Tempest, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Tempestuous Evening: An Ode, J. SCOTT, iii. +The Timber, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Waterfall, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Wish, COWLEY, ii. +The World, VAUGHAN, ii. +Thealma: A Deserted Shepherdess, CHALKHILL, ii. +Thealma in Full Dress, CHALKHILL, ii. +There is a Garden in her Face, ii. +TICKELL, THOMAS, iii. +Times go by Turns, SOUTHWELL, i. +THOMPSON, EDWARD, iii. +Thoughts in a Garden, MARVELL, ii. +To a Lady admiring herself in a + Looking-glass, RANDOLPH, i. +To a very young Lady, SEDLEY, iii. +To Ben Jonson, BEAUMONT, i. +To Blossoms, HERRICK, ii. +To Clarastella, HEATH, ii. +To Daffodils, HERRICK, ii. +To his noblest Friend, J. C., Esq., HABINGTON, ii. +To my Mistress, sitting by a River's side, CAREW, i. +To my Picture, RANDOLPH, i. +To Mrs Bishop, BISHOP, iii. +To the Same BISHOP, iii. +To Penshurst JONSON, i. +To Primroses HERRICK, ii. +To Religion SYLVESTER, i. +To the Cuckoo BRUCE, iii. +To the Rev. J. Howe WATTS, iii. +To the Memory of my beloved Master, William + Shakspeare, and what he left us JONSON, i. +To the Memory of his Wife DR BEAUMONT, ii. +To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr + Addison TICKELL, iii. +TUSSER, THOMAS i. +TURBERVILLE, THOMAS i. + +UNKNOWN i. +Upon the Shortness of Man's Life COWLEY, ii. + +VANBRUGH, SIR JOHN iii. +Variety WHITEHEAD, iii. +VAUX, THOMAS, LORD i. +VAUGHAN, HENRY ii. +VERE, EDWARD i. +Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden HARRINGTON, i. +Verses written after seeing Windsor Castle T. WARTON, iii. +Verses ANONYMOUS, iii. + +WALSH iii. +WALTON, IZAAK ii. +WARD, EDWARD iii. +WARTON, THOMAS, THE ELDER iii. +WARTON, JOSEPH iii. +WATSON, THOMAS i. +WATTS, ISAAC iii. +WEEKES, JAMES EYRE iii. +WEST, RICHARD iii. +What is Love? HEATH, ii. +What Ails this Heart o' mine? BLAMIRE, iii. +WHITEHEAD, WILLIAM iii. +WILMOT, JOHN, EARL OF ROCHESTER ii. +William and Margaret MALLETT, iii. +WITHER, GEORGE ii. +Woo'd, and Married, and a' A. ROSS, iii. +WOTTON, SIR HENRY i. +Written on a Visit to the Country in Autumn LOGAN, iii. +WYNTOUN, ANDREW i. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the +Less-known British Poets, Vol. 3, by George Gilfillan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL 3 *** + +***** This file should be named 9669-8.txt or 9669-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/6/6/9669/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/9669-8.zip b/9669-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0533eb0 --- /dev/null +++ b/9669-8.zip diff --git a/9669.txt b/9669.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fcd2c0f --- /dev/null +++ b/9669.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13392 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known +British Poets, Vol. 3, by George Gilfillan + +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: Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 3 + +Author: George Gilfillan + +Posting Date: November 25, 2011 [EBook #9669] +Release Date: January, 2006 +First Posted: October 14, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + + +SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. + +With an Introductory Essay, + +By + +THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN. + +IN THREE VOLS. + +VOL. III. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +THIRD PERIOD--FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER. + + +SIR CHARLES SEDLEY + To a very young Lady + Song + +JOHN POMFRET + The Choice + +THE EARL OF DORSET + Song + +JOHN PHILIPS + The Splendid Shilling + +WALSH, GOULD, &c. + +SIR SAMUEL GARTH + The Dispensary + +SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE + Creation + +ELIJAH FENTON + An Ode to the Right Hon. John Lord Gower + +ROBERT CRAWFORD + The Bush aboon Traquair + +THOMAS TICKELL + To the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr Addison + +JAMES HAMMOND + Elegy XIII + +SEWELL, VANBRUGH, &c. + +RICHARD SAVAGE + The Bastard + +THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER + An American Love Ode + +JONATHAN SWIFT + Baucis and Philemon + On Poetry + On the Death of Dr Swift + A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the Legion-Club,1736 + +ISAAC WATTS + Few Happy Matches + The Sluggard + The Rose + A Cradle Hymn + Breathing toward the Heavenly Country + To the Rev. Mr John Howe + +AMBROSE PHILIPS + A Fragment of Sappho + +WILLIAM HAMILTON + The Braes of Yarrow + +ALLAN RAMSAY + Lochaber no more + Tho Last Time I came o'er the Moor + From 'The Gentle Shepherd'--Act I., Scene II. + +DODSLEY, BROWN, &c + +ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE + Imitation of Thomson + Imitation of Pope + Imitation of Swift + +WILLIAM OLDYS + Song, occasioned by a Fly drinking out of a Cup of Ale + +ROBERT LLOYD + The Miseries of a Poet's Life + +HENRY CAREY + Sally in our Alley + +DAVID MALLETT + William and Margaret + The Birks of Invermay + +JAMES MERRICK + The Chameleon + +DR JAMES GRAINGER + Ode to Solitude + +MICHAEL BRUCE + To the Cuckoo + Elegy, written in Spring + +CHRISTOPHER SMART + Song to David + +THOMAS CHATTERTON + Bristowe Tragedy + Minstrel's Song + The Story of William Canynge + Kenrick + February, an Elegy + +LORD LYTTELTON + From the 'Monody' + +JOHN CUNNINGHAM + May-eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen + +ROBERT FERGUSSON + The Farmer's Ingle + +DR WALTER HARTE + +EDWARD LOVIBOND + The Tears of Old May-Day + +FRANCIS FAWKES + The Brown Jug + +JOHN LANGHORNE + From 'The Country Justice' + Gipsies + A Case where Mercy should have mitigated Justice + +SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE + The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse + +JOHN SCOTT + Ode on hearing the Drum + The Tempestuous Evening + +ALEXANDER ROSS + Woo'd, and Married, and a' + The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow + +RICHARD GLOVER + From 'Leonidas,' Book XII + Admiral Hosier's Ghost + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + Variety + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE + Cumnor Hall + The Mariner's Wife + +LORD NUGENT + Ode to Mankind + +JOHN LOGAN + The Lovers + Written in a Visit to the Country in Autumn + Complaint of Nature + +THOMAS BLACKLOCK + The Author's Picture + Ode to Aurora, on Melissa's Birthday + +MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN + The Flowers of the Forest + The Same + +SIR WILLIAM JONES + A Persian Song of Hafiz + +SAMUEL BISHOP + To Mrs Bishop + To the Same + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE + The Nabob + What Ails this Heart o' mine? + +JAMES MACPHERSON + Ossian's Address to the Sun + Desolation of Balclutha + Fingal and the Spirit of Loda + Address to the Moon + Fingal's Spirit-home + The Cave + +WILLIAM MASON + Epitaph on Mrs Mason + An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers + +JOHN LOWE + Mary's Dream + +JOSEPH WARTON + Ode to Fancy + +MISCELLANEOUS + Song + Verses, copied from the Window of an obscure Lodging-house, in the + neighbourhood of London + The Old Bachelor + Careless Content + A Pastoral + Ode to a Tobacco-pipe + Away! let nought to Love displeasing + Richard Bentley's sole Poetical Composition + Lines addressed to Pope + +INDEX + + + + +SPECIMENS, WITH MEMOIRS, OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. + + * * * * * + +THIRD PERIOD. + +FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER. + + * * * * * + + + +SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. + + +Sedley was one of those characters who exert a personal fascination over +their own age without leaving any works behind them to perpetuate the +charm to posterity. He was the son of Sir John Sedley of Aylesford, in +Kent, and was born in 1639. When the Restoration took place he repaired +to London, and plunged into all the licence of the time, shedding, +however, over the putrid pool the sheen of his wit, manners, and genius. +Charles was so delighted with him, that he is said to have asked him +whether he had not obtained a patent from Nature to be Apollo's viceroy. +He cracked jests, issued lampoons, wrote poems and plays, and, despite +some great blunders, was universally admired and loved. When his comedy +of 'Bellamira' was acted, the roof fell in, and a few, including the +author, were slightly injured. When a parasite told him that the fire of +the play had blown up the poet, house and all, Sedley replied, 'No; the +play was so heavy that it broke down the house, and buried the poet in +his own rubbish.' Latterly he sobered down, entered parliament, attended +closely to public business, and became a determined opponent of the +arbitrary measures of James II. To this he was stimulated by a personal +reason. James had seduced Sedley's daughter, and made her Countess of +Dorchester. 'For making my daughter a countess,' the father said, 'I +have helped to make his daughter' (Mary, Princess of Orange,) 'a queen.' +Sedley, thus talking, acting, and writing, lived on till he was sixty- +two years of age. He died in 1701. + +He has left nothing that the world can cherish, except such light and +graceful songs, sparkling rather with point than with poetry, as we +quote below. + + +TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. + +1 Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit + As unconcerned, as when + Your infant beauty could beget + No pleasure, nor no pain. + +2 When I the dawn used to admire, + And praised the coming day; + I little thought the growing fire + Must take my rest away. + +3 Your charms in harmless childhood lay, + Like metals in the mine, + Age from no face took more away, + Than youth concealed in thine. + +4 But as your charms insensibly + To their perfection pressed, + Fond Love as unperceived did fly, + And in my bosom rest. + +5 My passion with your beauty grew, + And Cupid at my heart, + Still as his mother favoured you, + Threw a new flaming dart. + +6 Each gloried in their wanton part, + To make a lover, he + Employed the utmost of his art, + To make a Beauty, she. + +7 Though now I slowly bend to love, + Uncertain of my fate, + If your fair self my chains approve, + I shall my freedom hate. + +8 Lovers, like dying men, may well + At first disordered be, + Since none alive can truly tell + What fortune they must see. + + +SONG. + +1 Love still has something of the sea, + From whence his mother rose; + No time his slaves from doubt can free, + Nor give their thoughts repose. + +2 They are becalmed in clearest days, + And in rough weather tossed; + They wither under cold delays, + Or are in tempests lost. + +3 One while they seem to touch the port, + Then straight into the main + Some angry wind, in cruel sport, + The vessel drives again. + +4 At first Disdain and Pride they fear, + Which if they chance to 'scape, + Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, + In a more cruel shape. + +5 By such degrees to joy they come, + And are so long withstood; + So slowly they receive the sum, + It hardly does them good. + +6 'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; + And to defer a joy, + Believe me, gentle Celemene, + Offends the winged boy. + +7 An hundred thousand oaths your fears, + Perhaps, would not remove; + And if I gazed a thousand years, + I could not deeper love. + + + + +JOHN POMFRET, + + +The author of the once popular 'Choice,' was born in 1667. He was the +son of the rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire, and, after attending +Queen's College, Cambridge, himself entered the Church. He became +minister of Malden, which is also situated in Bedfordshire, and there he +wrote and, in 1699, published a volume of poems, including some Pindaric +essays, in the style of Cowley and 'The Choice.' He might have risen +higher in his profession, but Dr Compton, Bishop of London, was +prejudiced against him on account of the following lines in the +'Choice:'-- + + 'And as I near approached the verge of life, + Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) + Should take upon him all my worldly care, + Whilst I did for a better state prepare.' + +The words in the second line, coupled with a glowing description, in a +previous part of the poem, of his ideal of an 'obliging modest fair' +one, near whom he wished to live, led to the suspicion that he preferred +a mistress to a wife. In vain did he plead that he was actually a +married man. His suit for a better living made no progress, and while +dancing attendance on his patron in London he caught small-pox, and died +in 1703, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. + +His Pindaric odes, &c., are feeble spasms, and need not detain us. His +'Reason' shews considerable capacity and common sense. His 'Choice' +opens up a pleasing vista, down which our quiet ancestors delighted to +look, but by which few now can be attracted. We quote a portion of what +a biographer calls a 'modest' preface, which Pomfret prefixed to his +poems:--'To please every one would be a new thing, and to write so as to +please nobody would be as new; for even Quarles and Withers have their +admirers. It is not the multitude of applauses, but the good sense of +the applauders which establishes a valuable reputation; and if a Rymer +or a Congreve say it is well, he will not be at all solicitous how great +the majority be to the contrary.' How strangely are opinions now +altered! Rymer was some time ago characterised by Macaulay as the worst +critic that ever lived, and Quarles and Withers have now many admirers, +while 'The Choice' and its ill-fated author are nearly forgotten. + + +THE CHOICE. + +If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, +That I might choose my method how to live, +And all those hours propitious fate should lend, +In blissful ease and satisfaction spend, +Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, +Built uniform, not little, nor too great: +Better, if on a rising ground it stood, +On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. +It should within no other things contain, +But what are useful, necessary, plain: +Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, +The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. +A little garden, grateful to the eye; +And a cool rivulet run murmuring by, +On whose delicious banks, a stately row +Of shady limes or sycamores should grow. +At the end of which a silent study placed, +Should be with all the noblest authors graced: +Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines +Immortal wit and solid learning shines; +Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too, +Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew; +He that with judgment reads his charming lines, +In which strong art with stronger nature joins, +Must grant his fancy does the best excel; +His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well; +With all those moderns, men of steady sense, +Esteemed for learning and for eloquence. +In some of these, as fancy should advise, +I'd always take my morning exercise; +For sure no minutes bring us more content, +Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent. +I'd have a clear and competent estate, +That I might live genteelly, but not great; +As much as I could moderately spend, +A little more sometimes t' oblige a friend. +Nor should the sons of poverty repine +Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine; +And all that objects of true pity were, +Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; +For that our Maker has too largely given, +Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven. + + + + +THE EARL OF DORSET. + + +This noble earl was rather a patron of poets than a poet, and possessed +more wit than genius. Charles Sackville was born on the 24th January +1637. He was descended directly from the famous Thomas, Lord Buckhurst. +He was educated under a private tutor, travelled in Italy, and returned +in time to witness the Restoration. In the first parliament thereafter, +he sat for East Grinstead, in Surrey, and might have distinguished +himself, had he not determined, in common with almost all the wits of +the time, to run a preliminary career of dissipation. What a proof of +the licentiousness of these times is to be found in the fact, that young +Lord Buckhurst, Sir Charles Sedley, and Sir Thomas Ogle were fined for +exposing themselves, drunk and naked, in indecent postures on the public +street! In 1665, the erratic energies of Buckhurst found a more +legitimate vent in the Dutch war. He attended the Duke of York in the +great sea-fight of the 3d June, in which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was, +with all his crew, blown up. He is said to have composed the song, +quoted afterwards, 'To all you ladies now at land,' on the evening +before the battle, although Dr Johnson (who observes that seldom any +splendid story is wholly true) maintains that its composition cost him +a whole week, and that he only retouched it on that remarkable evening. +Buckhurst was soon after made a gentleman of the bed-chamber, and +despatched on short embassies to France. In 1674, his uncle, James +Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex, died, and left him his estate, and +the next year the title, too, was conferred on him. In 1677, he became, +by the death of his father, Earl of Dorset, and inherited the family +estate. In 1684, his wife, whose name was Bagot, and by whom he had no +children, died, and he soon after married a daughter of the Earl of +Northampton, who is said to have been celebrated both for understanding +and beauty. Dorset was courted by James, but found it impossible to +coincide with his violent measures, and when the bishops were tried +at Westminster Hall, he, along with some other lords, appeared to +countenance them. He concurred with the Revolution settlement, and, +after William's accession, was created lord chamberlain of the +household, and received the Order of the Garter. His attendance on the +king, however, eventually cost him his life, for having been tossed with +him in an open boat on the coast of Holland for sixteen hours, in very +rough weather, he caught an illness from which he never recovered. On +19th January 1705-6, he died at Bath. + +During his life, Dorset was munificent in his kindness to such men of +genius as Prior and Dryden, who repaid him in the current coin of the +poor Parnassus of their day--gross adulation. He is now remembered +mainly for his spirited war-song, and for such pointed lines in his +satire on Edward Howard, the notorious author of 'British Princes,' as +the following:-- + + 'They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren, + When deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion; + Thy stumbling, foundered jade can trot as high + As any other Pegasus can fly. + So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud + Than all the swift-finned racers of the flood. + As skilful divers to the bottom fall + Sooner than those who cannot swim at all, + So in this way of writing without thinking, + Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking.' + +This last line has not only become proverbial, but forms the distinct +germ of 'The Dunciad.' + + +SONG. + +WRITTEN AT SEA, IN THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, +THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. + +1 To all you ladies now at land, + We men at sea indite; + But first would have you understand + How hard it is to write; + The Muses now, and Neptune too, + We must implore to write to you, + With a fa, la, la, la, la. + +2 For though the Muses should prove kind, + And fill our empty brain; + Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, + To wave the azure main, + Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, + Roll up and down our ships at sea. + With a fa, &c. + +3 Then if we write not by each post, + Think not we are unkind; + Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, + By Dutchmen, or by wind; + Our tears we'll send a speedier way, + The tide shall bring them twice a-day. + With a fa, &c. + +4 The king, with wonder and surprise, + Will swear the seas grow bold; + Because the tides will higher rise + Than e'er they used of old: + But let him know, it is our tears + Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. + With a fa, &c. + +5 Should foggy Opdam chance to know + Our sad and dismal story, + The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, + And quit their fort at Goree: + For what resistance can they find + From men who've left their hearts behind? + With a fa, &c. + +6 Let wind and weather do its worst, + Be you to us but kind; + Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, + No sorrow we shall find: + 'Tis then no matter how things go, + Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. + With a fa, &c. + +7 To pass our tedious hours away, + We throw a merry main; + Or else at serious ombre play: + But why should we in vain + Each other's ruin thus pursue? + We were undone when we left you. + With a fa, &c. + +8 But now our fears tempestuous grow, + And cast our hopes away; + Whilst you, regardless of our woe, + Sit careless at a play: + Perhaps, permit some happier man + To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. + With a fa, &c. + +9 When any mournful tune you hear, + That dies in every note, + As if it sighed with each man's care, + For being so remote, + Think how often love we've made + To you, when all those tunes were played. + With a fa, &c. + +10 In justice you can not refuse + To think of our distress, + When we for hopes of honour lose + Our certain happiness; + All those designs are but to prove + Ourselves more worthy of your love. + With a fa, &c. + +11 And now we've told you all our loves, + And likewise all our fears, + In hopes this declaration moves + Some pity from your tears; + Let's hear of no inconstancy, + We have too much of that at sea. + With a fa, la, la, la, la. + + + + +JOHN PHILIPS. + + +Bampton in Oxfordshire was the birthplace of this poet. He was born +on the 30th of December 1676. His father, Dr Stephen Philips, was +archdeacon of Salop, as well as minister of Bampton. John, after some +preliminary training at home, was sent to Winchester, where he +distinguished himself by diligence and good-nature, and enjoyed two +great luxuries,--the reading of Milton, and the having his head combed +by some one while he sat still and in rapture for hours together. This +pleasure he shared with Vossius, and with humbler persons of our +acquaintance; the combing of whose hair, they tell us, + + 'Dissolves them into ecstasies, + And brings all heaven before their eyes.' + +In 1694, he entered Christ Church, Cambridge. His intention was to +prosecute the study of medicine, and he took great delight in the +cognate pursuits of natural history and botany. His chief friend was +Edmund Smith, (Rag Smith, as he was generally called,) a kind of minor +Savage, well known in these times as the author of 'Phaedra and +Hippolytus,' and for his cureless dissipation. In 1703, Philips produced +'The Splendid Shilling,' which proved a hit, and seems to have diverted +his aspirations from the domains of Aesculapius to those of Apollo. +Bolingbroke sought him out, and employed him, after the battle of +Blenheim, to sing it in opposition to Addison, the laureate of the +Whigs. At the house of the magnificent but unprincipled St John, Philips +wrote his 'Blenheim,' which was published in 1705. The year after, his +'Cider,' a poem in two books, appeared, and was received with great +applause. Encouraged by this, he projected a poem on the Last Day, +which all who are aware of the difficulties of the subject, and the +limitations of the author's genius, must rejoice that he never wrote. +Consumption and asthma removed him prematurely on the 15th of February +1708, ere he had completed his thirty-third year. He was buried in +Hereford Cathedral, and Sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards Lord Chancellor, +erected a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey. + +Bulwer somewhere records a story of John Martin in his early days. He +was, on one occasion, reduced to his last shilling. He had kept it, out +of a heap, from a partiality to its appearance. It was very bright. He +was compelled, at last, to part with it. He went out to a baker's shop +to purchase a loaf with his favourite shilling. He had got the loaf into +his hands, when the baker discovered that the shilling was a bad one, +and poor Martin had to resign the loaf, and take back his dear, bright, +bad shilling once more. Length of time and cold criticism in like manner +have reduced John Philips to his solitary 'Splendid Shilling.' But, +though bright, it is far from bad. It is one of the cleverest of +parodies, and is perpetrated against one of those colossal works which +the smiles of a thousand caricatures were unable to injure. No great or +good poem was ever hurt by its parody:--the 'Paradise Lost' was not by +'The Splendid Shilling'--'The Last Man' of Campbell was not by 'The Last +Man' of Hood--nor the 'Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore' by their +witty, well-known caricature; and if 'The Vision of Judgment' by Southey +was laughed into oblivion by Byron's poem with the same title, it was +because Southey's original was neither good nor great. Philip's poem, +too, is the first of the kind; and surely we should be thankful to the +author of the earliest effort in a style which has created so much +innocent amusement. Dr Johnson speaks as if the pleasure arising from +such productions implied a malignant 'momentary triumph over that +grandeur which had hitherto held its captives in admiration.' We think, +on the contrary, that it springs from our deep interest in the original +production, making us alive to the strange resemblance the caricature +bears to it. It is our love that provokes our laughter, and hence the +admirers of the parodied poem are more delighted than its enemies. At +all events, it is by 'The Splendid Shilling' alone--and that principally +from its connexion with Milton's great work--that Philips is memorable. +His 'Cider' has soured with age, and the loud echo of his Blenheim +battle-piece has long since died away. + + +THE SPLENDID SHILLING. + + "... Sing, heavenly Muse! +Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," +A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimeras dire. + +Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, +In silken or in leathern purse retains +A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain +New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; +But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, +To Juniper's Magpie or Town-Hall[1] repairs: +Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye +Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames, +Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass +Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. +Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, +Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. +But I, whom griping Penury surrounds, +And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, +With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, +(Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: +Then solitary walk, or doze at home +In garret vile, and with a warming puff +Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black +As winter-chimney, or well-polished jet, +Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent! +Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, +Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, +Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings +Full famous in romantic tale) when he +O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, +Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, +High over-shadowing rides, with a design +To vend his wares, or at the Arvonian mart, +Or Maridunum, or the ancient town +Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream +Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! +Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie +With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. + +Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, +With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, +Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, +To my aerial citadel ascends, +With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, +With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know +The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. +What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, +Confounded, to the dark recess I fly +Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect +Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews +My shuddering limbs, and, wonderful to tell! +My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; +So horrible he seems! His faded brow, +Entrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, +And spreading band, admired by modern saints, +Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand +Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, +With characters and figures dire inscribed, +Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods, avert +Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks +Another monster, not unlike himself, +Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called +A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, +With force incredible, and magic charms, +Erst have endued; if he his ample palm +Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay +Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch +Obsequious, as whilom knights were wont, +To some enchanted castle is conveyed, +Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, +In durance strict detain him, till, in form +Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. + +Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk, beware, +Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken +The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft +Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, +Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch +With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) +Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn +An everlasting foe, with watchful eye +Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, +Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice +Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web +Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads +Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands +Within her woven cell; the humming prey, +Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils +Inextricable, nor will aught avail +Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; +The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, +And butterfly, proud of expanded wings +Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, +Useless resistance make: with eager strides, +She towering flies to her expected spoils; +Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood +Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave +Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. + +So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades +This world envelop, and the inclement air +Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts +With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; +Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light +Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk +Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, +Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, +Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts +My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse +Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, +Or desperate lady near a purling stream, +Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. +Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, +And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat +Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: +But if a slumber haply does invade +My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, +Thoughtful of drink, and, eager, in a dream, +Tipples imaginary pots of ale, +In vain; awake I find the settled thirst +Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. + +Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, +Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays +Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, +Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, +Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; +Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: +My galligaskins, that have long withstood +The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, +By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) +An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice +Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds +Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force +Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, +Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, +Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, +Long sailed secure, or through the Aegean deep, +Or the Ionian, till cruising near +The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush +On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) +She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, +So fierce a shock unable to withstand, +Admits the sea; in at the gaping side +The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, +Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize +The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, +They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray; +Vain efforts! still the battering waves rush in, +Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, +The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. + +[1]'Magpie or Town-hall:' two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700. + + + + +We may here mention a name or two of poets from whose verses we can +afford no extracts,--such as Walsh, called by Pope 'knowing Walsh,' +a man of some critical discernment, if not of much genius; Gould, a +domestic of the Earl of Dorset, and afterwards a schoolmaster, from whom +Campbell quotes one or two tolerable songs; and Dr Walter Pope, a man of +wit and knowledge, who was junior proctor of Oxford, one of the first +chosen fellows of the Royal Society, and who succeeded Sir Christopher +Wren as professor of astronomy in Gresham College. He is the author of +a comico-serious song of some merit, entitled 'The Old Man's Wish.' + + + + +SIR SAMUEL GARTH. + + +Of Garth little is known, save that he was an eminent physician, a +scholar, a man of benevolence, a keen Whig, and yet an admirer of old +Dryden, and a patron of young Pope--a friend of Addison, and the author +of the 'Dispensary.' The College of Physicians had instituted a +dispensary, for the purpose of furnishing the poor with medicines +gratis. This measure was opposed by the apothecaries, who had an obvious +interest in the sale of drugs; and to ridicule their selfishness Garth +wrote his poem, which is mock-heroic, in six cantos, copied in form from +the 'Lutrin,' and which, though ingenious and elaborate, seems now +tedious, and on the whole uninteresting. It appeared in 1696, and the +author died in 1718. We extract some of the opening lines of the first +canto of the poem. + + +THE DISPENSARY. + +Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell +How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; +And why physicans were so cautious grown +Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; +How by a journey to the Elysian plain +Peace triumphed, and old Time returned again. +Not far from that most celebrated place, +Where angry Justice shows her awful face; +Where little villains must submit to fate, +That great ones may enjoy the world in state; +There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, +And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; +A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, +Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill: +This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, +Raised for a use as noble as its frame; +Nor did the learn'd society decline +The propagation of that great design; +In all her mazes, nature's face they viewed, +And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. +Wrapped in the shade of night the goddess lies, +Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, +But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. +Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife +Of infant atoms kindling into life; +How ductile matter new meanders takes, +And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; +And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, +By just degrees to harden into bone; +While the more loose flow from the vital urn, +And in full tides of purple streams return; +How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, +And dart in emanations through the eyes; +How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, +To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; +Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; +How great their force, how delicate their frame; +How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain +The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; +Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, +And floods of chyle in silver currents run; +How the dim speck of entity began +To extend its recent form, and stretch to man; +To how minute an origin we owe +Young Ammon, Caesar, and the great Nassau; +Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim, +And why chill virgins redden into flame; +Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise, +And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes; +All ice, why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire; +Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire; +When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown, +Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; +How matter, by the varied shape of pores, +Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. + +Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, +How body acts upon impassive mind; +How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, +Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; +Why our complexions oft our soul declare, +And how the passions in the features are; +How touch and harmony arise between +Corporeal figure, and a form unseen; +How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, +And act at every summons of the will. +With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, +Which in the womb of distant causes lie. + +But now no grand inquiries are descried, +Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside, +Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside. +Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, +And for important nothings show a zeal: +The drooping sciences neglected pine, +And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. +No readers here with hectic looks are found, +Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching, drowned; +The lonely edifice in sweats complains +That nothing there but sullen silence reigns. + +This place, so fit for undisturbed repose, +The god of sloth for his asylum chose; +Upon a couch of down in these abodes, +Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods; +Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, +With murmurs of soft rills and whispering trees: +The poppy and each numbing plant dispense +Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence; +No passions interrupt his easy reign, +No problems puzzle his lethargic brain; +But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed, +And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head. + + + + +SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE. + + +Our next name is that of one who, like the former, was a knight, a +physician, and (in a manner) a poet. Blackmore was the son of Robert +Blackmore of Corsham, in Wiltshire, who is styled by Wood _gentleman_, +and is believed to have been an attorney. He took his degree of M.A. at +Oxford, in June 1676. He afterwards travelled, was made Doctor of Physic +at Padua, and, when he returned home, began to practise in London with +great success. In 1695, he tried his hand at poetry, producing an epic +entitled 'King Arthur,' which was followed by a series on 'King Alfred,' +'Queen Elizabeth,' 'Redemption,' 'The Creation,' &c. Some of these +productions were popular; one, 'The Creation,' has been highly praised +by Dr Johnson; but most of them were heavy. Matthew Henry has preserved +portions in his valuable Commentary. Blackmore, a man of excellent +character and of extensive medical practice, was yet the laughingstock +of the wits, perhaps as much for his piety as for his prosiness. Old, +rich, and highly respected, he died on the 8th of October 1729, while +some of his poetic persecutors came to a disgraceful or an early end. + +We quote the satire of John Gay, as one of the cleverest and best +conditioned, although one of the coarsest of the attacks made on poor +Sir Richard:-- + + +VERSES TO BE PLACED UNDER THE PICTURE OF SIR R. BLACKMORE, +CONTAINING A COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF HIS WORKS. + +See who ne'er was, nor will be half read, +Who first sang Arthur, then sang Alfred; +Praised great Eliza in God's anger, +Till all true Englishmen cried, Hang her; +Mauled human wit in one thick satire, +Next in three books spoiled human nature; +Undid Creation at a jerk, +And of Redemption made ---- work; +Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her +Full in the middle of the Scripture; +What wonders there the man grown old did, +Sternhold himself he out Sternholded; +Made David seem so mad and freakish, +All thought him just what thought King Achish; +No mortal read his Solomon +But judged Reboam his own son; +Moses he served as Moses Pharaoh, +And Deborah as she Sisera; +Made Jeremy full sore to cry, +And Job himself curse God and die. + +What punishment all this must follow? +Shall Arthur use him like King Tollo? +Shall David as Uriah slay him? +Or dext'rous Deborah Sisera him? +Or shall Eliza lay a plot +To treat him like her sister Scot? +No, none of these; Heaven save his life, +But send him, honest Job, thy wife! + + +CREATION. + +No more of courts, of triumphs, or of arms, +No more of valour's force, or beauty's charms; +The themes of vulgar lays, with just disdain, +I leave unsung, the flocks, the amorous swain, +The pleasures of the land, and terrors of the main. +How abject, how inglorious 'tis to lie +Grovelling in dust and darkness, when on high +Empires immense and rolling worlds of light, +To range their heavenly scenes the muse invite; +I meditate to soar above the skies, +To heights unknown, through ways untried, to rise; +I would the Eternal from his works assert, +And sing the wonders of creating art. +While I this unexampled task essay, +Pass awful gulfs, and beat my painful way, +Celestial Dove! divine assistance bring, +Sustain me on thy strong extended wing, +That I may reach the Almighty's sacred throne, +And make his causeless power, the cause of all things, known. +Thou dost the full extent of nature see, +And the wide realms of vast immensity; +Eternal Wisdom thou dost comprehend, +Rise to her heights, and to her depths descend; +The Father's sacred counsels thou canst tell, +Who in his bosom didst for ever dwell; +Thou on the deep's dark face, immortal Dove! +Thou with Almighty energy didst move +On the wild waves, incumbent didst display +Thy genial wings, and hatch primeval day. +Order from thee, from thee distinction came, +And all the beauties of the wondrous frame. +Hence stamped on nature we perfection find, +Fair as the idea in the Eternal Mind. +See, through this vast extended theatre +Of skill divine, what shining marks appear! +Creating power is all around expressed, +The God discovered, and his care confessed. +Nature's high birth her heavenly beauties show; +By every feature we the parent know. +The expanded spheres, amazing to the sight! +Magnificent with stars and globes of light, +The glorious orbs which heaven's bright host compose, +The imprisoned sea, that restless ebbs and flows, +The fluctuating fields of liquid air, +With all the curious meteors hovering there, +And the wide regions of the land, proclaim +The Power Divine, that raised the mighty frame. +What things soe'er are to an end referred, +And in their motions still that end regard, +Always the fitness of the means respect, +These as conducive choose, and those reject, +Must by a judgment foreign and unknown +Be guided to their end, or by their own; +For to design an end, and to pursue +That end by means, and have it still in view, +Demands a conscious, wise, reflecting cause, +Which freely moves, and acts by reason's laws; +That can deliberate, means elect, and find +Their due connexion with the end designed. +And since the world's wide frame does not include +A cause with such capacities endued, +Some other cause o'er nature must preside, +Which gave her birth, and does her motions guide; +And here behold the cause, which God we name, +The source of beings, and the mind supreme; +Whose perfect wisdom, and whose prudent care, +With one confederate voice unnumbered worlds declare. + + + + +ELIJAH FENTON. + + +This author, who was very much respected by his contemporaries, and who +translated a portion of the Odyssey in conjunction with Pope, was born +May 20, 1683, at Newcastle, in Staffordshire; studied at Cambridge, +which, owing to his nonjuring principles, he had to leave without a +degree; and passed part of his life as a schoolmaster, and part of it +as secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery. By his tragedy of 'Mariamne' he +secured a moderate competence; and during his latter years, spent his +life comfortably as tutor in the house of Lady Trumbull. He died in +1730. His accomplishments were superior, and his character excellent. +Pope, who was indebted to him for the first, fourth, nineteenth, and +twentieth of the books of the Odyssey, mourns his loss in one of his +most sincere-seeming letters. Fenton edited Waller and Milton, wrote a +brief life of the latter poet,--with which most of our readers are +acquainted,--and indited some respectable verse. + + +AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER. + +WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716. + +1 O'er Winter's long inclement sway, + At length the lusty Spring prevails; + And swift to meet the smiling May, + Is wafted by the western gales. + Around him dance the rosy Hours, + And damasking the ground with flowers, + With ambient sweets perfume the morn; + With shadowy verdure flourished high, + A sudden youth the groves enjoy; + Where Philomel laments forlorn. + +2 By her awaked, the woodland choir + To hail the coming god prepares; + And tempts me to resume the lyre, + Soft warbling to the vernal airs. + Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign + For me, the meanest of your train, + Unblamed to approach your blest retreat: + Where Horace wantons at your spring, + And Pindar sweeps a bolder string; + Whose notes the Aonian hills repeat. + +3 Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, + Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; + Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, + Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; + Thither, indulgent to my prayer, + Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair, + To swell the notes I feebly raise: + So with aspiring ardours warmed + May Gower's propitious ear be charmed + To listen to my lays. + +4 Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, + Like Thracian Mars, the undaunted Swede[1] + To dint of sword defies the foe; + In fight unknowing to recede: + From Volga's banks, the imperious Czar + Leads forth his furry troops to war; + Fond of the softer southern sky: + The Soldan galls the Illyrian coast; + But soon, the miscreant Moony host + Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. + +5 But here, no clarion's shrilling note + The Muse's green retreat can pierce; + The grove, from noisy camps remote, + Is only vocal with my verse: + Here, winged with innocence and joy, + Let the soft hours that o'er me fly + Drop freedom, health, and gay desires: + While the bright Seine, to exalt the soul, + With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, + And wit and social mirth inspires. + +6 Enamoured of the Seine, celestial fair, + (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) + Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care, + Lashed his swift tigers to the Celtic plain: + There secret in her sapphire cell, + He with the Nais wont to dwell; + Leaving the nectared feasts of Jove: + And where her mazy waters flow + He gave the mantling vine to grow, + A trophy to his love. + +7 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, + With blind opinion for his guide; + And, rebel to her rightful sway, + Leave all her beauties unenjoyed? + Fool! Time no change of motion knows; + With equal speed the torrent flows, + To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: + The past is all by death possessed; + And frugal fate that guards the rest, + By giving, bids him live To-Day. + +8 O Gower! through all the destined space, + What breath the Powers allot to me + Shall sing the virtues of thy race, + United and complete in thee. + O flower of ancient English faith! + Pursue the unbeaten Patriot-path, + In which confirmed thy father shone: + The light his fair example gives, + Already from thy dawn receives + A lustre equal to its own. + +9 Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns reared, + Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume; + Loud Paeans echoing round the roof are heard + And clouds of incense all the void perfume. + There Phocion, Laelius, Capel, Hyde, + With Falkland seated near his side, + Fixed by the Muse, the temple grace; + Prophetic of thy happier fame, + She, to receive thy radiant name, + Selects a whiter space. + +[1] Charles XII. + + + +ROBERT CRAWFORD. + + +Robert Crawford, a Scotchman, is our next poet. Of him we know only that +he was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames; that he assisted +Allan Ramsay in the 'Tea-Table Miscellany;' and was drowned when coming +from France in 1733. Besides the popular song, 'The Bush aboon Traquair,' +which we quote, Crawford wrote also a lyric, called 'Tweedside,' and some +verses, mentioned by Burns, to the old tune of 'Cowdenknowes.' + + +THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. + +1 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, + I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; + Though thus I languish and complain, + Alas! she ne'er believes me. + My vows and sighs, like silent air, + Unheeded, never move her; + At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, + 'Twas there I first did love her. + +2 That day she smiled and made me glad, + No maid seemed ever kinder; + I thought myself the luckiest lad, + So sweetly there to find her; + I tried to soothe my amorous flame, + In words that I thought tender; + If more there passed, I'm not to blame-- + I meant not to offend her. + +3 Yet now she scornful flies the plain, + The fields we then frequented; + If e'er we meet she shows disdain, + She looks as ne'er acquainted. + The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, + Its sweets I'll aye remember; + But now her frowns make it decay-- + It fades as in December. + +4 Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, + Why thus should Peggy grieve me? + Oh, make her partner in my pains, + Then let her smiles relieve me! + If not, my love will turn despair, + My passion no more tender; + I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-- + To lonely wilds I'll wander. + + + + +THOMAS TICKELL. + + +Tickell is now chiefly remembered from his connexion with Addison. He +was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, near Carlisle. In April 1701, he became +a member of Queen's College in Oxford. In 1708, he was made M.A., and +two years after was chosen Fellow. He held his Fellowship till 1726, +when, marrying in Dublin, he necessarily vacated it. He attracted +Addison's attention first by some elegant lines in praise of Rosamond, +and then by the 'Prospect of Peace,' a poem in which Tickell, although +called by Swift Whiggissimus, for once took the Tory side. This poem +Addison, in spite of its politics, praised highly in the _Spectator_, +which led to a lifelong friendship between them. Tickell commenced +contributing to the _Spectator_, among other things publishing there a +poem entitled the 'Royal Progress.' Some time after, he produced a +translation of the first book of the Iliad, which Addison declared to be +superior to Pope's. This led the latter to imagine that it was Addison's +own, although it is now, we believe, certain, from the MS., which still +exists, that it was a veritable production of Tickell's. When Addison +went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied +him, and was employed in public business. When Addison became Secretary +of State, he made Tickell Under-Secretary; and when he died, he left him +the charge of publishing his works, with an earnest recommendation to +the care of Craggs. Tickell faithfully performed the task, prefixing to +them an elegy on his departed friend, which is now his own chief title +to fame. In 1725, he was made secretary to the Lords-Justices of +Ireland, a place of great trust and honour, and which he retained till +his death. This event happened at Bath, in the year 1740. + +His genius was not strong, but elegant and refined, and appears, as we +have just stated, to best advantage in his lines on Addison's death, +which are warm with genuine love, tremulous with sincere sorrow, and +shine with a sober splendour, such as Addison's own exquisite taste +would have approved. + + +TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR ADDISON. + +If, dumb too long, the drooping muse hath stayed, +And left her debt to Addison unpaid, +Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, +And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. +What mourner ever felt poetic fires! +Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: +Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, +Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. + +Can I forget the dismal night that gave +My soul's best part for ever to the grave? +How silent did his old companions tread, +By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, +Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, +Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! +What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; +The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; +The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid: +And the last words that dust to dust conveyed! +While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, +Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. +Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; +And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. +To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, +A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; +Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, +And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. +If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, +May shame afflict this alienated heart; +Of thee forgetful if I form a song, +My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, +My grief be doubled from thy image free, +And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee! + +Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, +Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, +Along the walls where speaking marbles show +What worthies form the hallowed mould belew; +Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; +In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; +Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; +Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; +Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; +And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven; +Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, +Since their foundation came a nobler guest; +Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed +A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. + +In what new region, to the just assigned, +What new employments please the embodied mind? +A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, +From world to world unwearied does he fly? +Or curious trace the long laborious maze +Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? +Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell +How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; +Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow +In hymns of love, not ill essayed below? +Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, +A task well suited to thy gentle mind? +Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, +To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! +When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, +When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, +In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, +And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; +Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, +Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. + +That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, +Must still be loved and still deplored by me, +In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, +Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. +If business calls, or crowded courts invite, +The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; +If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, +I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; +If pensive to the rural shades I rove, +His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; +'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, +Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: +There patient showed us the wise course to steer, +A candid censor, and a friend severe; +There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high +The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die. + +Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, +Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, +Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, +O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears? +How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, +Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! +How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, +Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze! +His image thy forsaken bowers restore; +Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; +No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, +Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. + +From other ills, however fortune frowned, +Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; +Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, +Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; +And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn, +Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. +Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, +And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,) +The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, +And weep a second in the unfinished song! + +These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, +To thee, O Craggs! the expiring sage conveyed, +Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, +Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. +Swift after him thy social spirit flies, +And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. +Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell +In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell! +Farewell! whom, joined in fame, in friendship tried, +No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. + + + + +JAMES HAMMOND. + + +This elegiast was the second son of Anthony Hammond, a brother-in-law of +Sir Robert Walpole, and a man of some note in his day. He was born in +1710; educated at Westminster school; became equerry to the Prince of +Wales; fell in love with a lady named Dashwood, who rejected him, and +drove him to temporary derangement, and then to elegy-writing; entered +parliament for Truro, in Cornwall, in 1741; and died the next year. His +elegies were published after his death, and, although abounding in +pedantic allusions and frigid conceits, became very popular. + + +ELEGY XIII. + +He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each other, +they are retired into the country. + +1 Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, + And view their fields, with waving plenty crowned, + Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, + And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound: + +2 While calmly poor I trifle life away, + Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, + No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, + But, cheaply blessed, I'll scorn each vain desire. + +3 With timely care I'll sow my little field, + And plant my orchard with its master's hand, + Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, + Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. + +4 If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, + I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, + Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, + And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. + +5 What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, + And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast! + Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain, + Secure and happy, sink at last to rest! + +6 Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride, + By shady rivers indolently stray, + And with my Delia, walking side by side, + Hear how they murmur as they glide away! + +7 What joy to wind along the cool retreat, + To stop and gaze on Delia as I go! + To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, + And teach my lovely scholar all I know! + +8 Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, + In silent happiness I rest unknown; + Content with what I am, not what I seem, + I live for Delia and myself alone. + + * * * * * + +9 Hers be the care of all my little train, + While I with tender indolence am blest, + The favourite subject of her gentle reign, + By love alone distinguished from the rest. + +10 For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough, + In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock; + For her, a goat-herd, climb the mountain's brow, + And sleep extended on the naked rock: + +11 Ah, what avails to press the stately bed, + And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, + By marble fountains lay the pensive head, + And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep! + +12 Delia alone can please, and never tire, + Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; + With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, + And equal rapture glows through every night: + +13 Beauty and worth in her alike contend, + To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; + In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, + I taste the joys of sense and reason joined. + +14 On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er, + And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-- + Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, + Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. + +15 Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, + Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, + Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, + Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still: + +16 Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed, + Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart; + Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, + These weeping friends will do thy mournful part: + +17 Let them, extended on the decent bier, + Convey the corse in melancholy state, + Through all the village spread the tender tear, + While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate. + + + + +We may here mention Dr George Sewell, author of a Life of Sir Walter +Haleigh, a few papers in the _Spectator_, and some rather affecting +verses written on consumption, where he says, in reference to his +garden-- + + 'Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, + (For vanity's in little seen,) + All must be left when death appears, + In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; + Not one of all thy plants that grow, + But rosemary, will with thee go;'-- + + +Sir John Vanbrugh, best known as an architect, but who also wrote +poetry;--Edward Ward (more commonly called Ned Ward), a poetical +publican, who wrote ten thick volumes, chiefly in Hudibrastic verse, +displaying a good deal of coarse cleverness;--Barton Booth, the famous +actor, author of a song which closes thus-- + + 'Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, + Twin-born, from heaven together came; + Love will the universe control, + When dying seasons lose their name. + Divine abodes shall own his power, + When time and death shall be no more;'-- + + +Oldmixon, one of the heroes of the 'Dunciad,' famous in his day as a +party historian;--Richard West, a youth of high promise, the friend of +Gray, and who died in his twenty-sixth year;--James Eyre Weekes, an +Irishman, author of a clever copy of love verses, called 'The Five +Traitors;'--Bramston, an Oxford man, who wrote a poem called 'The Man of +Taste;'--and William Meston, an Aberdonian, author of a set of burlesque +poems entitled 'Mother Grim's Tales.' + + + + +RICHARD SAVAGE. + + +The extreme excellence, fulness, and popularity of Johnson's Life of +Savage must excuse our doing more than mentioning the leading dates of +his history. He was the son of the Earl of Rivers and the Countess of +Macclesfield, and was born in London, 1698. His mother, who had begot +him in adultery after having openly avowed her criminality, in order to +obtain a divorce from her husband, placed the boy under the care of a +poor woman, who brought him up as her son. His maternal grandmother, +Lady Mason, however, took an interest him and placed him at a grammar +school at St Alban's. He was afterwards apprenticed to a shoemaker. On +the death of his nurse, he found some letters which led to the discovery +of his real parent. He applied to her, accordingly, to be acknowledged +as her son; but she repulsed his every advance, and persecuted him with +unrelenting barbarity. He found, however, some influential friends, such +as Steele, Fielding, Aaron Hill, Pope, and Lord Tyrconnell. He was, +however, his own worst enemy, and contracted habits of the most +irregular description. In a tavern brawl he killed one James Sinclair, +and was condemned to die; but, notwithstanding his mother's interference +to prevent the exercise of the royal clemency, he was pardoned by the +queen, who afterwards gave him a pension of L50 a-year. He supported +himself in a precarious way by writing poetical pieces. Lord Tyrconnell +took him for a while into his house, and allowed him L200 a-year, but he +soon quarrelled with him, and left. When the queen died he lost his +pension, but his friends made it up by an annuity to the same amount. He +went away to reside at Swansea, but on occasion of a visit he made to +Bristol he was arrested for a small debt, and in the prison he sickened, +and died on the 1st of August 1743. He was only forty-five years of age. + +After all, Savage, in Johnson's Life, is just a dung-fly preserved in +amber. His 'Bastard,' indeed, displays considerable powers, stung by a +consciousness of wrong into convulsive action; but his other works are +nearly worthless, and his life was that of a proud, passionate, selfish, +and infatuated fool, unredeemed by scarcely one trait of genuine +excellence in character. We love and admire, even while we deeply blame, +such men as Burns; but for Savage our feeling is a curious compost of +sympathy with his misfortunes, contempt for his folly, and abhorrence +for the ingratitude, licentiousness, and other coarse and savage sins +which characterised and prematurely destroyed him. + + +THE BASTARD. + +INSCRIBED, WITH ALL DUE REVERENCE, TO MRS BRETT, +ONCE COUNTESS OF MACCLESFIELD. + +In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, +The Muse exulting, thus her lay began: +'Blest be the Bastard's birth! through wondrous ways, +He shines eccentric like a comet's blaze! +No sickly fruit of faint compliance he! +He! stamped in nature's mint of ecstasy! +He lives to build, not boast a generous race: +No tenth transmitter of a foolish face: +His daring hope no sire's example bounds; +His first-born lights no prejudice confounds. +He, kindling from within, requires no flame; +He glories in a Bastard's glowing name. + +'Born to himself, by no possession led, +In freedom fostered, and by fortune fed; +Nor guides, nor rules his sovereign choice control, +His body independent as his soul; +Loosed to the world's wide range, enjoined no aim, +Prescribed no duty, and assigned no name: +Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone, +His heart unbiased, and his mind his own. + +'O mother, yet no mother! 'tis to you +My thanks for such distinguished claims are due; +You, unenslaved to Nature's narrow laws, +Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause, +From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, +From ties maternal, moral, and divine, +Discharged my grasping soul; pushed me from shore, +And launched me into life without an oar. + +'What had I lost, if, conjugally kind, +By nature hating, yet by vows confined, +Untaught the matrimonial bonds to slight, +And coldly conscious of a husband's right, +You had faint-drawn me with a form alone, +A lawful lump of life by force your own! +Then, while your backward will retrenched desire, +And unconcurring spirits lent no fire, +I had been born your dull, domestic heir, +Load of your life, and motive of your care; +Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great, +The slave of pomp, a cipher in the state; +Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, +And slumbering in a seat by chance my own. + +'Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; +Conceived in rapture, and with fire begot! +Strong as necessity, he starts away, +Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.' +Thus unprophetic, lately misinspired, +I sung: gay fluttering hope my fancy fired: +Inly secure, through conscious scorn of ill, +Nor taught by wisdom how to balance will, +Rashly deceived, I saw no pits to shun, +But thought to purpose and to act were one; +Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way, +Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray; +But now exposed, and shrinking from distress, +I fly to shelter while the tempests press; +My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone, +The raptures languish, and the numbers groan. + +O Memory! thou soul of joy and pain! +Thou actor of our passions o'er again! +Why didst thou aggravate the wretch's woe? +Why add continuous smart to every blow? +Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot! +On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not; +While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall, +Yet thou repeat'st and multipli'st them all. + +Is chance a guilt? that my disastrous heart, +For mischief never meant; must ever smart? +Can self-defence be sin?--Ah, plead no more! +What though no purposed malice stained thee o'er? +Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side, +Thou hadst not been provoked--or thou hadst died. + +Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all +On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall! +Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, +To me! through Pity's eye condemned to see. +Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; +Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. +Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, +What ripening virtues might have made their way? +He might have lived till folly died in shame, +Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. +He might perhaps his country's friend have proved; +Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved, +He might have saved some worth, now doomed to fall; +And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all. + +O fate of late repentance! always vain: +Thy remedies but lull undying pain. +Where shall my hope find rest?--No mother's care +Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: +No father's guardian hand my youth maintained, +Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained. +Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, +First to advance, then screen from future harm? +Am I returned from death to live in pain? +Or would imperial Pity save in vain? +Distrust it not--What blame can mercy find, +Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind? + +Mother, miscalled, farewell--of soul severe, +This sad reflection yet may force one tear: +All I was wretched by to you I owed, +Alone from strangers every comfort flowed! + +Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, +And now adopted, who was doomed before; +New-born, I may a nobler mother claim, +But dare not whisper her immortal name; +Supremely lovely, and serenely great! +Majestic mother of a kneeling state! +Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before +Agreed--yet now with one consent adore! +One contest yet remains in this desire, +Who most shall give applause, where all admire. + + + + +THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER. + + +The Wartons were a poetical race. The father of Thomas and Joseph, names +so intimately associated with English poetry, was himself a poet. He was +of Magdalene College in Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and +twice chosen poetry professor. He was born in 1687, and died in 1745. +Besides the little American ode quoted below, we are tempted to give the +following + + +VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE. + +From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, +Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls, +To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, +Pleased I return, unenvious of the great. +So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes +Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens; +Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, +Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill; +Now haunts old hollowed oaks, deserted cells, +Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells; +Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, +And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;-- +At length returning to the wonted comb, +Prefers to all his little straw-built home. + +This seems sweet and simple poetry. + + +AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE. + +FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS. + +Stay, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake, +Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake: +But let me oft thy charms review, +Thy glittering scales, and golden hue; +From these a chaplet shall be wove, +To grace the youth I dearest love. + +Then ages hence, when thou no more +Shalt creep along the sunny shore, +Thy copied beauties shall be seen; +Thy red and azure mixed with green, +In mimic folds thou shalt display;-- +Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay. + + + + +JONATHAN SWIFT. + + +In contemplating the lives and works of the preceding poets in this +third volume of 'Specimens,' we have been impressed with a sense, if not +of their absolute, yet of their comparative mediocrity. Beside such +neglected giants as Henry More, Joseph Beaumont, and Andrew Marvell, the +Pomfrets, Sedleys, Blackmores, and Savages sink into insignificance. But +when we come to the name of Swift, we feel ourselves again approaching +an Alpine region. The air of a stern mountain-summit breathes chill +around our temples, and we feel that if we have no amiability to melt, +we have altitude at least to measure, and strange profound secrets of +nature, like the ravines of lofty hills, to explore. The men of the +sixteenth and seventeenth centuries may be compared to Lebanon, or +Snowdown, or Benlomond towering grandly over fertile valleys, on which +they smile--Swift to the tremendous Romsdale Horn in Norway, shedding +abroad, from a brow of four thousand feet high, what seems a scowl of +settled indignation, as if resolved not to rejoice even over the wide- +stretching deserts which, and nothing but which, it everlastingly +beholds. Mountains all of them, but what a difference between such a +mountain as Shakspeare, and such a mountain as Swift! + +Instead of going minutely over a path so long since trodden to mire as +the life of Swift, let us expend a page or two in seeking to form some +estimate of his character and genius. It is refreshing to come upon a +new thing in the world, even though it be a strange or even a bad thing; +and certainly, in any age and country, such a being as Swift must have +appeared an anomaly, not for his transcendent goodness, not for his +utter badness, but because the elements of good and evil were mixed in +him into a medley so astounding, and in proportions respectively so +large, yet unequal, that the analysis of the two seemed to many +competent only to the Great Chymist, Death, and that a sense of the +disproportion seems to have moved the man himself to inextinguishable +laughter,--a laughter which, radiating out of his own singular heart as +a centre, swept over the circumference of all beings within his reach, +and returned crying, 'Give, give,' as if he were demanding a universal +sphere for the exercise of the savage scorn which dwelt within him, and +as if he laughed not more 'consumedly' at others than he did at himself. + +Ere speaking of Swift as a man, let us say something about his genius. +That, like his character, was intensely peculiar. It was a compound of +infinite ingenuity, with very little poetical imagination--of gigantic +strength, with a propensity to incessant trifling--of passionate +purpose, with the clearest and coldest expression, as though a furnace +were fuelled with snow. A Brobdignagian by size, he was for ever toying +with Lilliputian slings and small craft. One of the most violent of +party men, and often fierce as a demoniac in temper, his favourite motto +was _Vive la bagatelle_. The creator of entire new worlds, we doubt if +his works contain more than two or three lines of genuine poetry. He may +be compared to one of the locusts of the Apocalypse, in that he had a +tail like unto a scorpion, and a sting in his tail; but his 'face is not +as the face of man, his hair is not as the hair of women, and on his +head there is no crown like gold.' All Swift's creations are more or +less disgusting. Not one of them is beautiful. His Lilliputians are +amazingly life-like, but compare them to Shakspeare's fairies, such +as Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Mustardseed; his Brobdignagians are +excrescences like enormous warts; and his Yahoos might have been spawned +in the nightmare of a drunken butcher. The same coarseness characterises +his poems and his 'Tale of a Tub.' He might well, however, in his old +age, exclaim, in reference to the latter, 'Good God! what a genius I +had when I wrote that book!' It is the wildest, wittiest, wickedest, +wealthiest book of its size in the English language. Thoughts and +figures swarm in every corner of its pages, till you think of a +disturbed nest of angry ants, for all the figures and thoughts are black +and bitter. One would imagine the book to have issued from a mind that +had been gathering gall as well as sense in an antenatal state of being. + +Swift, in all his writings--sermons, political tracts, poems, and +fictions--is essentially a satirist. He consisted originally of three +principal parts,--sense, an intense feeling of the ludicrous, and +selfish passion; and these were sure, in certain circumstances, to +ferment into a spirit of satire, 'strong as death, and cruel as the +grave.' Born with not very much natural benevolence, with little purely +poetic feeling, with furious passions and unbounded ambition, he was +entirely dependent for his peace of mind upon success. Had he become, as +by his talents he was entitled to be, the prime minister of his day, he +would have figured as a greater tyrant in the cabinet than even Chatham. +But as he was prevented from being the first statesman, he became the +first satirist of his time. From vain efforts to grasp supremacy for +himself and his party, he retired growling to his Dublin den; and there, +as Haman thought scorn to lay his hand on Mordecai, but extended his +murderous purpose to all the people of the Jews,--and as Nero wished +that Rome had one neck, that he might destroy it at a blow,--so Swift +was stung by his personal disappointment to hurl out scorn at man and +suspicion at his Maker. It was not, it must be noticed, the evil which +was in man which excited his hatred and contempt; it was man himself. He +was not merely, as many are, disgusted with the selfish and malignant +elements which are mingled in man's nature and character, and disposed +to trace them to any cause save a Divine will, but he believed man to +be, as a whole, the work and child of the devil; and he told the +imaginary creator and creature to their face, what he thought the +truth,--'The devil is an ass.' His was the very madness of Manichaeism. +That heresy held that the devil was one of two aboriginal creative +powers, but Swift seemed to believe at times that he was the only God. +From a Yahoo man, it was difficult to avoid the inference of a demon +deity. It is very laughable to find writers in _Blackwood_ and elsewhere +striving to prove Swift a Christian, as if, whatever were his +professions, and however sincere he might be often in these, the whole +tendency of his writings, his perpetual and unlimited abuse of man's +body and soul, his denial of every human virtue, the filth he pours upon +every phase of human nature, and the doctrine he insinuates--that man +has fallen indeed, but fallen, not from the angel, but from the animal, +or, rather, is just a bungled brute,--were not enough to shew that +either his notions were grossly erroneous and perverted, or that he +himself deserved, like another Nebuchadnezzar, to be driven from men, +and to have a beast's heart given unto him. Sometimes he reminds us of +an impure angel, who has surprised man naked and asleep, looked at him +with microscopic eyes, ignored all his peculiar marks of fallen dignity +and incipient godhood, and in heartless rhymes reported accordingly. + +Swift belonged to the same school as Pope, although the feminine element +which was in the latter modified and mellowed his feelings. Pope was a +more successful and a happier man than Swift. He was much smaller, too, +in soul as well as in body, and his gall-organ was proportionably less. +Pope's feeling to humanity was a tiny malice; Swift's became, at length, +a black malignity. Pope always reminds us of an injured and pouting hero +of Lilliput, 'doing well to be angry' under the gourd of a pocket-flap, +or squealing out his griefs from the centre of an empty snuff-box; Swift +is a man, nay, monster of misanthropy. In minute and microscopic vision +of human infirmities, Pope excels even Swift; but then you always +conceive Swift leaning down a giant, though gnarled, stature to behold +them, while Pope is on their level, and has only to look straight before +him. Pope's wrath is always measured; Swift's, as in the 'Legion-Club' +is a whirlwind of 'black fire and horror,' in the breath of which no +flesh can live, and against which genius and virtue themselves furnish +no shield. + +After all, Swift might, perhaps, have put in the plea of Byron-- + + 'All my faults perchance thou knowest, + All my madness none can know.' + +There was a black spot of madness in his brain, and another black spot +in his heart; and the two at last met, and closed up his destiny in +night. Let human nature forgive its most determined and systematic +reviler, for the sake of the wretchedness in which he was involved all +his life long. He was born (in 1667) a posthumous child; he was brought +up an object of charity; he spent much of his youth in dependence; he +had to leave his Irish college without a degree; he was flattered with +hopes from King William and the Whigs, which were not fulfilled; he was +condemned to spend a great part of his life in Ireland, a country he +detested; he was involved--partly, no doubt, through his own blame--in +a succession of fruitless and miserable intrigues, alike of love and +politics; he was soured by want of success in England, and spoiled by +enormous popularity in Ireland; he was tried by a kind of religious +doubts, which would not go out to prayer or fasting; he was haunted by +the fear of the dreadful calamity which at last befell him; his senses +and his soul left him one by one; he became first giddy, then deaf, and +then mad; his madness was of the most terrible sort--it was a 'silent +rage;' for a year or two he lay dumb; and at last, on the 19th of +October 1745, + + 'Swift expired, a driveller and a show,' + +leaving his money to found a lunatic asylum, and his works as a many- +volumed legacy of curse to mankind. + +[Note: It has been asserted that there were circumstances in extenuation +of Swift's conduct, particularly in reference to the ladies whose names +were connected with his, which _cannot be publicly brought forward_.] + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. + +In ancient times, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + +It happened on a winter night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Disguised in tattered habits went +To a small village down in Kent, +Where, in the strollers' canting strain, +They begged from door to door in vain, +Tried every tone might pity win; +But not a soul would let them in. +Our wandering saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having through all the village passed, +To a small cottage came at last, +Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, +Called in the neighbourhood Philemon; +Who kindly did these saints invite +In his poor hut to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +While he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fried; +Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, +Filled a large jug up to the brink, +And saw it fairly twice go round; +Yet (what is wonderful!) they found +'Twas still replenished to the top, +As if they ne'er had touched a drop. +The good old couple were amazed, +And often on each other gazed; +For both were frightened to the heart, +And just began to cry,--'What art!' +Then softly turned aside to view +Whether the lights were burning blue. +The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't, +Told them their calling, and their errand: +'Good folks, you need not be afraid, +We are but saints,' the hermits said; +'No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their houses shall be drowned; +Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes.' + +They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose every beam and rafter; +The heavy wall climbed slowly after. + +The chimney widened, and grew higher, +Became a steeple with a spire. + +The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fastened to a joist; +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below; +In vain; for a superior force, +Applied at bottom, stops its course: +Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + +A wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increased by new intestine wheels; +And, what exalts the wonder more +The number made the motion slower; +The flier, though't had leaden feet, +Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't; +But, slackened by some secret power, +Now hardly moves an inch an hour. +The jack and chimney, near allied, +Had never left each other's side: +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But up against the steeple reared, +Became a clock, and still adhered; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon declares, +Warning the cook-maid not to burn +That roast meat which it cannot turn. + +The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like a huge snail, along the wall; +There stuck aloft in public view, +And with small change a pulpit grew. + +The porringers, that in a row +Hung high, and made a glittering show, +To a less noble substance changed, +Were now but leathern buckets ranged. + +The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Joan of France, and English Moll, +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Now seemed to look abundance better, +Improved in picture, size, and letter; +And, high in order placed, describe +The heraldry of every tribe. + +A bedstead, of the antique mode, +Compact of timber many a load, +Such as our ancestors did use, +Was metamorphosed into pews; +Which still their ancient nature keep, +By lodging folks disposed to sleep. + +The cottage, by such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees; +The hermits then desired their host +To ask for what he fancied most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Returned them thanks in homely style; +Then said, 'My house is grown so fine, +Methinks I still would call it mine; +I'm old, and fain would live at ease; +Make me the parson, if you please.' + +He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat fall down his heels: +He sees, yet hardly can believe, +About each arm a pudding-sleeve; +His waistcoat to a cassock grew, +And both assumed a sable hue; +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +His talk was now of tithes and dues; +He smoked his pipe, and read the news; +Knew how to preach old sermons next, +Vamped in the preface and the text; +At christenings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wished women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrowed last; +Against Dissenters would repine, +And stood up firm for right divine; +Found his head filled with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er missed 'em. + +Thus, having furbished up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they played their farce on; +Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edged with colberteen; +Her petticoat, transformed apace, +Became black satin flounced with lace. +Plain 'Goody' would no longer down; +'Twas 'Madam' in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes, +Amazed to see her look so prim; +And she admired as much at him. + +Thus happy in their change of life +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which proved their last, +Discoursing on old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +To the churchyard to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cried out, +'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!' +'Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true; +And, really, yours is budding too; +Nay, now I cannot stir my foot-- +It feels as if 'twere taking root.' + +Description would but tire my Muse; +In short, they both were turned to yews. + +Old Goodman Dobson of the green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folks to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening-prayer, +He gathers all the parish there, +Points out the place of either yew: +'Here Baucis, there Philemon grew; +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn cut Baucis down. +At which 'tis hard to be believed +How much the other tree was grieved, +Grew scrubby, died atop, was stunted; +So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.' + + +ON POETRY. + +All human race would fain be wits, +And millions miss for one that hits. +Young's Universal Passion, pride, +Was never known to spread so wide. +Say, Britain, could you ever boast +Three poets in an age at most? +Our chilling climate hardly bears +A sprig of bays in fifty years; +While every fool his claim alleges, +As if it grew in common hedges. +What reason can there be assigned +For this perverseness in the mind? +Brutes find out where their talents lie: +A bear will not attempt to fly; +A foundered horse will oft debate +Before he tries a five-barred gate; +A dog by instinct turns aside, +Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;-- +But man we find the only creature, +Who, led by folly, combats nature; +Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, +With obstinacy fixes there; +And, where his genius least inclines, +Absurdly bends his whole designs. + +Not empire to the rising sun +By valour, conduct, fortune won; +Not highest wisdom in debates +For framing laws to govern states; +Not skill in sciences profound +So large to grasp the circle round, +Such heavenly influence require, +As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + +Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; +Not bastard of a pedlar Scot; +Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, +The spawn of Bridewell or the stews; +Not infants dropped, the spurious pledges +Of gipsies littering under hedges, +Are so disqualified by fate +To rise in church, or law, or state, +As he whom Phoebus in his ire +Hath blasted with poetic fire. +What hope of custom in the fair, +While not a soul demands your ware? +Where you have nothing to produce +For private life or public use? +Court, city, country, want you not; +You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. +For poets, law makes no provision; +The wealthy have you in derision; +Of state affairs you cannot smatter, +Are awkward when you try to flatter; +Your portion, taking Britain round, +Was just one annual hundred pound; +Now not so much as in remainder, +Since Gibber brought in an attainder, +For ever fixed by right divine, +(A monarch's right,) on Grub Street line. + +Poor starveling bard, how small thy gains! +How unproportioned to thy pains! +And here a simile comes pat in: +Though chickens take a month to fatten, +The guests in less than half an hour +Will more than half a score devour. +So, after toiling twenty days +To earn a stock of pence and praise, +Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, +Are swallowed o'er a dish of tea; +Gone to be never heard of more, +Gone where the chickens went before. +How shall a new attempter learn +Of different spirits to discern, +And how distinguish which is which, +The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? +Then hear an old experienced sinner +Instructing thus a young beginner: +Consult yourself; and if you find +A powerful impulse urge your mind, +Impartial judge within your breast +What subject you can manage best; +Whether your genius most inclines +To satire, praise, or humorous lines, +To elegies in mournful tone, +Or prologues sent from hand unknown; +Then, rising with Aurora's light, +The Muse invoked, sit down to write; +Blot out, correct, insert, refine, +Enlarge, diminish, interline; +Be mindful, when invention fails, +To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + +Your poem finished, next your care +Is needful to transcribe it fair. +In modern wit, all printed trash is +Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + +To statesmen would you give a wipe, +You print it in italic type; +When letters are in vulgar shapes, +'Tis ten to one the wit escapes; +But when in capitals expressed, +The dullest reader smokes the jest; +Or else, perhaps, he may invent +A better than the poet meant; +As learned commentators view +In Homer, more than Homer knew. + +Your poem in its modish dress, +Correctly fitted for the press, +Convey by penny-post to Lintot; +But let no friend alive look into 't. +If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, +You need not fear your labour lost: +And how agreeably surprised +Are you to see it advertised! +The hawker shows you one in print, +As fresh as farthings from a mint: +The product of your toil and sweating, +A bastard of your own begetting. + +Be sure at Will's the following day, +Lie snug, and hear what critics say; +And if you find the general vogue +Pronounces you a stupid rogue, +Damns all your thoughts as low and little, +Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; +Be silent as a politician, +For talking may beget suspicion; +Or praise the judgment of the town, +And help yourself to run it down; +Give up your fond paternal pride, +Nor argue on the weaker side; +For poems read without a name +We justly praise, or justly blame; +And critics have no partial views, +Except they know whom they abuse; +And since you ne'er provoked their spite, +Depend upon 't, their judgment's right. +But if you blab, you are undone: +Consider what a risk you run: +You lose your credit all at once; +The town will mark you for a dunce; +The vilest doggrel Grub Street sends +Will pass for yours with foes and friends; +And you must bear the whole disgrace, +Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + +Your secret kept, your poem sunk, +And sent in quires to line a trunk, +If still you be disposed to rhyme, +Go try your hand a second time. +Again you fail: yet safe's the word; +Take courage, and attempt a third. +But just with care employ your thoughts, +Where critics marked your former faults; +The trivial turns, the borrowed wit, +The similes that nothing fit; +The cant which every fool repeats, +Town jests and coffee-house conceits; +Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, +And introduced the Lord knows why: +Or where we find your fury set +Against the harmless alphabet; +On A's and B's your malice vent, +While readers wonder what you meant: +A public or a private robber, +A statesman, or a South-Sea jobber; +A prelate who no God believes; +A parliament, or den of thieves; +A pick-purse at the bar or bench; +A duchess, or a suburb wench: +Or oft, when epithets you link +In gaping lines to fill a chink; +Like stepping-stones to save a stride, +In streets where kennels are too wide; +Or like a heel-piece, to support +A cripple with one foot too short; +Or like a bridge, that joins a marish +To moorland of a different parish; +So have I seen ill-coupled hounds +Drag different ways in miry grounds; +So geographers in Afric maps +With savage pictures fill their gaps, +And o'er unhabitable downs +Place elephants, for want of towns. + +But though you miss your third essay, +You need not throw your pen away. +Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, +To spring more profitable game. +From party-merit seek support-- +The vilest verse thrives best at court. +And may you ever have the luck, +To rhyme almost as ill as Duck; +And though you never learnt to scan verse, +Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. +A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence +Will never fail to bring in pence: +Nor be concerned about the sale-- +He pays his workmen on the nail. +Display the blessings of the nation, +And praise the whole administration: +Extol the bench of Bishops round; +Who at them rail, bid----confound: +To Bishop-haters answer thus, +(The only logic used by us,) +'What though they don't believe in----, +Deny them Protestants,--thou liest.' + +A prince, the moment he is crowned, +Inherits every virtue round, +As emblems of the sovereign power, +Like other baubles in the Tower; +Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, +And so continues till he dies: +His humble senate this professes +In all their speeches, votes, addresses. +But once you fix him in a tomb, +His virtues fade, his vices bloom, +And each perfection, wrong imputed, +Is fully at his death confuted. +The loads of poems in his praise +Ascending, make one funeral blaze. +As soon as you can hear his knell +This god on earth turns devil in hell; +And lo! his ministers of state, +Transformed to imps, his levee wait, +Where, in the scenes of endless woe, +They ply their former arts below; +And as they sail in Charon's boat, +Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; +To Cerberus they give a sop, +His triple-barking mouth to stop; +Or in the ivory gate of dreams +Project Excise and South-Sea schemes, +Or hire their party pamphleteers +To set Elysium by the ears. + +Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, +Employ your Muse on kings alive; +With prudence gather up a cluster +Of all the virtues you can muster, +Which, formed into a garland sweet, +Lay humbly at your monarch's feet, +Who, as the odours reach his throne, +Will smile and think them all his own; +For law and gospel both determine +All virtues lodge in royal ermine, +(I mean the oracles of both, +Who shall depose it upon oath.) +Your garland in the following reign, +Change but the names, will do again. + +But, if you think this trade too base, +(Which seldom is the dunce's case,) +Put on the critic's brow, and sit +At Will's the puny judge of wit. +A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, +With caution used, may serve a while. +Proceed on further in your part, +Before you learn the terms of art; +For you can never be too far gone +In all our modern critics' jargon; +Then talk with more authentic face +Of unities, in time, and place; +Get scraps of Horace from your friends, +And have them at your fingers' ends; +Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, +And at all hazards boldly quote; +Judicious Rymer oft review, +Wise Dennis, and profound Bossu; +Read all the prefaces of Dryden-- +For these our critics much confide in, +(Though merely writ at first for filling, +To raise the volume's price a shilling.) + +A forward critic often dupes us +With sham quotations _Peri Hupsous_. +And if we have not read Longinus, +Will magisterially outshine us. +Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, +Procure the book for love or money, +Translated from Boileau's translation, +And quote quotation on quotation. + +At Will's you hear a poem read, +Where Battus from the table-head, +Reclining on his elbow-chair, +Gives judgment with decisive air; +To whom the tribes of circling wits +As to an oracle submits. +He gives directions to the town, +To cry it up, or run it down; +Like courtiers, when they send a note, +Instructing members how to vote. +He sets the stamp of bad and good, +Though not a word he understood. +Your lesson learned, you'll be secure +To get the name of connoisseur: +And, when your merits once are known, +Procure disciples of your own. +For poets, (you can never want 'em,) +Spread through Augusta Trinobantum, +Computing by their pecks of coals, +Amount to just nine thousand souls. +These o'er their proper districts govern, +Of wit and humour judges sovereign. +In every street a city-bard +Rules, like an alderman, his ward; +His undisputed rights extend +Through all the lane, from end to end; +The neighbours round admire his shrewdness +For songs of loyalty and lewdness; +Outdone by none in rhyming well, +Although he never learned to spell. +Two bordering wits contend for glory; +And one is Whig, and one is Tory: +And this for epics claims the bays, +And that for elegiac lays: +Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, +By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; +And some as justly Fame extols +For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. +Bavius in Wapping gains renown, +And Mavius reigns o'er Kentish-town; +Tigellius, placed in Phoebus' car, +From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: +Harmonious Cibber entertains +The court with annual birth-day strains; +Whence Gay was banished in disgrace; +Where Pope will never show his face; +Where Young must torture his invention +To flatter knaves, or lose his pension. + +But these are not a thousandth part +Of jobbers in the poet's art; +Attending each his proper station, +And all in due subordination, +Through every alley to be found, +In garrets high, or under ground; +And when they join their pericranies, +Out skips a book of miscellanies. +Hobbes clearly proves that every creature +Lives in a state of war by nature; +The greater for the smallest watch, +But meddle seldom with their match. +A whale of moderate size will draw +A shoal of herrings down his maw; +A fox with geese his belly crams; +A wolf destroys a thousand lambs: +But search among the rhyming race, +The brave are worried by the base. +If on Parnassus' top you sit, +You rarely bite, are always bit. +Each poet of inferior size +On you shall rail and criticise, +And strive to tear you limb from limb; +While others do as much for him. + +The vermin only tease and pinch +Their foes superior by an inch: +So, naturalists observe, a flea +Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; +And these have smaller still to bite 'em, +And so proceed _ad infinitum_. +Thus every poet in his kind +Is bit by him that comes behind: +Who, though too little to be seen, +Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; +Call dunces fools and sons of whores, +Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; +Extol the Greek and Roman masters, +And curse our modern poetasters; +Complain, as many an ancient bard did, +How genius is no more rewarded; +How wrong a taste prevails among us; +How much our ancestors out-sung us; +Can personate an awkward scorn +For those who are not poets born; +And all their brother-dunces lash, +Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + +O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, +Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! +Their filial piety forgot, +Deny their country like a Scot; +Though by their idiom and grimace, +They soon betray their native place. +Yet thou hast greater cause to be +Ashamed of them, than they of thee, +Degenerate from their ancient brood +Since first the court allowed them food. + +Remains a difficulty still, +To purchase fame by writing ill. +From Flecknoe down to Howard's time, +How few have reached the low sublime! +For when our high-born Howard died, +Blackmore alone his place supplied; +And lest a chasm should intervene, +When death had finished Blackmore's reign, +The leaden crown devolved to thee, +Great poet of the Hollow Tree. +But ah! how unsecure thy throne! +A thousand bards thy right disown; +They plot to turn, in factious zeal, +Duncenia to a commonweal; +And with rebellious arms pretend +An equal privilege to defend. + +In bulk there are not more degrees +From elephants to mites in cheese, +Than what a curious eye may trace +In creatures of the rhyming race. +From bad to worse, and worse, they fall; +But who can reach the worst of all? +For though in nature, depth and height +Are equally held infinite; +In poetry, the height we know; +'Tis only infinite below. +For instance, when you rashly think +No rhymer can like Welsted sink, +His merits balanced, you shall find +The laureate leaves him far behind; +Concannen, more aspiring bard, +Soars downwards deeper by a yard; +Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops; +The rest pursue as thick as hops. +With heads to point, the gulf they enter, +Linked perpendicular to the centre; +And, as their heels elated rise, +Their heads attempt the nether skies. + +Oh, what indignity and shame, +To prostitute the Muse's name, +By flattering kings, whom Heaven designed +The plagues and scourges of mankind; +Bred up in ignorance and sloth, +And every vice that nurses both. + +Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, +Whose virtues bear the strictest test; +Whom never faction could bespatter, +Nor minister nor poet flatter; +What justice in rewarding merit! +What magnanimity of spirit! +What lineaments divine we trace +Through all his figure, mien, and face! +Though peace with olive bind his hands, +Confessed the conquering hero stands. +Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, +Dread from his hand impending changes; +From him the Tartar and the Chinese, +Short by the knees, entreat for peace. +The comfort of his throne and bed, +A perfect goddess born and bred; +Appointed sovereign judge to sit +On learning, eloquence and wit. +Our eldest hope, divine Iuelus, +(Late, very late, oh, may he rule us!) +What early manhood has he shown, +Before his downy beard was grown! +Then think what wonders will be done, +By going on as he begun, +An heir for Britain to secure +As long as sun and moon endure. + +The remnant of the royal blood +Comes pouring on me like a flood: +Bright goddesses, in number five; +Duke William, sweetest prince alive! + +Now sings the minister of state, +Who shines alone without a mate. +Observe with what majestic port +This Atlas stands to prop the court, +Intent the public debts to pay, +Like prudent Fabius, by delay. +Thou great vicegerent of the king, +Thy praises every Muse shall sing! +In all affairs thou sole director, +Of wit and learning chief protector; +Though small the time thou hast to spare, +The church is thy peculiar care. +Of pious prelates what a stock +You choose, to rule the sable flock! +You raise the honour of your peerage, +Proud to attend you at the steerage; +You dignify the noble race, +Content yourself with humbler place. +Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, +To titles give the sole pretence. +St George beheld thee with delight +Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, +When on thy breasts and sides herculean +He fixed the star and string cerulean. + +Say, poet, in what other nation, +Shone ever such a constellation! +Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, +And tune your harps, and strew your bays: +Your panegyrics here provide; +You cannot err on flattery's side. +Above the stars exalt your style, +You still are low ten thousand mile. +On Louis all his bards bestowed +Of incense many a thousand load; +But Europe mortified his pride, +And swore the fawning rascals lied. +Yet what the world refused to Louis, +Applied to George, exactly true is. +Exactly true! invidious poet! +'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + +Translate me now some lines, if you can, +From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. +They could all power in heaven divide, +And do no wrong on either side; +They teach you how to split a hair, +Give George and Jove an equal share. +Yet why should we be laced so strait? +I'll give my monarch butter weight; +And reason good, for many a year +Jove never intermeddled here: +Nor, though his priests be duly paid, +Did ever we desire his aid: +We now can better do without him, +Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR SWIFT. + + Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucault, 'Dans + l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque + chose qui ne nous deplait pas;'--'In the adversity of our best + friends, we always find something that doth not displease us.' + + As Rochefoucault his maxims drew + From nature, I believe them true: + +They argue no corrupted mind +In him; the fault is in mankind. + +This maxim more than all the rest +Is thought too base for human breast: +'In all distresses of our friends, +We first consult our private ends; +While nature, kindly bent to ease us, +Points out some circumstance to please us.' + +If this perhaps your patience move, +Let reason and experience prove. + +We all behold with envious eyes +Our equals raised above our size. +Who would not at a crowded show +Stand high himself, keep others low? +I love my friend as well as you: +But why should he obstruct my view? +Then let me have the higher post; +Suppose it but an inch at most. +If in a battle you should find +One, whom you love of all mankind, +Had some heroic action done, +A champion killed, or trophy won; +Rather than thus be over-topped, +Would you not wish his laurels cropped? +Dear honest Ned is in the gout, +Lies racked with pain, and you without: +How patiently you hear him groan! +How glad the case is not your own! + +What poet would not grieve to see +His brother write as well as he? +But, rather than they should excel, +Would wish his rivals all in hell? + +Her end when emulation misses, +She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: +The strongest friendship yields to pride, +Unless the odds be on our side. +Vain human-kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, +Their empire in our hearts divide. +Give others riches, power, and station, +'Tis all on me an usurpation. +I have no title to aspire; +Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. +In Pope I cannot read a line, +But, with a sigh, I wish it mine: +When he can in one couplet fix +More sense than I can do in six, +It gives me such a jealous fit, +I cry, 'Pox take him and his wit!' +I grieve to be outdone by Gay +In my own humorous, biting way. +Arbuthnot is no more my friend, +Who dares to irony pretend, +Which I was born to introduce, +Refined at first, and showed its use. +St John, as well as Pultney, knows +That I had some repute for prose; +And, till they drove me out of date, +Could maul a minister of state. +If they have mortified my pride, +And made me throw my pen aside; +If with such talents Heaven hath blest 'em, +Have I not reason to detest 'em? + +To all my foes, dear Fortune, send +Thy gifts; but never to my friend: +I tamely can endure the first; +But this with envy makes me burst. + +Thus much may serve by way of proem; +Proceed we therefore to our poem. + +The time is not remote when I +Must by the course of nature die; +When, I foresee, my special friends +Will try to find their private ends: +And, though 'tis hardly understood +Which way my death can do them good, +Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: +'See how the Dean begins to break! +Poor gentleman, he droops apace! +You plainly find it in his face. +That old vertigo in his head +Will never leave him, till he's dead. +Besides, his memory decays: +He recollects not what he says; +He cannot call his friends to mind; +Forgets the place where last he dined; +Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; +He told them fifty times before. +How does he fancy we can sit +To hear his out-of-fashion wit? +But he takes up with younger folks, +Who for his wine will bear his jokes. +Faith! he must make his stories shorter, +Or change his comrades once a quarter: +In half the time he talks them round, +There must another set be found. + +'For poetry, he's past his prime: +He takes an hour to find a rhyme; +His fire is out, his wit decayed, +His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. +I'd have him throw away his pen;-- +But there's no talking to some men!' + +And then their tenderness appears +By adding largely to my years: +'He's older than he would be reckoned, +And well remembers Charles the Second. +He hardly drinks a pint of wine; +And that, I doubt, is no good sign. +His stomach too begins to fail: +Last year we thought him strong and hale; +But now he's quite another thing: +I wish he may hold out till spring!' +They hug themselves, and reason thus: +'It is not yet so bad with us!' + +In such a case, they talk in tropes, +And by their fears express their hopes. +Some great misfortune to portend, +No enemy can match a friend. +With all the kindness they profess, +The merit of a lucky guess +(When daily how-d'ye's come of course, +And servants answer, 'Worse and worse!') +Would please them better, than to tell, +That, 'God be praised, the Dean is well.' +Then he who prophesied the best, +Approves his foresight to the rest: +'You know I always feared the worst, +And often told you so at first.' +He'd rather choose that I should die, +Than his predictions prove a lie. +Not one foretells I shall recover; +But all agree to give me over. + +Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain +Just in the parts where I complain; +How many a message would he send! +What hearty prayers that I should mend! +Inquire what regimen I kept; +What gave me ease, and how I slept; +And more lament when I was dead, +Than all the snivellers round my bed. + +My good companions, never fear; +For, though you may mistake a year, +Though your prognostics run too fast, +They must be verified at last. + +Behold the fatal day arrive! +'How is the Dean?'--'He's just alive.' +Now the departing prayer is read; +He hardly breathes--The Dean is dead. + +Before the passing-bell begun, +The news through half the town is run. +'Oh! may we all for death prepare! +What has he left? and who's his heir?' +'I know no more than what the news is; +'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.' +'To public uses! there's a whim! +What had the public done for him? +Mere envy, avarice, and pride: +He gave it all--but first he died. +And had the Dean, in all the nation, +No worthy friend, no poor relation? +So ready to do strangers good, +Forgetting his own flesh and blood!' + +Now Grub-Street wits are all employed; +With elegies the town is cloyed: +Some paragraph in every paper, +To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. +The doctors, tender of their fame, +Wisely on me lay all the blame. +'We must confess, his case was nice; +But he would never take advice. +Had he been ruled, for aught appears, +He might have lived these twenty years: +For, when we opened him, we found +That all his vital parts were sound.' + +From Dublin soon to London spread, +'Tis told at court, 'The Dean is dead.' +And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, +Runs laughing up to tell the queen. +The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, +Cries, 'Is he gone!'tis time he should. +He's dead, you say; then let him rot. +I'm glad the medals were forgot. +I promised him, I own; but when? +I only was the princess then; +But now, as consort of the king, +You know,'tis quite another thing.' + +Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, +Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: +'Why, if he died without his shoes,' +Cries Bob, 'I'm sorry for the news: +Oh, were the wretch but living still, +And in his place my good friend Will! +Or had a mitre on his head, +Provided Bolingbroke were dead!' + +Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: +Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! +And then, to make them pass the glibber, +Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. +He'll treat me as he does my betters, +Publish my will, my life, my letters; +Revive the libels born to die: +Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + +Here shift the scene, to represent +How those I love my death lament. +Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay +A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + +St John himself will scarce forbear +To bite his pen, and drop a tear. +The rest will give a shrug, and cry, +'I'm sorry--but we all must die!' + +Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, +All fortitude of mind supplies: +For how can stony bowels melt +In those who never pity felt! +When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, +Resigning to the will of God. + +The fools, my juniors by a year, +Are tortured with suspense and fear; +Who wisely thought my age a screen, +When death approached, to stand between: +The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; +They mourn for me without dissembling. + +My female friends, whose tender hearts +Have better learned to act their parts, +Receive the news in doleful dumps: +'The Dean is dead: (Pray, what is trumps?) +Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! +(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) +Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall: +(I wish I knew what king to call.) +Madam, your husband will attend +The funeral of so good a friend.' +'No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; +And he's engaged to-morrow night: +My Lady Club will take it ill, +If he should fail her at quadrille. +He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart)-- +But dearest friends, they say, must part. +His time was come; he ran his race; +We hope he's in a better place.' + +Why do we grieve that friends should die? +No loss more easy to supply. +One year is past; a different scene! +No further mention of the Dean, +Who now, alas! no more is missed, +Than if he never did exist. +Where's now the favourite of Apollo? +Departed:--and his works must follow; +Must undergo the common fate; +His kind of wit is out of date. + +Some country squire to Lintot goes, +Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. +Says Lintot, 'I have heard the name; +He died a year ago.'--'The same.' +He searches all the shop in vain. +'Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane: +I sent them, with a load of books, +Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. +To fancy they could live a year! +I find you're but a stranger here. +The Dean was famous in his time, +And had a kind of knack at rhyme. +His way of writing now is past: +The town has got a better taste. +I keep no antiquated stuff; +But spick and span I have enough. +Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: +Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. +This ode you never yet have seen, +By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. +Then here's a letter finely penned +Against the Craftsman and his friend: +It clearly shows that all reflection +On ministers is disaffection. +Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, +And Mr Henley's last oration. +The hawkers have not got them yet; +Your honour please to buy a set? + +'Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; +'Tis read by every politician: +The country-members, when in town, +To all their boroughs send them down: +You never met a thing so smart; +The courtiers have them all by heart: +Those maids of honour who can read, +Are taught to use them for their creed. +The reverend author's good intention +Hath been rewarded with a pension: +He doth an honour to his gown, +By bravely running priestcraft down: +He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, +That Moses was a grand impostor; +That all his miracles were cheats, +Performed as jugglers do their feats: +The church had never such a writer; +A shame he hath not got a mitre!' + +Suppose me dead; and then suppose +A club assembled at the Rose; +Where, from discourse of this and that, +I grow the subject of their chat. +And while they toss my name about, +With favour some, and some without; +One, quite indifferent in the cause, +My character impartial draws: + +'The Dean, if we believe report, +Was never ill received at court, +Although, ironically grave, +He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave; +To steal a hint was never known, +But what he writ was all his own.' + +'Sir, I have heard another story; +He was a most confounded Tory, +And grew, or he is much belied, +Extremely dull, before he died.' + +'Can we the Drapier then forget? +Is not our nation in his debt? +'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!'-- + +'He should have left them for his betters; +We had a hundred abler men, +Nor need depend upon his pen.-- +Say what you will about his reading, +You never can defend his breeding; +Who, in his satires running riot, +Could never leave the world in quiet; +Attacking, when he took the whim, +Court, city, camp,--all one to him.-- +But why would he, except he slobbered, +Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, +Whose counsels aid the sovereign power +To save the nation every hour! +What scenes of evil he unravels +In satires, libels, lying travels, +Not sparing his own clergy cloth, +But eats into it, like a moth!' + +'Perhaps I may allow the Dean +Had too much satire in his vein, +And seemed determined not to starve it, +Because no age could more deserve it. +Yet malice never was his aim; +He lashed the vice, but spared the name. + +No individual could resent, +Where thousands equally were meant: +His satire points at no defect, +But what all mortals may correct; +For he abhorred the senseless tribe +Who call it humour when they gibe: +He spared a hump or crooked nose, +Whose owners set not up for beaux. +True genuine dulness moved his pity, +Unless it offered to be witty. +Those who their ignorance confessed +He ne'er offended with a jest; +But laughed to hear an idiot quote +A verse from Horace learned by rote. +Vice, if it e'er can be abashed, +Must be or ridiculed, or lashed. +If you resent it, who's to blame? +He neither knows you, nor your name. +Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, +Because its owner is a dukel? +His friendships, still to few confined, +Were always of the middling kind; +No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, +Who fain would pass for lords indeed: +Where titles give no right or power, +And peerage is a withered flower; +He would have deemed it a disgrace, +If such a wretch had known his face. +On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, +He vented oft his wrath in vain: +* * * * * * * squires to market brought, +Who sell their souls and * * * * for nought. +The * * * * * * * * go joyful back, +To rob the church, their tenants rack; +Go snacks with * * * * * justices, +And keep the peace to pick up fees; +In every job to have a share, +A gaol or turnpike to repair; +And turn * * * * * * * to public roads +Commodious to their own abodes. + +'He never thought an honour done him, +Because a peer was proud to own him; +Would rather slip aside, and choose +To talk with wits in dirty shoes; +And scorn the tools with stars and garters, +So often seen caressing Chartres. +He never courted men in station, +Nor persons held in admiration; +Of no man's greatness was afraid, +Because he sought for no man's aid. +Though trusted long in great affairs, +He gave himself no haughty airs: +Without regarding private ends, +Spent all his credit for his friends; +And only chose the wise and good; +No flatterers; no allies in blood: +But succoured virtue in distress, +And seldom failed of good success; +As numbers in their hearts must own, +Who, but for him, had been unknown. + +'He kept with princes due decorum; +Yet never stood in awe before 'em. +He followed David's lesson just, +In princes never put his trust: +And, would you make him truly sour, +Provoke him with a slave in power. +The Irish senate if you named, +With what impatience he declaimed! +Fair LIBERTY was all his cry; +For her he stood prepared to die; +For her he boldly stood alone; +For her he oft exposed his own. +Two kingdoms, just as faction led, +Had set a price upon his head; +But not a traitor could be found, +To sell him for six hundred pound. + +'Had he but spared his tongue and pen, +He might have rose like other men: +But power was never in his thought, +And wealth he valued not a groat: +Ingratitude he often found, +And pitied those who meant to wound; +But kept the tenor of his mind, +To merit well of human-kind; +Nor made a sacrifice of those +Who still were true, to please his foes. +He laboured many a fruitless hour, +To reconcile his friends in power; +Saw mischief by a faction brewing, +While they pursued each other's ruin. +But, finding vain was all his care, +He left the court in mere despair. + +'And, oh! how short are human schemes! +Here ended all our golden dreams. +What St John's skill in state affairs, +What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, +To save their sinking country lent, +Was all destroyed by one event. +Too soon that precious life was ended, +On which alone our weal depended. +When up a dangerous faction starts, +With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; +By solemn league and covenant bound, +To ruin, slaughter, and confound; +To turn religion to a fable, +And make the government a Babel; +Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, +Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; +To sacrifice old England's glory, +And make her infamous in story: +When such a tempest shook the land, +How could unguarded virtue stand! + +'With horror, grief, despair, the Dean +Beheld the dire destructive scene: +His friends in exile, or the Tower, +Himself within the frown of power; +Pursued by base envenomed pens, +Far to the land of S---- and fens; +A servile race in folly nursed, +Who truckle most, when treated worst. + +'By innocence and resolution, +He bore continual persecution; +While numbers to preferment rose, +Whose merit was to be his foes; +When even his own familiar friends, +Intent upon their private ends, +Like renegadoes now he feels, +Against him lifting up their heels. + +'The Dean did, by his pen, defeat +An infamous destructive cheat; +Taught fools their interest how to know, +And gave them arms to ward the blow. +Envy hath owned it was his doing, +To save that hapless land from ruin; +While they who at the steerage stood, +And reaped the profit, sought his blood. + +'To save them from their evil fate, +In him was held a crime of state. +A wicked monster on the bench, +Whose fury blood could never quench; +As vile and profligate a villain, +As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; +Who long all justice had discarded, +Nor feared he God, nor man regarded; +Vowed on the Dean his rage to vent, +And make him of his zeal repent: +But Heaven his innocence defends, +The grateful people stand his friends; +Not strains of law, nor judges' frown, +Nor topics brought to please the crown, +Nor witness hired, nor jury picked, +Prevail to bring him in convict. + +'In exile, with a steady heart, +He spent his life's declining part; +Where folly, pride, and faction sway, +Remote from St John, Pope, and Gay.' + +'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope +Was to be held a misanthrope. +This into general odium drew him, +Which if he liked, much good may't do him. +His zeal was not to lash our crimes, +But discontent against the times: +For, had we made him timely offers +To raise his post, or fill his coffers, +Perhaps he might have truckled down, +Like other brethren of his gown; +For party he would scarce have bled:-- +I say no more--because he's dead.-- +What writings has he left behind?' + +'I hear they're of a different kind: +A few in verse; but most in prose--' + +'Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose:-- +All scribbled in the worst of times, +To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; +To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, +As never favouring the Pretender: +Or libels yet concealed from sight, +Against the court to show his spite: +Perhaps his travels, part the third; +A lie at every second word-- +Offensive to a loyal ear:-- +But--not one sermon, you may swear.' + +'He knew an hundred pleasing stories, +With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: +Was cheerful to his dying-day; +And friends would let him have his way. + +'As for his works in verse or prose, +I own myself no judge of those. +Nor can I tell what critics thought them; +But this I know, all people bought them, +As with a moral view designed, +To please and to reform mankind: +And, if he often missed his aim, +The world must own it to their shame, +The praise is his, and theirs the blame. +He gave the little wealth he had +To build a house for fools and mad; +To show, by one satiric touch, +No nation wanted it so much. +That kingdom he hath left his debtor, +I wish it soon may have a better. +And, since you dread no further lashes, +Methinks you may forgive his ashes.' + + +A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE +LEGION-CLUB. 1736. + +As I stroll the city, oft I +See a building large and lofty, +Not a bow-shot from the college; +Half the globe from sense and knowledge: +By the prudent architect, +Placed against the church direct, +Making good thy grandame's jest, +'Near the church'--you know the rest. + +Tell us what the pile contains? +Many a head that holds no brains. +These demoniacs let me dub +With the name of Legion-Club. +Such assemblies, you might swear, +Meet when butchers bait a bear; +Such a noise, and such haranguing, +When a brother thief is hanging: +Such a rout and such a rabble +Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble; +Such a crowd their ordure throws +On a far less villain's nose. + +Could I from the building's top +Hear the rattling thunder drop, +While the devil upon the roof +(If the devil be thunder-proof) +Should with poker fiery red +Crack the stones, and melt the lead; +Drive them down on every skull, +While the den of thieves is full; +Quite destroy the harpies' nest; +How might then our isle be blest! +For divines allow that God +Sometimes makes the devil his rod; +And the gospel will inform us, +He can punish sins enormous. + +Yet should Swift endow the schools, +For his lunatics and fools, +With a rood or two of land, +I allow the pile may stand. +You perhaps will ask me, Why so? +But it is with this proviso: +Since the house is like to last, +Let the royal grant be passed, +That the club have right to dwell +Each within his proper cell, +With a passage left to creep in, +And a hole above for peeping. +Let them when they once get in, +Sell the nation for a pin; +While they sit a-picking straws, +Let them rave at making laws; +While they never hold their tongue, +Let them dabble in their dung; +Let them form a grand committee, +How to plague and starve the city; +Let them stare, and storm, and frown, +When they see a clergy gown; +Let them, ere they crack a louse, +Call for the orders of the house; +Let them, with their gosling quills, +Scribble senseless heads of bills. +We may, while they strain their throats, +Wipe our a--s with their votes. +Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, +Stuff his guts with flax and grass; +But, before the priest he fleeces, +Tear the Bible all to pieces: +At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, +Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, +Footman, traitor, vile seducer, +Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, +Lay thy privilege aside, +Sprung from Papist regicide; +Fall a-working like a mole, +Raise the dirt about your hole. + +Come, assist me, muse obedient! +Let us try some new expedient; +Shift the scene for half an hour, +Time and place are in thy power. +Thither, gentle muse, conduct me; +I shall ask, and you instruct me. + +See the muse unbars the gate! +Hark, the monkeys, how they prate! + +All ye gods who rule the soul! +Styx, through hell whose waters roll! +Let me be allowed to tell +What I heard in yonder cell. + +Near the door an entrance gapes, +Crowded round with antic shapes, +Poverty, and Grief, and Care, +Causeless Joy, and true Despair; +Discord periwigged with snakes, +See the dreadful strides she takes! + +By this odious crew beset, +I began to rage and fret, +And resolved to break their pates, +Ere we entered at the gates; +Had not Clio in the nick +Whispered me, 'Lay down your stick.' +What, said I, is this the mad-house? +These, she answered, are but shadows, +Phantoms bodiless and vain, +Empty visions of the brain.' + +In the porch Briareus stands, +Shows a bribe in all his hands; +Briareus, the secretary, +But we mortals call him Carey. +When the rogues their country fleece, +They may hope for pence a-piece. + +Clio, who had been so wise +To put on a fool's disguise, +To bespeak some approbation, +And be thought a near relation, +When she saw three hundred brutes +All involved in wild disputes, +Roaring till their lungs were spent, +'Privilege of Parliament.' +Now a new misfortune feels, +Dreading to be laid by the heels. +Never durst the muse before +Enter that infernal door; +Clio, stifled with the smell, +Into spleen and vapours fell, +By the Stygian steams that flew +From the dire infectious crew. +Not the stench of Lake Avernus +Could have more offended her nose; +Had she flown but o'er the top, +She had felt her pinions drop, +And by exhalations dire, +Though a goddess, must expire. +In a fright she crept away; +Bravely I resolved to stay. + +When I saw the keeper frown, +Tipping him with half-a-crown, +Now, said I, we are alone, +Name your heroes one by one. + +Who is that hell-featured brawler? +Is it Satan? No,'tis Waller. +In what figure can a bard dress +Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? +Honest keeper, drive him further, +In his looks are hell and murther; +See the scowling visage drop, +Just as when he murdered T----p. +Keeper, show me where to fix +On the puppy pair of Dicks; +By their lantern jaws and leathern, +You might swear they both are brethren: +Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, +Old acquaintance, are you there? +Dear companions, hug and kiss, +Toast Old Glorious in your piss: +Tie them, keeper, in a tether, +Let them starve and stink together; +Both are apt to be unruly, +Lash them daily, lash them duly; +Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, +Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them. + +Keeper, yon old dotard smoke, +Sweetly snoring in his cloak; +Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne, +Half encompassed by his kin: +There observe the tribe of Bingham, +For he never fails to bring 'em; +While he sleeps the whole debate, +They submissive round him wait; +Yet would gladly see the hunks +In his grave, and search his trunks. +See, they gently twitch his coat, +Just to yawn and give his vote, +Always firm in his vocation, +For the court, against the nation. + +Those are A----s Jack and Bob, +First in every wicked job, +Son and brother to a queer +Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. +We must give them better quarter, +For their ancestor trod mortar, +And at H----th, to boast his fame, +On a chimney cut his name. + +There sit Clements, D----ks, and Harrison, +How they swagger from their garrison! +Such a triplet could you tell +Where to find on this side hell? +Harrison, D----ks, and Clements, +Keeper, see they have their payments; +Every mischief's in their hearts; +If they fail, 'tis want of parts. + +Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man! +Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman! +Chairman to yon damned committee! +Yet I look on thee with pity. +Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan +Metamorphosed to a Gorgon? +For thy horrid looks I own, +Half convert me to a stone, +Hast thou been so long at school, +Now to turn a factious tool? +Alma Mater was thy mother, +Every young divine thy brother. +Thou a disobedient varlet, +Treat thy mother like a harlot! +Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, +Who are all grown reverend preachers! +Morgan, would it not surprise one! +Turn thy nourishment to poison! +When you walk among your books, +They reproach you with your looks. +Bind them fast, or from their shelves +They will come and right themselves; +Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, +All in arms prepare to back us. +Soon repent, or put to slaughter +Every Greek and Roman author. +Will you, in your faction's phrase, +Send the clergy all to graze, +And, to make your project pass, +Leave them not a blade of grass? +How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! +Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art, +Were but you and I acquainted, +Every monster should be painted: +You should try your graving-tools +On this odious group of fools: +Draw the beasts as I describe them +From their features, while I gibe them; +Draw them like; for I assure you, +You will need no _car'catura;_ +Draw them so, that we may trace +All the soul in every face. +Keeper, I must now retire, +You have done what I desire: +But I feel my spirits spent +With the noise, the sight, the scent. + +'Pray be patient; you shall find +Half the best are still behind: +You have hardly seen a score; +I can show two hundred more.' +Keeper, I have seen enough.-- +Taking then a pinch of snuff, +I concluded, looking round them, +'May their god, the devil, confound them. +Take them, Satan, as your due, +All except the Fifty-two.' + +[1] 'Sir Tom:' Sir Thomas Prendergrast, a privy councillor. + + + + +ISAAC WATTS. + + +We feel relieved, and so doubtless do our readers, in passing from the +dark tragic story of Swift, and his dubious and unhappy character, to +contemplate the useful career of a much smaller, but a much better man, +Isaac Watts. This admirable person was born at Southampton on the 17th +of July 1674. His father, of the same name, kept a boarding-school for +young gentlemen, and was a man of intelligence and piety. Isaac was the +eldest of nine children, and began early to display precocity of genius. +At four he commenced to study Latin at home, and afterwards, under one +Pinhorn, a clergyman, who kept the free-school at Southampton, he +learned Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. A subscription was proposed for +sending him to one of the great universities, but he preferred casting +in his lot with the Dissenters. He repaired accordingly, in 1690, to +an academy kept by the Rev. Thomas Rowe, whose son, we believe, became +the husband of the celebrated Elizabeth Rowe, the once popular author +of 'Letters from the Dead to the Living.' The Rowes belonged to the +Independent body. At this academy Watts began to write poetry, chiefly +in the Latin language, and in the then popular Pindaric measure. At the +age of twenty, he returned to his father's house, and spent two quiet +years in devotion, meditation, and study. He became next a tutor in the +family of Sir John Hartopp for five years. He was afterwards chosen +assistant to Dr Chauncey, and, after the Doctor's death, became his +successor. His health, however, failed, and, after getting an assistant +for a while, he was compelled to resign. In 1712, Sir Thomas Abney, a +benevolent gentleman of the neighbourhood, received Watts into his +house, where he continued during the rest of his life--all his wants +attended to, and his feeble frame so tenderly cared for that he lived +to the age of seventy-five. Sir Thomas died eight years after Dr Watts +entered his establishment, but the widow and daughters continued +unwearied in their attentions. Abney House was a mansion surrounded by +fine gardens and pleasure-grounds, where the Doctor became thoroughly +at home, and was wont to refresh his body and mind in the intervals +of study. He preached regularly to a congregation, and in the pulpit, +although his stature was low, not exceeding five feet, the excellence +of his matter, the easy flow of his language, and the propriety of his +pronunciation, rendered him very popular. In private he was exceedingly +kind to the poor and to children, giving to the former a third part +of his small income of L100 a-year, and writing for the other his +inimitable hymns. Besides these, he published a well-known treatise +on Logic, another on 'The Improvement of the Mind,' besides various +theological productions, amongst which his 'World to Come' has been +preeminently popular. In 1728, he received from Edinburgh and Aberdeen +an unsolicited diploma of Doctor of Divinity. As age advanced, he found +himself unable to discharge his ministerial duties, and offered to remit +his salary, but his congregation refused to accept his demission. On the +25th November 1748, quite worn out, but without suffering, this able and +worthy man expired. + +If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, +it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other +treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, +and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of +millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he +shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and +so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his +detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this +epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious +foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of +supplication to God for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me! +O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and +containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever +heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only +a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the +little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be +those of simple, heartfelt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder +Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these +not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple +breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts +consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius. + + +FEW HAPPY MATCHES. + +1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song, + To whom thy sweetest joys belong, + And who the happy pairs, + Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, + Find blessings twisted with their bands, + To soften all their cares. + +2 Not the wild herds of nymphs and swains + That thoughtless fly into thy chains, + As custom leads the way: + If there be bliss without design, + Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, + And be as blest as they. + +3 Not sordid souls of earthly mould + Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, + To dull embraces move: + So two rich mountains of Peru + May rush to wealthy marriage too, + And make a world of love. + +4 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires + With wanton flames; those raging fires + The purer bliss destroy: + On Aetna's top let furies wed, + And sheets of lightning dress the bed, + To improve the burning joy. + +5 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms + None of the melting passions warms + Can mingle hearts and hands: + Logs of green wood that quench the coals + Are married just like stoic souls, + With osiers for their bands. + +6 Not minds of melancholy strain, + Still silent, or that still complain, + Can the dear bondage bless: + As well may heavenly concerts spring + From two old lutes with ne'er a string, + Or none besides the bass. + +7 Nor can the soft enchantments hold + Two jarring souls of angry mould, + The rugged and the keen: + Samson's young foxes might as well + In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, + With firebrands tied between. + +8 Nor let the cruel fetters bind + A gentle to a savage mind, + For love abhors the sight: + Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, + For native rage and native fear + Rise and forbid delight. + +9 Two kindest souls alone must meet; + 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, + And feeds their mutual loves: + Bright Venus on her rolling throne + Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, + And Cupids yoke the doves. + + +THE SLUGGARD. + +1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, + 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.' + As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, + Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. + +2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;' + Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; + And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, + Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. + +3 I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, + The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher; + The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, + And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs. + +4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find + He had took better care for improving his mind; + He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, + But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. + +5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me: + That man's but a picture of what I might be; + But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, + Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.' + + +THE ROSE. + +1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! + The glory of April and May! + But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, + And they wither and die in a day. + +2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, + Above all the flowers of the field: + When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, + Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! + +3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, + Though they bloom and look gay like the rose: + But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; + Time kills them as fast as he goes. + +4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, + Since both of them wither and fade: + But gain a good name by well doing my duty; + This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead. + + +A CRADLE HYMN. + +1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, + Holy angels guard thy bed! + Heavenly blessings without number + Gently falling on thy head. + +2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, + House and home, thy friends provide; + All without thy care or payment, + All thy wants are well supplied. + +3 How much better thou'rt attended + Than the Son of God could be, + When from heaven he descended, + And became a child like thee! + +4 Soft and easy in thy cradle: + Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, + When his birthplace was a stable, + And his softest bed was hay. + +5 Blessed babe! what glorious features, + Spotless fair, divinely bright! + Must he dwell with brutal creatures? + How could angels bear the sight? + +6 Was there nothing but a manger + Cursed sinners could afford, + To receive the heavenly Stranger! + Did they thus affront their Lord? + +7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, + Though my song might sound too hard; + This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee, + { nurse that } + And her arms shall be thy guard. + +8 Yet to read the shameful story, + How the Jews abused their King, + How they served the Lord of glory, + Makes me angry while I sing. + +9 See the kinder shepherds round him, + Telling wonders from the sky! + Where they sought him, where they found him, + With his virgin mother by. + +10 See the lovely babe a-dressing; + Lovely infant, how he smiled! + When he wept, the mother's blessing + Soothed and hushed the holy child. + +11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger, + Where the horned oxen fed: + Peace, my darling, here's no danger, + Here's no ox a-near thy bed. + +12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, + Save my dear from burning flame, + Bitter groans, and endless crying, + That thy blest Redeemer came. + +13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him, + Trust and love him, all thy days; + Then go dwell for ever near him, + See his face, and sing his praise! + +14 I could give thee thousand kisses, + Hoping what I most desire; + Not a mother's fondest wishes + Can to greater joys aspire. + +[1] Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend. + + +BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY. + + The beauty of my native land + Immortal love inspires; + I burn, I burn with strong desires, + And sigh and wait the high command. + There glides the moon her shining way, + And shoots my heart through with a silver ray. + Upward my heart aspires: + A thousand lamps of golden light, + Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, + And wink and beckon with their amorous fires. + O ye fair glories of my heavenly home, + Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court, + Where all the happy minds resort! + When will my Father's chariot come? + Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round, + For ever see the mourner lie + An exile of the sky, + A prisoner of the ground? + Descend, some shining servants from on high, + Build me a hasty tomb; + A grassy turf will raise my head; + The neighbouring lilies dress my bed, + And shed a sweet perfume. + Here I put off the chains of death, + My soul too long has worn: + Friends, I forbid one groaning breath, + Or tear to wet my urn. + Raphael, behold me all undressed; + Here gently lay this flesh to rest, + Then mount and lead the path unknown. +Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own. + + +TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE. + + Great man, permit the muse to climb, + And seat her at thy feet; + Bid her attempt a thought sublime, + And consecrate her wit. + I feel, I feel the attractive force + Of thy superior soul: + My chariot flies her upward course, + The wheels divinely roll. + Now let me chide the mean affairs + And mighty toil of men: + How they grow gray in trifling cares, + Or waste the motion of the spheres + Upon delights as vain! + A puff of honour fills the mind, + And yellow dust is solid good; + + Thus, like the ass of savage kind, + We snuff the breezes of the wind, + Or steal the serpent's food. + Could all the choirs + That charm the poles + But strike one doleful sound, + 'Twould be employed to mourn our souls, + Souls that were framed of sprightly fires, + In floods of folly drowned. +Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy; +How they disclaim their heavenly birth, +Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth, +And hate to be refined from that impure alloy. + + Oft has thy genius roused us hence + With elevated song, + Bid us renounce this world of sense, + Bid us divide the immortal prize + With the seraphic throng: + 'Knowledge and love make spirits blest, + Knowledge their food, and love their rest;' + But flesh, the unmanageable beast, + Resists the pity of thine eyes, + And music of thy tongue. + Then let the worms of grovelling mind + Round the short joys of earthly kind + In restless windings roam; + Howe hath an ample orb of soul, + Where shining worlds of knowledge roll, + Where love, the centre and the pole, + Completes the heaven at home. + + + + +AMBROSE PHILIPS. + + +This gentleman--remembered now chiefly as Pope's temporary rival--was +born in 1671, in Leicestershire; studied at Cambridge; and, being +a great Whig, was appointed by the government of George I. to be +Commissioner of the Collieries, and afterwards to some lucrative +appointments in Ireland. He was also made one of the Commissioners of +the Lottery. He was elected member for Armagh in the Irish House of +Commons. He returned home in 1748, and died the next year in his +lodgings at Vauxhall. + +His works are 'The Distressed Mother,' a tragedy translated from Racine, +and greatly praised in the _Spectator_; two deservedly forgotten plays, +'The Briton,' and 'Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester;' some miscellaneous +pieces, of which an epistle to the Earl of Dorset, dated Copenhagen, has +some very vivid lines; his Pastorals, which were commended by Tickell at +the expense of those of Pope, who took his revenge by damning them, not +with 'faint' but with fulsome and ironical praise, in the _Guardian_; +and the subjoined fragment from Sappho, which is, particularly in the +first stanza, melody itself. Some conjecture that it was touched up by +Addison. + + +A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. + +1 Blessed as the immortal gods is he, + The youth who fondly sits by thee, + And hears and sees thee all the while + Softly speak, and sweetly smile. + +2 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, + And raised such tumults in my breast; + For while I gazed, in transport tossed, + My breath was gone, my voice was lost. + +3 My bosom glowed: the subtle flame + Ran quickly through my vital frame; + O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, + My ears with hollow murmurs rung. + +4 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, + My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; + My feeble pulse forgot to play, + I fainted, sunk, and died away. + + + + +WILLIAM HAMILTON. + + +William Hamilton, of Bangour, was born in Ayrshire in 1704. He was of +an ancient family, and mingled from the first in the most fashionable +circles. Ere he was twenty he wrote verses in Ramsay's 'Tea-Table +Miscellany.' In 1745, to the surprise of many, he joined the standard +of Prince Charles, and wrote a poem on the battle of Gladsmuir, or +Prestonpans. When the reverse of his party came, after many wanderings +and hair's-breadth escapes in the Highlands, he found refuge in France. +As he was a general favourite, and as much allowance was made for his +poetical temperament, a pardon was soon procured for him by his friends, +and he returned to his native country. His health, however, originally +delicate, had suffered by his Highland privations, and he was compelled +to seek the milder clime of Lyons, where he died in 1754. + +Hamilton was what is called a ladies'-man, but his attachments were not +deep, and he rather flirted than loved. A Scotch lady, who was annoyed +at his addresses, asked John Home how she could get rid of them. He, +knowing Hamilton well, advised her to appear to favour him. She acted on +the advice, and he immediately withdrew his suit. And yet his best poem +is a tale of love, and a tale, too, told with great simplicity and +pathos. We refer to his 'Braes of Yarrow,' the beauty of which we never +felt fully till we saw some time ago that lovely region, with its 'dowie +dens,'--its clear living stream,--Newark Castle, with its woods and +memories,--and the green wildernesses of silent hills which stretch on +all sides around; saw it, too, in that aspect of which Wordsworth sung +in the words-- + + 'The grace of forest charms decayed + And pastoral melancholy.' + +It is the highest praise we can bestow upon Hamilton's ballad that it +ranks in merit near Wordsworth's fine trinity of poems, 'Yarrow +Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow Revisited.' + + +THE BRAES OF YARROW. + +1 A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, + Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! + Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, + And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. + +2 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? + Where gat ye that winsome marrow? + A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen, + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +3 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, + Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! + Nor let thy heart lament to leave + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +4 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? + Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? + And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? + +5 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, + Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, + And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +6 For she has tint her lover lover dear, + Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, + And I hae slain the comeliest swain + That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +7 Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? + Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? + And why yon melancholious weeds + Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? + +8 What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? + What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! + Tis he, the comely swain I slew + Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. + +9 Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears, + His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, + And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, + And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. + +10 Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, + Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, + And weep around in waeful wise, + His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. + +11 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, + My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, + The fatal spear that pierced his breast, + His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. + +12 Did I not warn thee not to lue, + And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; + O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm + Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. + +13 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, + Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, + Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, + Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. + +14 Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, + As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, + As sweet smells on its braes the birk, + The apple frae the rock as mellow. + +15 Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love + In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; + Though he was fair and weil beloved again, + Than me he never lued thee better. + +16 Busk ye then, busk, my bonny bonny bride, + Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, + Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, + And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. + +17 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, + How can I busk a winsome marrow, + How lue him on the banks of Tweed, + That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow? + +18 O Yarrow fields! may never never rain + Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, + For there was basely slain my love, + My love, as he had not been a lover. + +19 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, + His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin', + Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned + He was in these to meet his ruin. + +20 The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed, + Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, + But e'er the to-fall of the night + He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. + +21 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day; + I sang, my voice the woods returning, + But lang ere night the spear was flown + That slew my love, and left me mourning. + +22 What can my barbarous barbarous father do, + But with his cruel rage pursue me? + My lover's blood is on thy spear, + How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? + +23 My happy sisters may be may be proud; + With cruel and ungentle scoffin', + May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes + My lover nailed in his coffin. + +24 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, + And strive with threatening words to move me; + My lover's blood is on thy spear, + How canst thou ever bid me love thee? + +25 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, + With bridal sheets my body cover, + Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, + Let in the expected husband lover. + +26 But who the expected husband husband is? + His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. + Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, + Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after? + +27 Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, + Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow! + Take aff take aff these bridal weeds, + And crown my careful head with willow. + +28 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved; + Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee, + Ye'd lie all night between my breasts! + No youth lay ever there before thee. + +29 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth; + Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, + And lie all night between my breasts; + No youth shall ever lie there after. + +30 A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, + Return and dry thy useless sorrow: + Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs, + He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. + + + + +ALLAN RAMSAY. + + +Crawford Muir, in Lanarkshire, was the birthplace of this true poet. His +father was manager of the Earl of Hopetoun's lead-mines. Allan was born +in 1686. His mother was Alice Bower, the daughter of an Englishman who +had emigrated from Derbyshire. His father died while his son was yet in +infancy; his mother married again in the same district; and young Allan +was educated at the parish school of Leadhills. At the age of fifteen, +he was sent to Edinburgh, and bound apprentice to a wig-maker there. +This trade, however, he left after finishing his term. He displayed +rather early a passion for literature, and made a little reputation by +some pieces of verse,--such as 'An Address to the Easy Club,' a convivial +society with which he was connected,--and a considerable time after by +a capital continuation of King James' 'Christis Kirk on the Green.' +In 1712, he married a writer's daughter, Christiana Ross, who was his +affectionate companion for thirty years. Soon after, he set up a +bookseller's shop opposite Niddry's Wynd, and in this capacity edited +and published two collections,--the one of songs, some of them his own, +entitled 'The Tea-Table Miscellany,' and the other of early Scottish +poems, entitled 'The Evergreen.' In 1725, he published 'The Gentle +Shepherd.' It was the expansion of one or two pastoral scenes which he +ad shewn to his delighted friends. The poem became instantly popular, +and was republished in London and Dublin, and widely circulated in the +colonies. Pope admired it. Gay, then in Scotland with his patrons the +Queensberry family, used to lounge into Ramsay's shop to get explanations +of its Scotch phrases to transmit to Twickenham, and to watch from the +window the notable characters whom Allan pointed out to him in the +Edinburgh Exchange. He now removed to a better shop, and set up for his +sign the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond, who agreed better in figure +than they had done in reality at Hawthornden. He established the first +circulating library in Scotland. His shop became a centre of intelligence, +and Ramsay sat a Triton among the minnows of that rather mediocre day +--giving his little senate laws, and inditing verses, songs, and fables. +At forty-five--an age when Sir Walter Scott had scarcely commenced his +Waverley novels, and Dryden had by far his greatest works to produce +--honest Allan imagined his vein exhausted, and ceased to write, although +he lived and enjoyed life for nearly thirty years more. At last, after +having lost money and gained obloquy, in a vain attempt to found the +first theatre in Edinburgh, and after building for himself a curious +octagon-shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which, while +he called it Ramsay Lodge, his enemies nicknamed 'The Goose-pie,' and +which, though altered, still, we believe, stands, under the name of +Ramsay Garden, the author of 'The Gentle Shepherd' breathed his last on +the 7th of January 1758. He died of a scurvy in the gums. His son became +a distinguished painter, intimate with Johnson, Burke, and the rest of +that splendid set, although now chiefly remembered from his connexion +with them and with his father. + +Allan Ramsay was a poet with very few of the usual poetical faults. He +had an eye for nature, but he had also an eye for the main chance. He +'kept his shop, and his shop kept him.' He might sing of intrigues, and +revels, and houses of indifferent reputation; but he was himself a +quiet, _canny_, domestic man, seen regularly at kirk and market. He had +a great reverence for the gentry, with whom he fancied himself, and +perhaps was, through the Dalhousie family, connected. He had a vast +opinion of himself; and between pride of blood, pride of genius, and +plenty of means, he was tolerably happy. How different from poor maudlin +Fergusson, or from that dark-browed, dark-eyed, impetuous being who was, +within a year of Ramsay's death, to appear upon the banks of Doon, +coming into the world to sing divinely, to act insanely, and prematurely +to die! + +A bard, in the highest use of the word, in which it approaches the +meaning of prophet, Ramsay was not, else he would not have ceased so +soon to sing. Whatever lyrical impulse was in him speedily wore itself +out, and left him to his milder mission as a broad reflector of Scottish +life--in its humbler, gentler, and better aspects. His 'Gentle Shepherd' +is a chapter of Scottish still-life; and, since the pastoral is +essentially the poetry of peace, the 'Gentle Shepherd' is the finest +pastoral in the world. No thunders roll among these solitary crags; no +lightnings affright these lasses among their _claes_ at Habbie's Howe; +the air is still and soft; the plaintive bleating of the sheep upon the +hills, the echoes of the city are distant and faintly heard, so that the +very sounds seem in unison and in league with silence. One thinks of +Shelley's isle 'mid the Aegean deep:-- + + 'It is an isle under Ionian skies, + Beautiful as the wreck of Paradise; + And for the harbours are not safe and good, + The land would have remained a solitude, + But for some pastoral people, native there, + Who from the Elysian clear and sunny air + Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, + Simple and generous, innocent and bold. + + * * * * * + + The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm + To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm + Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, + From whence the fields and woods ever renew + Their green and golden immortality.' + +Yet in the little circle of calm carved out by the magician of 'The +Gentle Shepherd' there is no insipidity. Lust is sternly excluded, but +love of the purest and warmest kind there breathes. The parade of +learning is not there; but strong common sense thinks, and robust and +manly eloquence declaims. Humour too is there, and many have laughed at +Mause and Baldy, whom all the frigid wit of 'Love for Love' and the +'School for Scandal' could only move to contempt or pity. A _denouement_ +of great skill is not wanting to stir the calm surface of the story by +the wind of surprise; the curtain falls over a group of innocent, +guileless, and happy hearts, and as we gaze at them we breathe the +prayer, that Scotland's peerage and Scotland's peasantry may always thus +be blended into one bond of mutual esteem, endearment, and excellence. +Well might Campbell say--'Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of +the "Gentle Shepherd" is engraven on the memory of its native country. +Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delight +and solace of the peasantry whom it describes.' + +Ramsay has very slightly touched on the religion of his countrymen. This +is to be regretted; but if he had no sympathy with that, he, at least, +disdained to counterfeit it, and its poetical aspects have since been +adequately sung by other minstrels. + + +LOCHABER NO MORE. + +1 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, +Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; +For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, +We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. +These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, +And no for the dangers attending on weir; +Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, +Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. + +2 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, +They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; +Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, +That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. +To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; +By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; +And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, +And I must deserve it before I can crave. + +3 Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; +Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? +Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, +And without thy favour I'd better not be. +I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, +And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, +I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, +And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. + + +THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. + +1 The last time I came o'er the moor, + I left my love behind me; + Ye powers! what pain do I endure, + When soft ideas mind me! + Soon as the ruddy morn displayed + The beaming day ensuing, + I met betimes my lovely maid, + In fit retreats for wooing. + +2 Beneath the cooling shade we lay, + Gazing and chastely sporting; + We kissed and promised time away, + Till night spread her black curtain. + I pitied all beneath the skies, + E'en kings, when she was nigh me; + In raptures I beheld her eyes, + Which could but ill deny me. + +3 Should I be called where cannons roar, + Where mortal steel may wound me; + Or cast upon some foreign shore, + Where dangers may surround me; + Yet hopes again to see my love, + To feast on glowing kisses, + Shall make my cares at distance move, + In prospect of such blisses. + +4 In all my soul there's not one place + To let a rival enter; + Since she excels in every grace, + In her my love shall centre. + Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, + Their waves the Alps shall cover, + On Greenland ice shall roses grow, + Before I cease to love her. + +5 The next time I go o'er the moor, + She shall a lover find me; + And that my faith is firm and pure, + Though I left her behind me: + Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain + My heart to her fair bosom; + There, while my being does remain, + My love more fresh shall blossom. + + +FROM 'THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.' + +ACT I.--SCENE II. + +PROLOGUE. + +A flowrie howm[1] between twa verdant braes, +Where lasses used to wash and spread their claes,[2] +A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground, +Its channel peebles shining smooth and round: +Here view twa barefoot beauties clean and clear; +First please your eye, then gratify your ear; +While Jenny what she wishes discommends, +And Meg with better sense true love defends. + +PEGGY AND JENNY. + +_Jenny_. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green, +This shining day will bleach our linen clean; +The water's clear, the lift[3] unclouded blue, +Will mak them like a lily wet with dew. + +_Peggy_. Gae farrer up the burn to Habbie's How, +Where a' that's sweet in spring and simmer grow: +Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,[4] +The water fa's, and maks a singin' din: +A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, +Kisses with easy whirls the bordering grass. +We'll end our washing while the morning's cool, +And when the day grows het we'll to the pool, +There wash oursells; 'tis healthfu' now in May, +And sweetly caller on sae warm a day. + +_Jenny_. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say, +Giff our twa herds come brattling down the brae, +And see us sae?--that jeering fellow, Pate, +Wad taunting say, 'Haith, lasses, ye're no blate.'[5] + +_Peggy_. We're far frae ony road, and out of sight; +The lads they're feeding far beyont the height; +But tell me now, dear Jenny, we're our lane, +What gars ye plague your wooer with disdain? +The neighbours a' tent this as well as I; +That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by. +What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa, +He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw. + +_Jenny_. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; +A herd mair sheepish yet I never kenn'd. +He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, +With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; +Whilk pensylie[6] he wears a thought a-jee,[7] +And spreads his garters diced beneath his knee. +He falds his owrelay[8] down his breast with care, +And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair; +For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, +Except, 'How d'ye?--or, 'There's a bonny day.' + +_Peggy_. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride, +Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: +But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld;-- +What like's a dorty[9] maiden when she's auld? +Like dawted wean[10] that tarrows at its meat,[11] +That for some feckless[12] whim will orp[13] and greet: +The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past, +And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, +Or scart anither's leavings at the last. +Fy, Jenny! think, and dinna sit your time. + +_Jenny_. I never thought a single life a crime. + +_Peggy_. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken +That men were made for us, and we for men. + +_Jenny_. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, +For sic a tale I never heard him tell. +He glowers[14] and sighs, and I can guess the cause: +But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws? +Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, +I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. +They're fools that slavery like, and may be free; +The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me. + +_Peggy_. Be doing your ways: for me, I have a mind +To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. + +_Jenny_. Heh! lass, how can ye lo'e that rattleskull? +A very deil, that aye maun have his will! +We soon will hear what a poor fechtin' life +You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife. + +_Peggy_. I'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear, +But rather think ilk langsome day a year, +Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed, +Where on my Patie's breast I'll lay my head. +There he may kiss as lang as kissing's good, +And what we do there's nane dare call it rude. +He's get his will; why no? 'tis good my part +To give him that, and he'll give me his heart. + +_Jenny_. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days +Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise, +And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane: +But soon as your newfangleness is gane, +He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, +And think he's tint his freedom for your sake. +Instead then of lang days of sweet delight, +Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: +And maybe, in his barlichood's,[15] ne'er stick +To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. + +_Peggy_. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want pith to move +My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love. +Patie to me is dearer than my breath, +But want of him, I dread nae other skaith.[16] +There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green +Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een. +And then he speaks with sic a taking art, +His words they thirl like music through my heart. +How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, +And jest at little fears that fright the lave. +Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, +He reads feil[17] books that teach him meikle skill; +He is--but what need I say that or this, +I'd spend a month to tell you what he is! +In a' he says or does there's sic a gate, +The rest seem coofs compared with my dear Pate; +His better sense will lang his love secure: +Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor. + +_Jenny._ Hey, 'bonnylass of Branksome!' or't be lang, +Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. +Oh, 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride! +Syne whinging gets about your ingle-side, +Yelping for this or that with fasheous[18] din: +To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin. +Ae wean fa's sick, and scads itself wi' brue,[19] +Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe: +The 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:'[20] hame grows hell, +When Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell. + +_Peggy._ Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, +When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. +Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight +To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. +Wow, Jenny! can there greater pleasure be, +Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee; +When a' they ettle at, their greatest wish, +Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss? +Can there be toil in tenting day and night +The like of them, when loves makes care delight? + +_Jenny_. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a', +Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw: +There little love or canty cheer can come +Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.[21] +Your nowt may die; the speat[22] may bear away +Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay; +The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows, +May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ewes; +A dyvour[23] buys your butter, woo', and cheese, +But, or the day of payment, breaks and flees; +With gloomin' brow the laird seeks in his rent, +'Tis no to gie, your merchant's to the bent; +His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear; +Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?-- +Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; +Troth, it's nae mows[24] to be a married wife. + +_Peggy_. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she, +Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. +Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best; +Nae mair's required--let Heaven make out the rest. +I've heard my honest uncle aften say, +That lads should a' for wives that's vertuous pray; +For the maist thrifty man could never get +A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let: +Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part +To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart. +Whate'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, +And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, +For healsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. +A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo', +Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due; +Syne a' behind's our ain.--Thus without fear, +With love and rowth[25] we through the warld will steer; +And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, +He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. + +_Jenny_. But what if some young giglet on the green, +With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, +Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, +And her kenn'd kisses, hardly worth a feg? + +_Peggy_. Nae mair of that:--dear Jenny, to be free, +There's some men constanter in love than we: +Nor is the ferly great, when Nature kind +Has blest them with solidity of mind; +They'll reason calmly, and with kindness smile, +When our short passions wad our peace beguile: +Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks[26]at hame, +'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame. +Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art +To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. +At even, when he comes weary frae the hill, +I'll have a' things made ready to his will: +In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, +A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane: +And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, +The seething-pot's be ready to take aff; +Clean hag-abag[27] I'll spread upon his board, +And serve him with the best we can afford: +Good-humour and white bigonets[28] shall be +Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. + +_Jenny_. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld, +And dozins[29] down to nane, as fowk grow auld. + +_Peggy_. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er find +The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind. +Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tie, +Than aught in love the like of us can spy. +See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, +Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride; +Nearer and nearer ilka year they've pressed, +Till wide their spreading branches are increased, +And in their mixture now are fully blessed: +This shields the other frae the eastlin' blast; +That in return defends it frae the wast. +Sic as stand single, (a state sae liked by you,) +Beneath ilk storm frae every airt[30] maun bow. + +_Jenny_. I've done,--I yield, dear lassie; I maun yield, +Your better sense has fairly won the field. +With the assistance of a little fae +Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. + +_Peggy_. Alake, poor pris'ner!--Jenny, that's no fair, +That ye'll no let the wee thing take the air: +Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well's we can, +Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man. + +_Jenny_. Anither time's as good; for see the sun +Is right far up, and we're not yet begun +To freath the graith: if canker'd Madge, our aunt, +Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant; +But when we've done, I'll tell you a' my mind; +For this seems true--nae lass can be unkind. + +[_Exeunt_. + +[1] Howm: holm. +[2] Claes: clothes. +[3] 'Lift:' sky. +[4] 'Linn:' a waterfall. +[5] 'Blate:' bashful. +[6] 'Pensylie:' sprucely. +[7] 'A-jee:' to one side. +[8] 'Owrelay:' cravat. +[9] 'Dorty:' pettish. +[10] 'Dawted wean:' spoiled child. +[11] 'Tarrows at its meat:' refuses its food. +[12] 'Feckless:' silly. +[13] 'Orp:' fret. +[14] 'Glowers:' stares. +[15] 'Barlichoods:' cross-moods. +[16] 'Skaith:' harm. +[17] 'Feil:' many. +[18] 'Fasheous:' troublesome. +[19] 'Scads itself wi' brue:' scalds itself with broth. +[20] 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:' all goes wrong. +[21] 'Toom:' empty. +[22] 'Speat:' land-flood. +[23] 'A dyvour:' bankrupt. +[24] 'Mows:' jest. +[25] 'Rowth:' plenty. +[26] 'Maiks:' mates. +[27] 'Hag-abag:' huckaback. +[28] 'White bigonets:' linen caps or coifs. +[29] 'Dozins:' dwindles. +[30] 'Airt:' quarter. + + + + +We come now to another cluster of minor poets,--such as Robert Dodsley, +who rose, partly through Pope's influence, from a footman to be a +respectable bookseller, and who, by the verses entitled 'The Parting +Kiss,'-- + + 'One fond kiss before we part, + Drop a tear and bid adieu; + Though we sever, my fond heart, + Till we meet, shall pant for you,' &c.-- + +seems to have suggested to Burns his 'Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;' +--John Brown, author of certain tragedies and other works, including the +once famous 'Estimate of the Manners and Principles of Modern Times,' of +which Cowper says-- + + 'The inestimable Estimate of Brown + Rose like a paper kite and charmed the town; + But measures planned and executed well + Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell:' + +and who went mad and died by his own hands;--John Gilbert Cooper, author +of a fine song to his wife, one stanza of which has often been quoted:-- + + 'And when with envy Time transported + Shall think to rob us of our joys; + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing in my boys;'-- + +Cuthbert Shaw, an unfortunate author of the Savage type, who wrote an +affecting monody on the death of his wife;--Thomas Scott, author of +'Lyric Poems, Devotional and Moral: London, 1773;'--Edward Thompson, a +native of Hull, and author of some tolerable sea-songs;--Henry Headley, +a young man of uncommon talents, a pupil of Dr Parr in Norwich, who, +when only twenty-one, published 'Select Beauties of the Ancient English +Poets,' accompanied by critical remarks discovering rare ripeness of mind +for his years, who wrote poetry too, but was seized with consumption, and +died at twenty-two;--Nathaniel Cotton, the physician, under whose care, +at St Alban's, Cowper for a time was;--William Hayward Roberts, author of +'Judah Restored,' a poem of much ambition and considerable merit;--John +Bampfylde, who went mad, and died in that state, after having published, +when young, some sweet sonnets, of which the following is one:-- + + 'Cold is the senseless heart that never strove + With the mild tumult of a real flame; + Rugged the breast that music cannot tame, + Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love + The pathless vale, the long-forsaken grove, + The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, + With ivy mantled o'er. For empty fame + Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove + In search of plunder far to western clime. + Give me to waste the hours in amorous play + With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme, + Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, + And all that prodigality of charms, + Formed to enslave my heart, and grace my lay;'-- + +Lord Chesterfield, who wrote some lines on 'Beau Nash's Picture at full +length, between the Busts of Newton and Pope at Bath,' of which this is +the last stanza-- + + 'The picture placed the busts between, + Adds to the thought much strength; + Wisdom and Wit are little seen, + But Folly's at full length;'-- + +Thomas Penrose, who is more memorable as a warrior than as a poet, +having fought against Buenos Ayres, as well as having written some +elegant war-verses;--Edward Moore, a contributor to the _World_;--Sir +John Henry Moore, a youth of promise, who died in his twenty-fifth year, +leaving behind him such songs as the following:-- + + 'Cease to blame my melancholy, + Though with sighs and folded arms + I muse with silence on her charms; + Censure not--I know 'tis folly; + Yet these mournful thoughts possessing, + Such delights I find in grief + That, could heaven afford relief, + My fond heart would scorn the blessing;'-- + +the Rev. Richard Jago, a friend of Shenstone's, and author of a pleasing +fable entitled 'Labour and Genius;'--Henry Brooke, better known for a +novel, once much in vogue, called 'The Fool of Quality,' than for his +elaborate poem entitled 'Universal Beauty,' which formed a prototype of +Darwin's 'Botanic Garden,' but did not enjoy that poem's fame;--George +Alexander Stevens, a comic actor, lecturer on 'heads,' and writer of +some poems, novels, and Bacchanalian songs:--and, in fine, Mrs Greville, +whose 'Prayer for Indifference' displays considerable genius. We quote +some stanzas:-- + + 'I ask no kind return in love, + No tempting charm to please; + Far from the heart such gifts remove + That sighs for peace and ease. + + 'Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know + That, like the needle true, + Turns at the touch of joy and woe, + But, turning, trembles too. + + 'Far as distress the soul can wound, + 'Tis pain in each degree; + 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound-- + Beyond, is agony. + + 'Then take this treacherous sense of mine, + Which dooms me still to smart, + Which pleasure can to pain refine, + To pain new pangs impart. + + 'Oh, haste to shed the sovereign balm, + My shattered nerves new string, + And for my guest, serenely calm, + The nymph Indifference bring.' + + + + +ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE. + + +This writer was born at Burton-on-Trent, in 1705. He was educated at +Westminster and Cambridge, and studied law at Lincoln's Inn. He was a +man of fortune, and sat in two parliaments for Wenlock, in Shropshire. +He died in 1760. His imitations of authors are clever and amusing, and +seem to have got their hint from 'The Splendid Shilling,' and to have +given it to the 'Rejected Addresses.' + + +IMITATION OF THOMSON. + +----Prorumpit ad aethera nubem +Turbine, fumantem piceo. VIRG. + + +O thou, matured by glad Hesperian suns, +Tobacco, fountain pure of limpid truth, +That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought +Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care, +And at each puff imagination burns: +Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires +Touch the mysterious lip that chants thy praise +In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown. +Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines +Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue formed, +And glazed magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill. +From Paetotheke with pungent powers perfumed, +Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbibed +Each parent ray; then rudely rammed, illume +With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet, +Marked with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds +Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around, +And many-mining fires; I all the while, +Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm. +But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join, +In genial strife and orthodoxal ale, +Stream life and joy into the Muse's bowl. +Oh, be thou still my great inspirer, thou +My Muse; oh, fan me with thy zephyrs boon, +While I, in clouded tabernacle shrined, +Burst forth all oracle and mystic song. + + +IMITATION OF POPE. + + --Solis ad ortus +Vanescit fumus. LUCAN. + +Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense +To Templars modesty, to parsons sense: +So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine, +Drank inspiration from the steam divine. +Poison that cures, a vapour that affords +Content, more solid than the smile of lords: +Rest to the weary, to the hungry food, +The last kind refuge of the wise and good. +Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale +Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail. +By thee protected, and thy sister, beer, +Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. +Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid, +While supperless he plies the piddling trade. +What though to love and soft delights a foe, +By ladies hated, hated by the beau, +Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown, +Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. +Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, +And let me taste thee unexcised by kings. + + +IMITATION OF SWIFT. + +Ex fumo dare lucem.--HOR. + +Boy! bring an ounce of Freeman's best, +And bid the vicar be my guest: +Let all be placed in manner due, +A pot wherein to spit or spew, +And London Journal, and Free-Briton, +Of use to light a pipe or * * + + * * * * * + +This village, unmolested yet +By troopers, shall be my retreat: +Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray; +Who cannot write or vote for * * * +Far from the vermin of the town, +Here let me rather live, my own, +Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland +In sweet oblivion lulls the land; +Of all which at Vienna passes, +As ignorant as * * Brass is: +And scorning rascals to caress, +Extol the days of good Queen Bess, +When first tobacco blessed our isle, +Then think of other queens--and smile. + +Come, jovial pipe, and bring along +Midnight revelry and song; +The merry catch, the madrigal, +That echoes sweet in City Hall; +The parson's pun, the smutty tale +Of country justice o'er his ale. +I ask not what the French are doing, +Or Spain, to compass Britain's ruin: + Britons, if undone, can go + Where tobacco loves to grow. + + + + +WILLIAM OLDYS. + + +Oldys was born in 1696, and died in 1761. He was a very diligent +collector of antiquarian materials, and the author of a Life of Raleigh. +He was intimate with Captain Grose, Burns' friend, who used to rally him +on his inordinate thirst for ale, although, if we believe Burns, it was +paralleled by Grose's liking for port. The following Anacreontic is +characteristic:-- + + +SONG, OCCASIONED BY A FLY DRINKING OUT OF A CUP OF ALE. + +Busy, curious, thirsty fly, +Drink with me, and drink as I; +Freely welcome to my cup, +Couldst thou sip and sip it up. +Make the most of life you may-- +Life is short, and wears away. + +Both alike are, mine and thine, +Hastening quick to their decline: +Thine's a summer, mine no more, +Though repeated to threescore; +Threescore summers, when they're gone, +Will appear as short as one. + + + + +ROBERT LLOYD. + + +Robert Lloyd was born in London in 1733. He was the son of one of the +under-masters of Westminster School. He went to Cambridge, where he +became distinguished for his talents and notorious for his dissipation. +He became an usher under his father, but soon tired of the drudgery, and +commenced professional author. He published a poem called 'The Actor,' +which attracted attention, and was the precursor of 'The Rosciad.' He +wrote for periodicals, produced some theatrical pieces of no great +merit, and edited the _St James' Magazine_. This failed, and Lloyd, +involved in pecuniary distresses, was cast into the Fleet. Here he was +deserted by all his boon companions except Churchill, to whose sister he +was attached, and who allowed him a guinea a-week and a servant, besides +promoting a subscription for his benefit. When the news of Churchill's +death arrived, Lloyd was seated at dinner; he became instantly sick, +cried out 'Poor Charles! I shall follow him soon,' and died in a few +weeks. Churchill's sister, a woman of excellent abilities, waited on +Lloyd during his illness, and died soon after him of a broken heart. +This was in 1764. + +Lloyd was a minor Churchill. He had not his brawny force, but he had +more than his liveliness of wit, and was a much better-conditioned man, +and more temperate in his satire. Cowper knew, loved, admired, and in +some of his verses imitated, Robert Lloyd. + + +THE MISERIES OF A POET'S LIFE. + +The harlot Muse, so passing gay, +Bewitches only to betray. +Though for a while with easy air +She smooths the rugged brow of care, +And laps the mind in flowery dreams, +With Fancy's transitory gleams; +Fond of the nothings she bestows, +We wake at last to real woes. +Through every age, in every place, +Consider well the poet's case; +By turns protected and caressed, +Defamed, dependent, and distressed. +The joke of wits, the bane of slaves, +The curse of fools, the butt of knaves; +Too proud to stoop for servile ends, +To lacquey rogues or flatter friends; +With prodigality to give, +Too careless of the means to live; +The bubble fame intent to gain, +And yet too lazy to maintain; +He quits the world he never prized, +Pitied by few, by more despised, +And, lost to friends, oppressed by foes, +Sinks to the nothing whence he rose. + +O glorious trade! for wit's a trade, +Where men are ruined more than made! +Let crazy Lee, neglected Gay, +The shabby Otway, Dryden gray, +Those tuneful servants of the Nine, +(Not that I blend their names with mine,) +Repeat their lives, their works, their fame. +And teach the world some useful shame. + + + + +HENRY CAREY. + + +Of Carey, the author of the popular song, 'Sally in our Alley,' we know +only that he was a professional musician, composing the air as well as +the words of 'Sally,' and that in 1763 he died by his own hands. + + +SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. + +1 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. + +2 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. + +3 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 belly full, + I'll bear it all for Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +4 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 dressed all in my best, + To walk abroad with Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +5 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. + +6 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 pounds, + I'd give it all to Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +7 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. + + + + +DAVID MALLETT. + + +David Mallett was the son of a small innkeeper in Crieff, Perthshire, +where he was born in the year 1700. Crieff, as many of our readers know, +is situated on the western side of a hill, and commands a most varied and +beautiful prospect, including Drummond Castle, with its solemn shadowy +woods, and the Ochils, on the south,--Ochtertyre, one of the loveliest +spots in Scotland, and the gorge of Glenturrett, on the north,--and the +bold dark hills which surround the romantic village of Comrie, on the +west. Crieff is now a place of considerable note, and forms a centre +of summer attraction to multitudes; but at the commencement of the +eighteenth century it must have been a miserable hamlet. _Malloch_ was +originally the name of the poet, and the name is still common in that +part of Perthshire. David attended the college of Aberdeen, and became, +afterwards, an unsalaried tutor in the family of Mr Home of Dreghorn, +near Edinburgh. We find him next in the Duke of Montrose's family, with +a salary of L30 per annum. In 1723, he accompanied his pupils to London, +and changed his name to Mallett, as more euphonious. Next year, he +produced his pretty ballad of 'William and Margaret,' and published it +in Aaron Hill's 'Plain Dealer.' This served as an introduction to the +literary society of the metropolis, including such names as Young and +Pope. In 1733, he disgraced himself by a satire on the greatest man then +living, the venerable Richard Bentley. Mallett was one of those mean +creatures who always worship a rising, and turn their backs on a setting +sun. By his very considerable talents, his management, and his address, +he soon rose in the world. He was appointed under-secretary to the Prince +of Wales, with a salary of L200 a-year. In conjunction with Thomson, to +whom he was really kind, he wrote in 1740, 'The Masque of Alfred,' in +honour of the birthday of the Princess Augusta. His first wife, of whom +nothing is recorded, having died, he married the daughter of Lord +Carlisle's steward, who brought him a fortune of L10,000. Both she and +Mallett himself gave themselves out as Deists. This was partly owing to +his intimacy with Bolingbroke, to gratify whom, he heaped abuse upon Pope +in a preface to 'The Patriot-King,' and was rewarded by Bolingbroke +leaving him the whole of his works and MSS. These he afterwards +published, and exposed himself to the vengeful sarcasm of Johnson, who +said that Bolingbroke was a scoundrel and a coward;--a scoundrel, to +charge a blunderbuss against Christianity; and a coward, because he durst +not fire it himself, but left a shilling to a beggarly Scotsman to draw +the trigger after his death. Mallett ranked himself among the +calumniators and, as it proved, murderers of Admiral Byng. He wrote a +Life of Lord Bacon, in which, it was said, he forgot that Bacon was a +philosopher, and would probably, when he came to write the Life of +Marlborough, forget that he was a general. This Life of Bacon is now +utterly forgotten. We happened to read it in our early days, and thought +it a very contemptible performance. The Duchess of Marlborough left L1000 +in her will between Glover and Mallett to write a Life of her husband. +Glover threw up his share of the work, and Mallett engaged to perform the +whole, to which, besides, he was stimulated by a pension from the second +Duke of Marlborough. He got the money, but when he died it was found that +he had not written a line of the work. In his latter days he held the +lucrative office of Keeper of the Book of Entries for the port of London. +He died on the 2lst April 1765. + +Mallett is, on the whole, no credit to Scotland. He was a bad, mean, +insincere, and unprincipled man, whose success was procured by despicable +and dastardly arts. He had doubtless some genius, and his 'Birks of +Invermay,' and 'William and Margaret,' shall preserve his name after his +clumsy imitation of Thomson, called 'The Excursion,' and his long, +rambling 'Amyntor and Theodora;' have been forgotten. + + +WILLIAM AND MARGARET. + +1 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour + When night and morning meet; + In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, + And stood at William's feet. + +2 Her face was like an April-morn, + Clad in a wintry cloud; + And clay-cold was her lily hand, + That held her sable shroud. + +3 So shall the fairest face appear, + When youth and years are flown: + Such is the robe that kings must wear, + When death has reft their crown. + +4 Her bloom was like the springing flower, + That sips the silver dew; + The rose was budded in her cheek, + Just opening to the view. + +5 But love had, like the canker-worm, + Consumed her early prime: + The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; + She died before her time. + +6 'Awake!' she cried, 'thy true love calls, + Come from her midnight-grave; + Now let thy pity hear the maid, + Thy love refused to save. + +7 'This is the dumb and dreary hour, + When injured ghosts complain; + When yawning graves give up their dead, + To haunt the faithless swain. + +8 'Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, + Thy pledge and broken oath! + And give me back my maiden-vow, + And give me back my troth. + +9 'Why did you promise love to me, + And not that promise keep? + Why did you swear my eyes were bright, + Yet leave those eyes to weep? + +10 'How could you say my face was fair, + And yet that face forsake? + How could you win my virgin-heart, + Yet leave that heart to break? + +11 'Why did you say my lip was sweet, + And made the scarlet pale? + And why did I, young witless maid! + Believe the flattering tale? + +12 'That face, alas! no more is fair, + Those lips no longer red: + Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, + And every charm is fled. + +13 'The hungry worm my sister is; + This winding-sheet I wear: + And cold and weary lasts our night, + Till that last morn appear. + +14 'But, hark! the cock has warned me hence; + A long and late adieu! + Come, see, false man, how low she lies, + Who died for love of you.' + +15 The lark sung loud; the morning smiled, + With beams of rosy red: + Pale William quaked in every limb, + And raving left his bed. + +16 He hied him to the fatal place + Where Margaret's body lay; + And stretched him on the green-grass turf, + That wrapped her breathless clay. + +17 And thrice he called on Margaret's name. + And thrice he wept full sore; + Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, + And word spake never more! + + + +THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. + +The smiling morn, the breathing spring, +Invite the tunefu' birds to sing; +And, while they warble from the spray, +Love melts the universal lay. +Let us, Amanda, timely wise, +Like them, improve the hour that flies; +And in soft raptures waste the day, +Among the birks of Invermay. + +For soon the winter of the year, +And age, life's winter, will appear; +At this thy living bloom will fade, +As that will strip the verdant shade. +Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, +The feathered songsters are no more; +And when they drop and we decay, +Adieu the birks of Invermay! + + + + +JAMES MERRICK. + + +Merrick was a clergyman, as well as a writer of verse. He was born in +1720, and became a Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, where Lord North +was one of his pupils. He took orders, but owing to incessant pains in +the head, could not perform duty. He died in 1769. His works are a +translation of Tryphiodorus, done at twenty, a version of the Psalms, a +collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous pieces, one good specimen +of which we subjoin. + + +THE CHAMELEON. + +Oft has it been my lot to mark +A proud, conceited, talking spark, +With eyes that hardly served at most +To guard their master 'gainst a post; +Yet round the world the blade has been, +To see whatever could be seen. +Returning from his finished tour, +Grown ten times perter than before; +Whatever word you chance to drop, +The travelled fool your mouth will stop: +'Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-- +I've seen--and sure I ought to know.'-- +So begs you'd pay a due submission, +And acquiesce in his decision. + +Two travellers of such a cast, +As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, +And on their way, in friendly chat, +Now talked of this, and then of that; +Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter, +Of the chameleon's form and nature. +'A stranger animal,' cries one, +'Sure never lived beneath the sun: +A lizard's body lean and long, +A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, +Its foot with triple claw disjoined; +And what a length of tail behind! +How slow its pace! and then its hue-- +Who ever saw so fine a blue?' + +'Hold there,' the other quick replies, +''Tis green, I saw it with these eyes, +As late with open mouth it lay, +And warmed it in the sunny ray; +Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, +And saw it eat the air for food.' + +'I've seen it, sir, as well as you, +And must again affirm it blue; +At leisure I the beast surveyed +Extended in the cooling shade.' + +''Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye.' +'Green!' cries the other in a fury: +'Why, sir, d' ye think I've lost my eyes?' +''Twere no great loss,' the friend replies; +'For if they always serve you thus, +You'll find them but of little use.' + +So high at last the contest rose, +From words they almost came to blows: +When luckily came by a third; +To him the question they referred: +And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, +Whether the thing was green or blue. + +'Sirs,' cries the umpire, 'cease your pother; +The creature's neither one nor t' other. +I caught the animal last night, +And viewed it o'er by candle-light: +I marked it well, 'twas black as jet-- +You stare--but sirs, I've got it yet, +And can produce it.'--'Pray, sir, do; +I'll lay my life the thing is blue.' +'And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen +The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.' + +'Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,' +Replies the man, 'I'll turn him out: +And when before your eyes I've set him, +If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.' + +He said; and full before their sight +Produced the beast, and lo!--'twas white. +Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise-- +'My children,' the chameleon cries, +(Then first the creature found a tongue,) +'You all are right, and all are wrong: +When next you talk of what you view, +Think others see as well as you: +Nor wonder if you find that none +Prefers your eyesight to his own.' + + + + +DR JAMES GRAINGER. + + +This writer possessed some true imagination, although his claim to +immortality lies in the narrow compass of one poem--his 'Ode to +Solitude.' Little is known of his personal history. He was born in 1721 +--belonging to a gentleman's family in Cumberland. He studied medicine, +and was for some time a surgeon connected with the army. When the peace +came, he established himself in London as a medical practitioner. In +1755, he published his 'Solitude,' which found many admirers, including +Dr Johnson, who pronounced its opening lines 'very noble.' He afterwards +indited several other pieces, wrote a translation of Tibullus, and +became one of the critical staff of the _Monthly Review_. He was unable, +however, through all these labours to secure a competence, and, in 1759, +he sought the West Indies. In St Christopher's he commenced practising +as a physician, and married the Governor's daughter, who brought him a +fortune. He wrote a poem entitled 'The Sugar-cane.' This was sent over +to London in MS., and was read at Sir Joshua Reynold's table to a +literary coterie, who, according to Boswell, all burst out into a laugh +when, after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus-- + + 'Now, Muse, let's sing of _rats_! + +And what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company, slily +overlooking the reader, found that the word had been originally 'mice,' +but had been changed to rats as more dignified. + +Boswell goes on to record Johnson's opinion of Grainger. He said, 'He +was an agreeable man, a man that would do any good that was in his +power.' His translation of Tibullus was very well done, but 'The Sugar- +cane, a Poem,' did not please him. 'What could he make of a Sugar-cane? +one might as well write "The Parsley-bed, a Poem," or "The Cabbage +Garden, a Poem."' Boswell--'You must then _pickle_ your cabbage with the +_sal Atticum_.' Johnson--'One could say a great deal about cabbage. The +poem might begin with the advantages of civilised society over a rude +state, exemplified by the Scotch, who had no cabbages till Oliver +Cromwell's soldiers introduced them, and one might thus shew how arts +are propagated by conquest, as they were by the Roman arms.' Cabbage, by +the way, in a metaphorical sense, might furnish a very good subject for +a literary _satire_. + +Grainger died of the fever of the country in 1767. Bishop Percy +corroborates Johnson's character of him as a man. He says, 'He was not +only a man of genius and learning, but had many excellent virtues, being +one of the most generous, friendly, benevolent men I ever knew.' + +Grainger in some points reminds us of Dyer. Dyer staked his reputation +on 'The Fleece;' but it is his lesser poem, 'Grongar Hill,' which +preserves his name; that fine effusion has survived the laboured work. +And so Grainger's 'Solitude' has supplanted the stately 'Sugar-cane.' +The scenery of the West Indies had to wait till its real poet appeared +in the author of 'Paul and Virginia.' Grainger was hardly able to cope +with the strange and gorgeous contrasts it presents of cliffs and crags, +like those of Iceland, with vegetation rich as that of the fairest parts +of India, and of splendid sunshine, with tempests of such tremendous +fury that, but for their brief continuance, no property could be secure, +and no life could be safe. + +The commencement of the 'Ode to Solitude' is fine, but the closing part +becomes tedious. In the middle of the poem there is a tumult of +personifications, some of them felicitous and others forced. + + 'Sage Reflection, bent with years,' +may pass, but + 'Conscious Virtue, void of fears,' +is poor. + 'Halcyon Peace on moss reclined,' +is a picture; + 'Retrospect that scans the mind,' +is nothing; + 'Health that snuffs the morning air,' +is a living image; but what sense is there in + 'Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare?' +and how poor his + 'Laughter in loud peals that breaks,' +to Milton's + 'Laughter, holding both his sides!' +The paragraph, however, commencing + 'With you roses brighter bloom,' +and closing with + 'The bournless macrocosm's thine,' +is very spirited, and, along with the opening lines, proves +Grainger a poet. + + +ODE TO SOLITUDE. + +O solitude, romantic maid! +Whether by nodding towers you tread, +Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, +Or hover o'er the yawning tomb, +Or climb the Andes' clifted side, +Or by the Nile's coy source abide, +Or starting from your half-year's sleep +From Hecla view the thawing deep, +Or, at the purple dawn of day, +Tadmor's marble wastes survey, +You, recluse, again I woo, +And again your steps pursue. + +Plumed Conceit himself surveying, +Folly with her shadow playing, +Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, +Bloated empiric, puffed Pretence, +Noise that through a trumpet speaks, +Laughter in loud peals that breaks, +Intrusion with a fopling's face, +Ignorant of time and place, +Sparks of fire Dissension blowing, +Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing, +Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer, +Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer, +Ambition's buskins, steeped in blood, +Fly thy presence, Solitude. + +Sage Reflection, bent with years, +Conscious Virtue, void of fears, +Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy, +Meditation's piercing eye, +Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, +Retrospect that scans the mind, +Rapt, earth-gazing Reverie, +Blushing, artless Modesty, +Health that snuffs the morning air, +Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare, +Inspiration, Nature's child, +Seek the solitary wild. + +You, with the tragic muse retired, +The wise Euripides inspired, +You taught the sadly-pleasing air +That Athens saved from ruins bare. +You gave the Cean's tears to flow, +And unlocked the springs of woe; +You penned what exiled Naso thought, +And poured the melancholy note. +With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you strayed, +When death snatched his long-loved maid; +You taught the rocks her loss to mourn, +Ye strewed with flowers her virgin urn. +And late in Hagley you were seen, +With bloodshot eyes, and sombre mien, +Hymen his yellow vestment tore, +And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore. +But chief your own the solemn lay +That wept Narcissa young and gay, +Darkness clapped her sable wing, +While you touched the mournful string, +Anguish left the pathless wild, +Grim-faced Melancholy smiled, +Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn, +The starry host put back the dawn, +Aside their harps even seraphs flung +To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young! +When all nature's hushed asleep, +Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep, +Soft you leave your caverned den, +And wander o'er the works of men; +But when Phosphor brings the dawn +By her dappled coursers drawn, +Again you to the wild retreat +And the early huntsman meet, +Where as you pensive pace along, +You catch the distant shepherd's song, +Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, +Or the rising primrose view. +Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings, +You mount, and nature with you sings. +But when mid-day fervours glow, +To upland airy shades you go, +Where never sunburnt woodman came, +Nor sportsman chased the timid game; +And there beneath an oak reclined, +With drowsy waterfalls behind, +You sink to rest. +Till the tuneful bird of night +From the neighbouring poplar's height +Wake you with her solemn strain, +And teach pleased Echo to complain. + +With you roses brighter bloom, +Sweeter every sweet perfume, +Purer every fountain flows, +Stronger every wilding grows. +Let those toil for gold who please, +Or for fame renounce their ease. +What is fame? an empty bubble. +Gold? a transient shining trouble. +Let them for their country bleed, +What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed? +Man's not worth a moment's pain, +Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. +Then let me, sequestered fair, +To your sibyl grot repair; +On yon hanging cliff it stands, +Scooped by nature's salvage hands, +Bosomed in the gloomy shade +Of cypress not with age decayed. +Where the owl still-hooting sits, +Where the bat incessant flits, +There in loftier strains I'll sing +Whence the changing seasons spring, +Tell how storms deform the skies, +Whence the waves subside and rise, +Trace the comet's blazing tail, +Weigh the planets in a scale; +Bend, great God, before thy shrine, +The bournless macrocosm's thine. + * * * * * + + + + +MICHAEL BRUCE. + + +We refer our readers to Dr Mackelvie's well-known and very able Life of +poor Bruce, for his full story, and for the evidence on which his claim +to the 'Cuckoo' is rested. Apart from external evidence, we think that +poem more characteristic of Bruce's genius than of Logan's, and have +therefore ranked it under Bruce's name. + +Bruce was born on the 27th of March 1746, at Kinnesswood, parish of +Portmoak, county of Kinross. His father was a weaver, and Michael was +the fifth of a family of eight children. + +Poor as his parents were, they were intelligent, religious, and most +conscientious in the discharge of their duties to their children. In the +summer months Michael was sent out to herd cattle; and one loves to +imagine the young poet wrapt in his plaid, under a whin-bush, while the +storm was blowing,--or gazing at the rainbow from the summit of a +fence,--or admiring at Lochleven and its old ruined castle,--or weaving +around the form of some little maiden, herding in a neighbouring field +--some 'Jeanie Morrison'--one of those webs of romantic early love which +are beautiful and evanescent as the gossamer, but how exquisitely +relished while they last! Say not, with one of his biographers, that his +'education was retarded by this employment;' he was receiving in these +solitary fields a kind of education which no school and no college could +furnish; nay, who knows but, as he saw the cuckoo winging her way from +one deep woodland recess to another, or heard her dull, divine monotone +coming from the heart of the forest, the germ of that exquisite strain, +'least in the kingdom' of the heaven of poetry in size, but immortal in +its smallness, was sown in his mind? In winter he went to school, and +profited there so much, that at fifteen (not a very early period, after +all, for a Scotch student beginning his curriculum--in our day twelve +was not an uncommon age) he was judged fit for going to college. And +just in time a windfall came across the path of our poet, the mention of +which may make many of our readers smile. This was a legacy which was +left his father by a relative, amounting to 200 merks, or L11, 2s.6d. +With this munificent sum in his pocket, Bruce was sent to study at +Edinburgh College. Here he became distinguished by his attainments, and +particularly his taste and poetic powers; and here, too, he became +acquainted with John Logan, afterwards his biographer. After spending +three sessions at college, supported by his parents and other friends, +he returned to the country, and taught a school at Gairney Bridge (a +place famous for the first meeting of the first presbytery of the +Seceders) for L11 of salary. Thence he removed to Foresthill, near +Alloa, where a damp school-room, poverty, and hard labour in teaching, +united to injure his health and depress his spirits. At Foresthill he +wrote his poem 'Lochleven,' which discovers no small descriptive power. +Consumption began now to make its appearance, and he returned to the +cottage of his parents, where he wrote his 'Elegy on Spring,' in which +he refers with dignified pathos to his approaching dissolution. On the +5th of July 1767, this remarkable youth died, aged twenty-one years and +three months. His Bible was found on his pillow, marked at the words, +Jer. xxii. 10, 'Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but weep +sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his +native country.' + +Lord Craig wrote some time afterwards an affecting paper in the _Mirror_, +recording the fate, and commending the genius of Bruce. John Logan, in +1770, published his poems. In the year 1807, the kind-hearted Principal +Baird published an edition of the poems for the behoof of Bruce's mother, +then an aged widow. And in 1837, Dr William Mackelvie, Balgedie, Kinross- +shire, published what may be considered the standard Life of this poet, +along with a complete edition of his Works. + +It is impossible from so small a segment of a circle as Bruce's life +describes, to infer with any certainty the whole. So far as we can judge +from the fragments left, his power was rather in the beautiful, than in +the sublime or in the strong. The lines on Spring, from the words 'Now +spring returns' to the close, form a continuous stream of pensive +loveliness. How sweetly he sings in the shadow of death! Nor let us too +severely blame his allusion to the old Pagan mythology, in the words-- + + 'I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe, + I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore;' + +remembering that he was still a mere student, and not recovered from +that fine intoxication in which classical literature drenches a young +imaginative soul, and that at last we find him 'resting in the hopes of +an eternal day.' 'Lochleven' is the spent echo of the 'Seasons,' although, +as we said before, its descriptions possess considerable merit. His 'Last +Day' is more ambitious than successful. If we grant the 'Cuckoo' to be +his, as we are inclined decidedly to do, it is a sure title to fame, +being one of the sweetest little poems in any language. Shakspeare would +have been proud of the verse-- + + 'Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year.' + +Bruce has not, however, it has always appeared to us, caught so well as +Wordsworth the differentia of the cuckoo,--its invisible, shadowy, +shifting, supernatural character--heard, but seldom seen--its note so +limited and almost unearthly:-- + + 'O Cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, + Or but a _wandering voice_?' + +How fine this conception of a separated voice--'The viewless spirit of a +_lonely_ sound,' plaining in the woods as if seeking for some incarnation +it cannot find, and saddening the spring groves by a note so contradictory +to the genius of the season. In reference to the note of the cuckoo we +find the following remarks among the fragments from the commonplace-book +of Dr Thomas Brown, printed by Dr Welsh:--'The name of the cuckoo has +generally been considered as a very pure instance of imitative harmony. +But in giving that name, we have most unjustly defrauded the poor bird of +a portion of its very small variety of sound. The second syllable is not +a mere echo of the first; it is the sound reversed, like the reading of +a sotadic line; and to preserve the strictness of the imitation we should +give it the name of Ook-koo.' _This_ is the prose of the cuckoo after its +poetry. + + +TO THE CUCKOO. + +1 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! + The messenger of spring! + Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, + And woods thy welcome sing. + +2 Soon as the daisy decks the green, + Thy certain voice we hear; + Hast thou a star to guide thy path, + Or mark the rolling year? + +3 Delightful visitant! with thee + I hail the time of flowers, + And hear the sound of music sweet, + From birds among the bowers. + +4 The school-boy, wandering through the wood + To pull the primrose gay, + Starts thy curious voice to hear, + And imitates the lay. + +5 What time the pea puts on the bloom, + Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, + An annual guest in other lands, + Another spring to hail. + +6 Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year. + +7 Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! + We'd make with joyful wing + Our annual visit o'er the globe, + Attendants on the spring. + + +ELEGY, WRITTEN IN SPRING. + +1 'Tis past: the North has spent his rage; + Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day; + The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, + And warm o'er ether western breezes play. + +2 Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, + From southern climes, beneath another sky, + The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: + Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. + +3 Far to the North grim Winter draws his train, + To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; + Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign, + Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar. + +4 Loosed from the bonds of frost, the verdant ground + Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, + Again puts forth her flowers, and all around, + Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. + +5 Behold! the trees new-deck their withered boughs; + Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane, + The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose; + The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. + +6 The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, + Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun: + The birds on ground, or on the branches green, + Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. + +7 Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, + From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; + And cheerful singing, up the air she steers; + Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. + +8 On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms + That fill the air with fragrance all around, + The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, + While o'er the wild his broken notes resound. + +9 While the sun journeys down the western sky, + Along the green sward, marked with Roman mound, + Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye, + The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. + +10 Now is the time for those who wisdom love, + Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road, + Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove, + And follow Nature up to Nature's God. + +11 Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws; + Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; + Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty cause, + And left the wondering multitude behind. + +12 Thus Ashley gathered academic bays; + Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, + Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, + And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. + +13 Thus have I walked along the dewy lawn; + My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn: + Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, + And gathered health from all the gales of morn. + +14 And even when Winter chilled the aged year, + I wandered lonely o'er the hoary plain: + Though frosty Boreas warned me to forbear, + Boreas, with all his tempests, warned in vain. + +15 Then sleep my nights, and quiet blessed my days; + I feared no loss, my mind was all my store; + No anxious wishes e'er disturbed my ease; + Heaven gave content and health--I asked no more. + +16 Now Spring returns: but not to me returns + The vernal joy my better years have known; + Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, + And all the joys of life with health are flown. + +17 Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, + Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, + Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, + And count the silent moments as they pass: + +18 The winged moments, whose unstaying speed + No art can stop, or in their course arrest; + Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, + And lay me down at peace with them at rest. + +19 Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate; + And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true. + Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate, + And bid the realms of light and life adieu. + +20 I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; + I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, + The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, + Which mortals visit, and return no more. + +21 Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! + Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, + Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, + And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. + +22 There let me wander at the shut of eve, + When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes: + The world and all its busy follies leave, + And talk of wisdom where my Daphnis lies. + +23 There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, + When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes; + Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, + Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. + + + + +CHRISTOPHER SMART. + + +We hear of 'Single-speech Hamilton.' We have now to say something of +'Single-poem Smart,' the author of one of the grandest bursts of +devotional and poetical feeling in the English language--the 'Song to +David.' This poor unfortunate was born at Shipbourne, Kent, in 1722. +His father was steward to Lord Barnard, who, after his death, continued +his patronage to the son, who was then eleven years of age. The Duchess +of Cleveland, through Lord Barnard's influence, bestowed on Christopher +an allowance of L40 a-year. With this he went to Pembroke Hall, Cam- +bridge, in 1739; was in 1745 elected a Fellow of Pembroke, and in 1747 +took his degree of M.A. At college, Smart began to display that reckless +dissipation which led afterwards to such melancholy consequences. He +studied hard, however, at intervals; wrote poetry both in Latin and +English; produced a comedy called a 'Trip to Cambridge; or, The Grateful +Fair,' which was acted in the hall of Pembroke College; and, in spite of +his vices and follies, was popular on account of his agreeable manners +and amiable dispositions. Having become acquainted with Newberry, +the benevolent, red-nosed bookseller commemorated in 'The Vicar of +Wakefield,'--for whom he wrote some trifles,--he married his step- +daughter, Miss Carnan, in the year 1753. He now removed to London, and +became an author to trade. He wrote a clever satire, entitled 'The +Hilliad,' against Sir John Hill, who had attacked him in an underhand +manner. He translated the fables of Phaedrus into verse,--Horace into +prose ('Smart's Horace' used to be a great favourite, under the rose, +with schoolboys); made an indifferent version of the Psalms and +Paraphrases, and a good one, at a former period, of Pope's 'Ode on St +Cecilia's Day,' with which that poet professed himself highly pleased. +He was employed on a monthly publication called _The Universal Visitor_. +We find Johnson giving the following account of this matter in Boswell's +Life:--'Old Gardner, the bookseller, employed Rolt and Smart to write a +monthly miscellany called _The Universal Visitor_.' There was a formal +written contract. They were bound to write nothing else,--they were to +have, I think, a third of the profits of the sixpenny pamphlet, and the +contract was for ninety-nine years. I wrote for some months in _The +Universal Visitor_ for poor Smart, while he was mad, not then knowing +the terms on which he was engaged to write, and thinking I was doing him +good. I hoped his wits would soon return to him. Mine returned to me, and +I wrote in _The Universal Visitor_ no longer.' + +Smart at last was called to pay the penalty of his blended labour and +dissipation. In 1763 he was shut up in a madhouse. His derangement had +exhibited itself in a religious way: he insisted upon people kneeling +down along with him in the street and praying. During his confinement, +writing materials were denied him, and he used to write his poetical +pieces with a key on the wainscot. Thus, 'scrabbling,' like his own hero, +on the wall, he produced his immortal 'Song to David.' He became by and +by sane; but, returning to his old habits, got into debt, and died in the +King's Bench prison, after a short illness, in 1770. + +The 'Song to David' has been well called one of the greatest curiosities +of literature. It ranks in this point with the tragedies written by Lee, +and the sermons and prayers uttered by Hall in a similar melancholy state +of mind. In these cases, as well as in Smart's, the thin partition +between genius and madness was broken down in thunder,--the thunder of a +higher poetry than perhaps they were capable of even conceiving in their +saner moments. Lee produced in that state--which was, indeed, nearly his +normal one--some glorious extravagancies. Hall's sermons, monologised +and overheard in the madhouse, are said to have transcended all that he +preached in his healthier moods. And, assuredly, the other poems by Smart +scarcely furnish a point of comparison with the towering and sustained +loftiness of some parts of the 'Song to David.' Nor is it loftiness +alone,--although the last three stanzas are absolute inspiration, and +you see the waters of Castalia tossed by a heavenly wind to the very +summit of Parnassus,--but there are innumerable exquisite beauties and +subtleties, dropt as if by the hand of rich haste, in every corner of +the poem. Witness his description of David's muse, as a + + 'Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, + The more _than Michal of his bloom_, + The _Abishag of his age_! + +The account of David's object-- + + 'To further knowledge, silence vice, + And plant perpetual paradise, + When _God had calmed the world_.' + +Of David's Sabbath-- + + ''Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, + And heavenly melancholy tuned, + To bless and bear the rest.' + +One of David's themes-- + + 'The multitudinous abyss, + Where secrecy remains in bliss, + And wisdom hides her skill.' + +And, not to multiply instances to repletion, this stanza about gems-- + + 'Of gems--their virtue and their price, + Which, hid in earth from man's device, + Their _darts of lustre sheath_; + The jasper of the master's stamp, + The topaz blazing like a lamp, + Among the mines beneath.' + +Incoherence and extravagance we find here and there; but it is not the +flutter of weakness, it is the fury of power: from the very stumble of +the rushing steed, sparks are kindled. And, even as Baretti, when he +read the _Rambler_, in Italy, thought within himself, If such are the +lighter productions of the English mind, what must be the grander and +sterner efforts of its genius? and formed, consequently, a strong desire +to visit that country; so might he have reasoned, If such poems as +'David' issue from England's very madhouses, what must be the writings +of its saner and nobler poetic souls? and thus might he, from the +parallax of a Smart, have been able to rise toward the ideal altitudes +of a Shakspeare or a Milton. Indeed, there are portions of the 'Song to +David,' which a Milton or a Shakspeare has never surpassed. The blaze of +the meteor often eclipses the light of + + 'The loftiest star of unascended heaven, + Pinnacled dim in the intense inane.' + + +SONG TO DAVID. + +1 O thou, that sitt'st upon a throne, + With harp of high, majestic tone, + To praise the King of kings: + And voice of heaven, ascending, swell, + Which, while its deeper notes excel, + Clear as a clarion rings: + +2 To bless each valley, grove, and coast, + And charm the cherubs to the post + Of gratitude in throngs; + To keep the days on Zion's Mount, + And send the year to his account, + With dances and with songs: + +3 O servant of God's holiest charge, + The minister of praise at large, + Which thou mayst now receive; + From thy blest mansion hail and hear, + From topmost eminence appear + To this the wreath I weave. + +4 Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean, + Sublime, contemplative, serene, + Strong, constant, pleasant, wise! + Bright effluence of exceeding grace; + Best man! the swiftness and the race, + The peril and the prize! + +5 Great--from the lustre of his crown, + From Samuel's horn, and God's renown, + Which is the people's voice; + For all the host, from rear to van, + Applauded and embraced the man-- + The man of God's own choice. + +6 Valiant--the word, and up he rose; + The fight--he triumphed o'er the foes + Whom God's just laws abhor; + And, armed in gallant faith, he took + Against the boaster, from the brook, + The weapons of the war. + +7 Pious--magnificent and grand, + 'Twas he the famous temple planned, + (The seraph in his soul:) + Foremost to give the Lord his dues, + Foremost to bless the welcome news, + And foremost to condole. + +8 Good--from Jehudah's genuine vein, + From God's best nature, good in grain, + His aspect and his heart: + To pity, to forgive, to save, + Witness En-gedi's conscious cave, + And Shimei's blunted dart. + +9 Clean--if perpetual prayer be pure, + And love, which could itself inure + To fasting and to fear-- + Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet, + To smite the lyre, the dance complete, + To play the sword and spear. + +10 Sublime--invention ever young, + Of vast conception, towering tongue, + To God the eternal theme; + Notes from yon exaltations caught, + Unrivalled royalty of thought, + O'er meaner strains supreme. + +11 Contemplative--on God to fix + His musings, and above the six + The Sabbath-day he blessed; + 'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, + And heavenly melancholy tuned, + To bless and bear the rest. + +12 Serene--to sow the seeds of peace, + Remembering when he watched the fleece, + How sweetly Kidron purled-- + To further knowledge, silence vice, + And plant perpetual paradise, + When God had calmed the world. + +13 Strong--in the Lord, who could defy + Satan, and all his powers that lie + In sempiternal night; + And hell, and horror, and despair + Were as the lion and the bear + To his undaunted might. + +14 Constant--in love to God, the Truth, + Age, manhood, infancy, and youth; + To Jonathan his friend + Constant, beyond the verge of death; + And Ziba, and Mephibosheth, + His endless fame attend. + +15 Pleasant--and various as the year; + Man, soul, and angel without peer, + Priest, champion, sage, and boy; + In armour or in ephod clad, + His pomp, his piety was glad; + Majestic was his joy. + +16 Wise--in recovery from his fall, + Whence rose his eminence o'er all, + Of all the most reviled; + The light of Israel in his ways, + Wise are his precepts, prayer, and praise, + And counsel to his child. + +17 His muse, bright angel of his verse, + Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, + For all the pangs that rage; + Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, + The more than Michal of his bloom, + The Abishag of his age. + +18 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. + +19 Angels--their ministry and meed, + Which to and fro with blessings speed, + Or with their citterns wait; + Where Michael, with his millions, bows, + Where dwells the seraph and his spouse, + The cherub and her mate. + +20 Of man--the semblance and effect + Of God and love--the saint elect + For infinite applause-- + To rule the land, and briny broad, + To be laborious in his laud, + And heroes in his cause. + +21 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. + +22 Trees, plants, and flowers--of virtuous root; + Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit, + Choice gums and precious balm; + Bless ye the nosegay in the vale, + And with the sweetness of the gale + Enrich the thankful psalm. + +23 Of fowl--even every beak and wing + Which cheer the winter, hail the spring, + That live in peace, or prey; + They that make music, or that mock, + The quail, the brave domestic cock, + The raven, swan, and jay. + +24 Of fishes--every size and shape, + Which nature frames of light escape, + Devouring man to shun: + The shells are in the wealthy deep, + The shoals upon the surface leap, + And love the glancing sun. + +25 Of beasts--the beaver plods his task; + While the sleek tigers roll and bask, + Nor yet the shades arouse; + Her cave the mining coney scoops; + Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops, + The kids exult and browse. + +26 Of gems--their virtue and their price, + Which, hid in earth from man's device, + Their darts of lustre sheath; + The jasper of the master's stamp, + The topaz blazing like a lamp, + Among the mines beneath. + +27 Blest was the tenderness he felt, + When to his graceful harp he knelt, + And did for audience call; + When Satan with his hand he quelled, + And in serene suspense he held + The frantic throes of Saul. + +28 His furious foes no more maligned + As he such melody divined, + And sense and soul detained; + Now striking strong, now soothing soft, + He sent the godly sounds aloft, + Or in delight refrained. + +29 When up to heaven his thoughts he piled, + From fervent lips fair Michal smiled, + As blush to blush she stood; + And chose herself the queen, and gave + Her utmost from her heart--'so brave, + And plays his hymns so good.' + +30 The pillars of the Lord are seven, + Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; + His wisdom drew the plan; + His Word accomplished the design, + From brightest gem to deepest mine, + From Christ enthroned to man. + +31 Alpha, the cause of causes, first + In station, fountain, whence the burst + Of light and blaze of day; + Whence bold attempt, and brave advance, + Have motion, life, and ordinance, + And heaven itself its stay. + +32 Gamma supports the glorious arch + On which angelic legions march, + And is with sapphires paved; + Thence the fleet clouds are sent adrift, + And thence the painted folds that lift + The crimson veil, are waved. + +33 Eta with living sculpture breathes, + With verdant carvings, flowery wreathes + Of never-wasting bloom; + In strong relief his goodly base + All instruments of labour grace, + The trowel, spade, and loom. + +34 Next Theta stands to the supreme-- + Who formed in number, sign, and scheme, + The illustrious lights that are; + And one addressed his saffron robe, + And one, clad in a silver globe, + Held rule with every star. + +35 Iota's tuned to choral hymns + Of those that fly, while he that swims + In thankful safety lurks; + And foot, and chapiter, and niche, + The various histories enrich + Of God's recorded works. + +36 Sigma presents the social droves + With him that solitary roves, + And man of all the chief; + Fair on whose face, and stately frame, + Did God impress his hallowed name, + For ocular belief. + +37 Omega! greatest and the best, + Stands sacred to the day of rest, + For gratitude and thought; + Which blessed the world upon his pole, + And gave the universe his goal, + And closed the infernal draught. + +38 O David, scholar of the Lord! + Such is thy science, whence reward, + And infinite degree; + O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe! + God's harp thy symbol, and thy type + The lion and the bee! + +39 There is but One who ne'er rebelled, + But One by passion unimpelled, + By pleasures unenticed; + He from himself his semblance sent, + Grand object of his own content, + And saw the God in Christ. + +40 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. + +41 Thou art--to give and to confirm, + For each his talent and his term; + All flesh thy bounties share: + Thou shalt not call thy brother fool; + The porches of the Christian school + Are meekness, peace, and prayer. + +42 Open and naked of offence, + Man's made of mercy, soul, and sense: + God armed the snail and wilk; + Be good to him that pulls thy plough; + Due food and care, due rest allow + For her that yields thee milk. + +43 Rise up before the hoary head, + And God's benign commandment dread, + Which says thou shalt not die: + 'Not as I will, but as thou wilt,' + Prayed He, whose conscience knew no guilt; + With whose blessed pattern vie. + +44 Use all thy passions!--love is thine, + And joy and jealousy divine; + Thine hope's eternal fort, + And care thy leisure to disturb, + With fear concupiscence to curb, + And rapture to transport. + +45 Act simply, as occasion asks; + Put mellow wine in seasoned casks; + Till not with ass and bull: + Remember thy baptismal bond; + Keep from commixtures foul and fond, + Nor work thy flax with wool. + +46 Distribute; pay the Lord his tithe, + And make the widow's heart-strings blithe; + Resort with those that weep: + As you from all and each expect, + For all and each thy love direct, + And render as you reap. + +47 The slander and its bearer spurn, + And propagating praise sojourn + To make thy welcome last; + Turn from old Adam to the New: + By hope futurity pursue: + Look upwards to the past. + +48 Control thine eye, salute success, + Honour the wiser, happier bless, + And for thy neighbour feel; + Grutch not of mammon and his leaven, + Work emulation up to heaven + By knowledge and by zeal. + +49 O David, highest in the list + Of worthies, on God's ways insist, + The genuine word repeat! + Vain are the documents of men, + And vain the flourish of the pen + That keeps the fool's conceit. + +50 Praise above all--for praise prevails; + Heap up the measure, load the scales, + And good to goodness add: + The generous soul her Saviour aids, + But peevish obloquy degrades; + The Lord is great and glad. + +51 For Adoration all the ranks + Of angels yield eternal thanks, + And David in the midst; + With God's good poor, which, last and least + In man's esteem, thou to thy feast, + O blessed bridegroom, bidst. + +52 For Adoration seasons change, + And order, truth, and beauty range, + Adjust, attract, and fill: + The grass the polyanthus checks; + And polished porphyry reflects, + By the descending rill. + +53 Rich almonds colour to the prime + For Adoration; tendrils climb, + And fruit-trees pledge their gems; + And Ivis, with her gorgeous vest, + Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, + And bell-flowers bow their stems. + +54 With vinous syrup cedars spout; + From rocks pure honey gushing out, + For Adoration springs: + All scenes of painting crowd the map + Of nature; to the mermaid's pap + The scaled infant clings. + +55 The spotted ounce and playsome cubs + Run rustling 'mongst the flowering shrubs, + And lizards feed the moss; + For Adoration beasts embark, + While waves upholding halcyon's ark + No longer roar and toss. + +56 While Israel sits beneath his fig, + With coral root and amber sprig + The weaned adventurer sports; + Where to the palm the jasmine cleaves, + For Adoration 'mong the leaves + The gale his peace reports. + +57 Increasing days their reign exalt, + Nor in the pink and mottled vault + The opposing spirits tilt; + And by the coasting reader spied, + The silverlings and crusions glide + For Adoration gilt. + +58 For Adoration ripening canes, + And cocoa's purest milk detains + The western pilgrim's staff; + Where rain in clasping boughs enclosed, + And vines with oranges disposed, + Embower the social laugh. + +59 Now labour his reward receives, + For Adoration counts his sheaves + To peace, her bounteous prince; + The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes, + And apples of ten thousand tribes, + And quick peculiar quince. + +60 The wealthy crops of whitening rice + 'Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice, + For Adoration grow; + And, marshalled in the fenced land, + The peaches and pomegranates stand, + Where wild carnations blow. + +61 The laurels with the winter strive; + The crocus burnishes alive + Upon the snow-clad earth: + For Adoration myrtles stay + To keep the garden from dismay, + And bless the sight from dearth. + +62 The pheasant shows his pompous neck; + And ermine, jealous of a speck, + With fear eludes offence: + The sable, with his glossy pride, + For Adoration is descried, + Where frosts the waves condense. + +63 The cheerful holly, pensive yew, + And holy thorn, their trim renew; + The squirrel hoards his nuts: + All creatures batten o'er their stores, + And careful nature all her doors + For Adoration shuts. + +64 For Adoration, David's Psalms + Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; + And he, who kneels and chants, + Prevails his passions to control, + Finds meat and medicine to the soul, + Which for translation pants. + +65 For Adoration, beyond match, + The scholar bullfinch aims to catch + The soft flute's ivory touch; + And, careless, on the hazel spray + The daring redbreast keeps at bay + The damsel's greedy clutch. + +66 For Adoration, in the skies, + The Lord's philosopher espies + The dog, the ram, and rose; + The planets' ring, Orion's sword; + Nor is his greatness less adored + In the vile worm that glows. + +67 For Adoration, on the strings + The western breezes work their wings, + The captive ear to soothe-- + Hark! 'tis a voice--how still, and small-- + That makes the cataracts to fall, + Or bids the sea be smooth! + +68 For Adoration, incense comes + From bezoar, and Arabian gums, + And from the civet's fur: + But as for prayer, or e'er it faints, + Far better is the breath of saints + Than galbanum or myrrh. + +69 For Adoration, from the down + Of damsons to the anana's crown, + God sends to tempt the taste; + And while the luscious zest invites + The sense, that in the scene delights, + Commands desire be chaste. + +70 For Adoration, all the paths + Of grace are open, all the baths + Of purity refresh; + And all the rays of glory beam + To deck the man of God's esteem, + Who triumphs o'er the flesh. + +71 For Adoration, in the dome + Of Christ, the sparrows find a home; + And on his olives perch: + The swallow also dwells with thee, + O man of God's humility, + Within his Saviour's church. + +72 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, + And drops upon the leafy limes; + Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: + Sweet is the lily's silver bell, + And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell + That watch for early prayer. + +73 Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, + Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; + Sweet when the lost arrive: + Sweet the musician's ardour beats, + While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, + The choicest flowers to hive. + +74 Sweeter, in all the strains of love, + The language of thy turtle-dove, + Paired to thy swelling chord; + Sweeter, with every grace endued, + The glory of thy gratitude, + Respired unto the Lord. + +75 Strong is the horse upon his speed; + Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, + Which makes at once his game: + Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; + Strong through the turbulent profound + Shoots xiphias to his aim. + +76 Strong is the lion--like a coal + His eyeball--like a bastion's mole + His chest against the foes: + Strong the gier-eagle on his sail, + Strong against tide the enormous whale + Emerges as he goes. + +77 But stronger still in earth and air, + And in the sea the man of prayer, + And far beneath the tide: + And in the seat to faith assigned, + Where ask is have, where seek is find, + Where knock is open wide. + +78 Beauteous the fleet before the gale; + Beauteous the multitudes in mail, + Ranked arms, and crested heads; + Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild. + Walk, water, meditated wild, + And all the bloomy beds. + +79 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; + And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn, + The virgin to her spouse: + Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, + When to the heaven of heavens they build + Their heart-directed vows. + +80 Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, + The Shepherd King upon his knees, + For his momentous trust; + With wish of infinite conceit, + For man, beast, mute, the small and great, + And prostrate dust to dust. + +81 Precious the bounteous widow's mite; + And precious, for extreme delight, + The largess from the churl: + Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, + And alba's blest imperial rays, + And pure cerulean pearl. + +82 Precious the penitential tear; + And precious is the sigh sincere; + Acceptable to God: + And precious are the winning flowers, + In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers, + Bound on the hallowed sod. + +83 More precious that diviner part + Of David, even the Lord's own heart, + Great, beautiful, and new: + In all things where it was intent, + In all extremes, in each event, + Proof--answering true to true. + +84 Glorious the sun in mid career; + Glorious the assembled fires appear; + Glorious the comet's train: + Glorious the trumpet and alarm; + Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; + Glorious the enraptured main: + +85 Glorious the northern lights astream; + Glorious the song, when God's the theme; + Glorious the thunder's roar: + Glorious hosannah from the den; + Glorious the catholic amen; + Glorious the martyr's gore: + +86 Glorious--more glorious is the crown + Of Him that brought salvation down, + By meekness called thy Son; + Thou that stupendous truth believed, + And now the matchless deed's achieved, + Determined, Dared, and Done. + + + + +THOMAS CHATTERTON. + + +The history of this 'marvellous boy' is familiar to all the readers of +English poetry, and requires only a cursory treatment here. Thomas +Chatterton was born in Bristol, November 20, 1752. His father, a teacher +in the free-school there, had died before his birth, and he was sent to +be educated at a charity-school. He first learned to read from a black- +letter Bible. At the age of fourteen, he was put apprentice to an +attorney; a situation which, however uncongenial, left him ample leisure +for pursuing his private studies. In an unlucky hour, some evil genius +seemed to have whispered to this extra-ordinary youth,--'Do not find or +force, but forge thy way to renown; the other paths to the summit of the +hill are worn and common-place; try a new and dangerous course, the +rather as I forewarn thee that thy time is short.' When, accordingly, +the new bridge at Bristol was finished in October 1768, Chatterton sent +to a newspaper a fictitious account of the opening of the old bridge, +alleging in a note that he had found the principal part of the +description in an ancient MS. And having thus fairly begun to work the +mint of forgery, it was amazing what a number of false coins he threw +off, and with what perfect ease and mastery! Ancient poems, pretending +to have been written four hundred and fifty years before; fragments of +sermons on the Holy Spirit, dated from the fifteenth century; accounts +of all the churches of Bristol as they had appeared three hundred years +before; with drawings and descriptions of the castle--most of them +professing to be drawn from the writings of 'ane gode prieste, Thomas +Rowley'--issued in thick succession from this wonderful, and, to use +the Shakspearean word in a twofold sense, 'forgetive' brain. He next +ventured to send to Horace Walpole, who was employed on a History of +British Painters, an account of eminent 'Carvellers and Peyneters,' who, +according to him, once flourished in Bristol. These labours he plied in +secret, and with the utmost enthusiasm. He used to write by the light of +the moon, deeming that there was a special inspiration in the rays of +that planet, and reminding one of poor Nat Lee inditing his insane +tragedies in his asylum under the same weird lustre. On Sabbaths he was +wont to stroll away into the country around Bristol, which is very +beautiful, and to draw sketches of those objects which impressed his +imagination. He often lay down on the meadows near St Mary's Redcliffe +Church, admiring the ancient edifice; and some years ago we saw a +chamber near the summit of that edifice where he used to sit and write, +his 'eye in a fine frenzy rolling,' and where we could imagine him, when +a moonless night fell, composing his wild Runic lays by the light of a +candle burning in a human skull. It was actually in one of the rooms of +this church that some ancient chests had been deposited, including one +called the 'Coffre of Mr Canynge,' an eminent merchant in Bristol, who +had rebuilt the church in the reign of Edward IV. This coffer had been +broken up by public authority in 1727, and some valuable deeds had been +taken out. Besides these, they contained various MSS., some of which +Chatterton's father, whose uncle was sexton of the church, had carried +off and used as covers to the copy-books of his scholars. This furnished +a hint to Chatterton's inventive genius. He gave out that among these +parchments he had found many productions of Mr Canynge's, and of the +aforesaid Thomas Rowley's, a priest of the fifteenth century, and a +friend of Canynge's. Chatterton had become a contributor to a periodical +of the day called _The Town and Country Magazine_, and to it from time +to time he sent these poems. A keen controversy arose as to their +genuineness. Horace Walpole shewed some of them, which Chatterton had +sent him, to Gray and Mason, who were deemed, justly, first-rate +authorities on antiquarian matters, and who at once pronounced them +forgeries. It is deeply to be regretted that these men, perceiving, as +they must have done, the great merit of these productions, had not made +more particular inquiries about them, and tried to help and save the +poet. Walpole, to say the least of it, treated him coldly, telling him, +when he had discovered the forgery, to attend to his own business, and +keeping some of his MSS. in his hands, till an indignant letter from the +author compelled him to restore them. + +Chatterton now determined to go to London. His three years' apprenticeship +had expired, and there was in Bristol no further field for his aspiring +genius. He found instant employment among the booksellers, and procured +an introduction to Beckford, the patriot mayor, who tried to get him +engaged upon the Opposition side in politics. Our capricious and +unprincipled poet, however, declared that he was a poor author that could +not write on both sides; and although his leanings were to the popular +party, yet on the death of Beckford he addressed a letter to Lord North +in support of his administration. He had projected some large works, such +as a History of England and a History of London, and wrote flaming +letters to his mother and sisters about his prospects, enclosing them at +the same time small remittances of money. But his bright hopes were soon +overcast. Instead of a prominent political character, he found himself a +mere bookseller's hack. To this his poverty no more than his will would +consent, for though that was great it was equalled by his pride. His life +in the country had been regular, although his religious principles were +loose; but in town, misery drove him to intemperance, and intemperance, +in its reaction, to remorse and a desperate tampering with the thought, + + 'There is one remedy for all.' + +At last, after a vain attempt to obtain an appointment as a surgeon's +mate to Africa, he made up his mind to suicide. A guinea had been sent +him by a gentleman, which he declined. Mrs Angel, his landlady, knowing +him to be in want, the day before his death offered him his dinner, but +this also he spurned; and, on the 25th of August 1770, having first +destroyed all his papers, he swallowed arsenic, and was found dead in +his bed. + +He was buried in a shell in the burial-place of Shoe-Lane Workhouse. +He was aged seventeen years nine months and a few days. Alas for + + 'The sleepless soul that perished in his pride!' + +Chatterton, had he lived, would, perhaps, have become a powerful poet, +or a powerful character of some kind. But we must now view him chiefly +as a prodigy. Some have treated his power as unnatural--resembling a +huge hydrocephalic head, the magnitude of which implies disease, +ultimate weakness, and early death. Others maintain that, apart from the +extraordinary elements that undoubtedly characterised Chatterton, and +constituted him a premature and prodigious birth intellectually, there +was also in parts of his poems evidence of a healthy vigour which only +needed favourable circumstances to develop into transcendent excellence. +Hazlitt, holding with the one of these opinions, cries, 'If Chatterton +had had a great work to do by living, he would have lived!' Others +retort on the critic, 'On the same principle, why did Keats, whom you +rate so high, perish so early?' The question altogether is nugatory, +seeing it can never be settled. Suffice it that these songs and rhymes +of Chatterton have great beauties, apart from the age and position of +their author. There may at times be madness, but there is method in it. +The flight of the rhapsody is ever upheld by the strength of the wing, +and while the reading discovered is enormous for a boy, the depth of +feeling exhibited is equally extraordinary; and the clear, firm judgment +which did not characterise his conduct, forms the root and the trunk of +much of his poetry. It was said of his eyes that it seemed as if fire +rolled under them; and it rolls still, and shall ever roll, below many +of his verses. + + +BRISTOWE TRAGEDY. + +1 The feathered songster, chanticleer, + Hath wound his bugle-horn, + And told the early villager + The coming of the morn. + +2 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks + Of light eclipse the gray, + And heard the raven's croaking throat + Proclaim the fated day. + +3 'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God + That sits enthroned on high! + Charles Bawdin and his fellows twain + To-day shall surely die.' + +4 Then with a jug of nappy ale + His knights did on him wait; + 'Go tell the traitor that to-day + He leaves this mortal state.' + +5 Sir Canterlone then bended low, + With heart brimful of woe; + He journeyed to the castle-gate, + And to Sir Charles did go. + +6 But when he came, his children twain, + And eke his loving wife, + With briny tears did wet the floor, + For good Sir Charles' life. + +7 'O good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone, + 'Bad tidings I do bring.' + 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles; + 'What says the traitor king?' + +8 'I grieve to tell; before that sun + Doth from the heaven fly, + He hath upon his honour sworn, + That thou shalt surely die.' + +9 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; + 'Of that I'm not afeard; + What boots to live a little space? + Thank Jesus, I'm prepared: + +10 'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, + I'd sooner die to-day + Than live his slave, as many are, + Though I should live for aye.' + +11 Then Canterlone he did go out, + To tell the mayor straight + To get all things in readiness + For good Sir Charles' fate. + +12 Then Master Canynge sought the king, + And fell down on his knee; + 'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your Grace + To move your clemency.' + +13 'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out; + You have been much our friend; + Whatever your request may be, + We will to it attend.' + +14 'My noble liege! all my request + Is for a noble knight, + Who, though perhaps he has done wrong, + He thought it still was right: + +15 'He has a spouse and children twain-- + All ruined are for aye, + If that you are resolved to let + Charles Bawdin die to-day.' + +16 'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' + The king in fury said; + 'Before the evening star doth shine, + Bawdin shall lose his head: + +17 'Justice does loudly for him call, + And he shall have his meed; + Speak, Master Canynge! what thing else + At present do you need?' + +18 'My noble liege!' good Canynge said, + 'Leave justice to our God, + And lay the iron rule aside;-- + Be thine the olive rod. + +19 'Was God to search our hearts and reins, + The best were sinners great; + Christ's vicar only knows no sin, + In all this mortal state. + +20 'Let mercy rule thine infant reign; + 'Twill fix thy crown full sure; + From race to race thy family + All sovereigns shall endure: + +21 'But if with blood and slaughter thou + Begin thy infant reign, + Thy crown upon thy children's brow + Will never long remain.' + +22 'Canynge, away! this traitor vile + Has scorned my power and me; + How canst thou then for such a man + Entreat my clemency?' + +23 'My noble liege! the truly brave + Will valorous actions prize; + Respect a brave and noble mind, + Although in enemies.' + +24 'Canynge, away! By God in heaven, + That did me being give, + I will not taste a bit of bread + While this Sir Charles doth live. + +25 'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, + This sun shall be his last.'-- + Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, + And from the presence passed. + +26 With heart brimful of gnawing grief, + He to Sir Charles did go, + And sat him down upon a stool, + And tears began to flow. + +27 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; + 'What boots it how or when? + Death is the sure, the certain fate + Of all us mortal men. + +28 'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul + Runs over at thine eye? + Is it for my most welcome doom + That thou dost child-like cry?' + +29 Quoth godly Canynge, 'I do weep, + That thou so soon must die, + And leave thy sons and helpless wife; + 'Tis this that wets mine eye.' + +30 'Then dry the tears that out thine eye + From godly fountains spring; + Death I despise, and all the power + Of Edward, traitor king. + +31 'When through the tyrant's welcome means + I shall resign my life, + The God I serve will soon provide + For both my sons and wife. + +32 'Before I saw the lightsome sun, + This was appointed me;-- + Shall mortal man repine or grudge + What God ordains to be? + +33 'How oft in battle have I stood, + When thousands died around; + When smoking streams of crimson blood + Imbrued the fattened ground? + +34 'How did I know that every dart, + That cut the airy way, + Might not find passage to my heart, + And close mine eyes for aye? + +35 'And shall I now from fear of death + Look wan and be dismayed? + No! from my heart fly childish fear, + Be all the man displayed. + +36 'Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend + And guard thee and thy son, + If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, + Why, then his will be done. + +37 'My honest friend, my fault has been + To serve God and my prince; + And that I no timeserver am, + My death will soon convince. + +38 'In London city was I born, + Of parents of great note; + My father did a noble arms + Emblazon on his coat: + +39 'I make no doubt that he is gone + 'Where soon I hope to go; + Where we for ever shall be blest, + From out the reach of woe. + +40 'He taught me justice and the laws + With pity to unite; + And likewise taught me how to know + The wrong cause from the right: + +41 'He taught me with a prudent hand + To feed the hungry poor; + Nor let my servants drive away + The hungry from my door: + +42 'And none can say but all my life + I have his counsel kept, + And summed the actions of each day + Each night before I slept. + +43 'I have a spouse; go ask of her + If I denied her bed; + I have a king, and none can lay + Black treason on my head. + +44 'In Lent, and on the holy eve, + From flesh I did refrain; + Why should I then appear dismayed + To leave this world of pain? + +45 'No, hapless Henry! I rejoice + I shall not see thy death; + Most willingly in thy just cause + Do I resign my breath. + +46 'O fickle people, ruined land! + Thou wilt know peace no moe; + While Richard's sons exalt themselves, + Thy brooks with blood will flow. + +47 'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, + And godly Henry's reign, + That you did change your easy days + For those of blood and pain? + +48 'What though I on a sledge be drawn, + And mangled by a hind? + I do defy the traitor's power,-- + He cannot harm my mind! + +49 'What though uphoisted on a pole, + My limbs shall rot in air, + And no rich monument of brass + Charles Bawdin's name shall bear? + +50 'Yet in the holy book above, + Which time can't eat away, + There, with the servants of the Lord, + My name shall live for aye. + +51 'Then welcome death! for life eterne + I leave this mortal life: + Farewell, vain world! and all that's dear, + My sons and loving wife! + +52 'Now death as welcome to me comes + As e'er the month of May; + Nor would I even wish to live, + With my dear wife to stay.' + +53 Quoth Canynge, ''Tis a goodly thing + To be prepared to die; + And from this world of pain and grief + To God in heaven to fly.' + +54 And now the bell began to toll, + And clarions to sound; + Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet + A-prancing on the ground: + +55 And just before the officers + His loving wife came in, + Weeping unfeigned tears of woe, + With loud and dismal din. + +56 'Sweet Florence! now, I pray, forbear; + In quiet let me die; + Pray God that every Christian soul + May look on death as I. + +57 'Sweet Florence! why those briny tears? + They wash my soul away, + And almost make me wish for life, + With thee, sweet dame, to stay. + +58 ''Tis but a journey I shall go + Unto the land of bliss; + Now, as a proof of husband's love, + Receive this holy kiss.' + +59 Then Florence, faltering in her say, + Trembling these words she spoke,-- + 'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! + My heart is well-nigh broke. + +60 'Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go + Without thy loving wife? + The cruel axe that cuts thy neck + Shall also end my life.' + +61 And now the officers came in + To bring Sir Charles away, + Who turned to his loving wife, + And thus to her did say: + +62 'I go to life, and not to death; + Trust thou in God above, + And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, + And in their hearts him love: + +63 'Teach them to run the noble race + That I their father run; + Florence! should death thee take--adieu!-- + Ye officers, lead on.' + +64 Then Florence raved as any mad, + And did her tresses tear;-- + 'Oh, stay, my husband, lord, and life!'-- + Sir Charles then dropped a tear;-- + +65 Till tired out with raving loud, + She fell upon the floor: + Sir Charles exerted all his might, + And marched from out the door. + +66 Upon a sledge he mounted then, + With looks full brave and sweet; + Looks that did show no more concern + Than any in the street. + +67 Before him went the council-men, + In scarlet robes and gold, + And tassels spangling in the sun, + Much glorious to behold: + +68 The friars of St Augustine next + Appeared to the sight, + All clad in homely russet weeds + Of godly monkish plight: + +69 In different parts a godly psalm + Most sweetly they did chaunt; + Behind their backs six minstrels came, + Who tuned the strong bataunt. + +70 Then five-and-twenty archers came; + Each one the bow did bend, + From rescue of King Henry's friends + Sir Charles for to defend. + +71 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, + Drawn on a cloth-laid sled + By two black steeds, in trappings white, + With plumes upon their head. + +72 Behind him five-and-twenty more + Of archers strong and stout, + With bended bow each one in hand, + Marched in goodly rout: + +73 Saint James's friars marched next, + Each one his part did chaunt; + Behind their backs six minstrels came + Who tuned the strong bataunt: + +74 Then came the mayor and aldermen, + In cloth of scarlet decked; + And their attending men, each one + Like eastern princes tricked: + +75 And after them a multitude + Of citizens did throng; + The windows were all full of heads, + As he did pass along. + +76 And when he came to the high cross, + Sir Charles did turn and say,-- + 'O Thou that savest man from sin, + Wash my soul clean this day!' + +77 At the great minster window sat + The king in mickle state, + To see Charles Bawdin go along + To his most welcome fate. + +78 Soon as the sledge drew nigh enough + That Edward he might hear, + The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, + And thus his words declare: + +79 'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! + Exposed to infamy; + But be assured, disloyal man! + I'm greater now than thee. + +80 'By foul proceedings, murder, blood, + Thou wearest now a crown; + And hast appointed me to die, + By power not thine own. + +81 'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; + I have been dead till now, + And soon shall live to wear a crown + For ever on my brow: + +82 'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years + Shall rule this fickle land, + To let them know how wide the rule + 'Twixt king and tyrant hand: + +83 'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! + Shall fall on thy own head'---- + From out of hearing of the king + Departed then the sled. + +84 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, + He turned his head away, + And to his brother Gloucester + He thus did speak and say: + +85 'To him that so much dreaded death + No ghastly terrors bring, + Behold the man! he spake the truth, + He's greater than a king!' + +86 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; + 'And may each of our foes + Bend down their necks to bloody axe, + And feed the carrion crows!' + +87 And now the horses gently drew + Sir Charles up the high hill; + The axe did glisten in the sun, + His precious blood to spill. + +88 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, + As up a gilded car + Of victory, by valorous chiefs, + Gained in the bloody war: + +89 And to the people he did say,-- + 'Behold, you see me die, + For serving loyally my king, + My king most rightfully. + +90 'As long as Edward rules this land, + No quiet you will know; + Your sons and husbands shall be slain, + And brooks with blood shall flow. + +91 'You leave your good and lawful king + When in adversity; + Like me unto the true cause stick, + And for the true cause die.' + +92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, + A prayer to God did make, + Beseeching him unto himself + His parting soul to take. + +93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head + Most seemly on the block; + Which from his body fair at once + The able headsman stroke: + +94 And out the blood began to flow, + And round the scaffold twine; + And tears, enough to wash't away, + Did flow from each man's eyne. + +95 The bloody axe his body fair + Into four quarters cut; + And every part, likewise his head, + Upon a pole was put. + +96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, + One on the minster-tower, + And one from off the castle-gate + The crowen did devour: + +97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, + A dreary spectacle; + His head was placed on the high cross, + In high street most nobile. + +98 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;-- + God prosper long our king, + And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, + In heaven God's mercy sing! + + + +MINSTREL'S SONG. + +1 O! sing unto my roundelay, + O! drop the briny tear with me; + Dance no more at holy-day, + Like a running river be: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, + White his rode[2] as the summer snow, + Red his face as the morning light, + Cold he lies in the grave below: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, + Quick in dance as thought can be, + Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; + O! he lies by the willow-tree: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, + In the briared dell below; + Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing + To the night-mares as they go: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +5 See! the white moon shines on high; + Whiter is my true love's shroud, + Whiter than the morning sky, + Whiter than the evening cloud: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +6 Here upon my true love's grave, + Shall the barren flowers be laid, + Not one holy saint to save + All the celness of a maid: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars + Round his holy corse to gree;[4] + Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires-- + Here my body still shall be: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, + Drain my hearte's-blood away; + Life and all its goods I scorn, + Dance by night, or feast by day: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6] + Bear me to your lethal tide. + 'I die! I come! my true love waits!' + Thus the damsel spake, and died. + +[1] 'Cryne:' hair. +[2] 'Rode:' complexion. +[3] 'Dent:' fix. +[4] 'Gree:' grow. +[5] 'Ouphant:' elfish. +[6] 'Reytes:' water-flags. + + +THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE. + +1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined, + Listening to hear the water glide along, + Minding how thorough the green meads it twined, + Whilst the caves responsed its muttering song, + At distant rising Avon to he sped, + Amenged[1] with rising hills did show its head; + +2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds + And wraytes[2] of alders of a bercie scent, + And sticking out with cloud-agested reeds, + The hoary Avon showed dire semblament, + Whilst blatant Severn, from Sabrina cleped, + Boars flemie o'er the sandes that she heaped. + +3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought + Of hardy champions knowen to the flood, + How on the banks thereof brave Aelle fought, + Aelle descended from Merce kingly blood, + Warder of Bristol town and castle stede, + Who ever and anon made Danes to bleed. + +4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite + Dight in the armour brace that Michael bore, + When he with Satan, king of Hell, did fight, + And earth was drenched in a sea of gore; + Or, soon as they did see the worlde's light, + Fate had wrote down, 'This man is born to fight.' + +5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say, + Why is thy actions left so spare in story? + Were I to dispone, there should liven aye, + In earth and heaven's rolls thy tale of glory; + Thy acts so doughty should for aye abide, + And by their test all after acts be tried. + +6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind, + As fair a saint as any town can boast, + Or be the earth with light or mirk ywrynde,[4] + I see his image walking through the coast: + Fitz-Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twenty moe, + In vision 'fore my fantasy did go. + +7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed, + And each digne[6] builder dequaced on my mind, + When from the distant stream arose a maid, + Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind; + Like to the silver moon in frosty night, + The damoiselle did come so blithe and sweet. + +8 No broidered mantle of a scarlet hue, + No shoe-pikes plaited o'er with riband gear, + No costly robes of woaden blue, + Nought of a dress, but beauty did she wear; + Naked she was, and looked sweet of youth, + All did bewrayen that her name was Truth. + +9 The easy ringlets of her nut-brown hair + What ne a man should see did sweetly hide, + Which on her milk-white bodykin so fair + Did show like brown streams fouling the white tide, + Or veins of brown hue in a marble cuarr,[7] + Which by the traveller is kenned from far. + +10 Astounded mickle there I silent lay, + Still scauncing wondrous at the walking sight; + My senses forgard,[8] nor could run away, + But was not forstraught[9] when she did alight + Anigh to me, dressed up in naked view, + Which might in some lascivious thoughts abrew. + +11 But I did not once think of wanton thought; + For well I minded what by vow I hete, + And in my pocket had a crochee[10] brought; + Which in the blossom would such sins anete; + I looked with eyes as pure as angels do, + And did the every thought of foul eschew. + +12 With sweet semblate, and an angel's grace, + She 'gan to lecture from her gentle breast; + For Truth's own wordes is her minde's face, + False oratories she did aye detest: + Sweetness was in each word she did ywreene, + Though she strove not to make that sweetness seen. + +13 She said, 'My manner of appearing here + My name and slighted myndruch may thee tell; + I'm Truth, that did descend from heaven-were, + Goulers and courtiers do not know me well; + Thy inmost thoughts, thy labouring brain I saw, + And from thy gentle dream will thee adawe.[11] + +14 Full many champions, and men of lore, + Painters and carvellers[12] have gained good name, + But there's a Canynge to increase the store, + A Canynge who shall buy up all their fame. + Take thou my power, and see in child and man + What true nobility in Canynge ran.' + +15 As when a bordelier[13] on easy bed, + Tired with the labours maynt[14] of sultry day, + In sleepe's bosom lays his weary head, + So, senses sunk to rest, my body lay; + Eftsoons my sprite, from earthly bands untied, + Emerged in flanched air with Truth aside. + +16 Straight was I carried back to times of yore, + Whilst Canynge swathed yet in fleshly bed, + And saw all actions which had been before, + And all the scroll of fate unravelled; + And when the fate-marked babe had come to sight, + I saw him eager gasping after light. + +17 In all his shepen gambols and child's play, + In every merry-making, fair, or wake, + I knew a purple light of wisdom's ray; + He eat down learning with a wastle cake. + As wise as any of the aldermen, + He'd wit enough to make a mayor at ten. + +18 As the dulce[15] downy barbe began to gre, + So was the well thighte texture of his lore + Each day enheedynge mockler[16] for to be, + Great in his counsel for the days he bore. + All tongues, all carols did unto him sing, + Wond'ring at one so wise, and yet so ying.[17] + +19 Increasing in the years of mortal life, + And hasting to his journey unto heaven, + He thought it proper for to choose a wife, + And use the sexes for the purpose given. + He then was youth of comely semelikede, + And he had made a maiden's heart to bleed. + +20 He had a father (Jesus rest his soul!) + Who loved money, as his cherished joy; + He had a brother (happy man be's dole!) + In mind and body his own father's boy: + What then could Canynge wishen as a part + To give to her who had made exchange of heart? + +21 But lands and castle tenures, gold and bighes,[18] + And hoards of silver rusted in the ent,[19] + Canynge and his fair sweet did that despise, + To change of truly love was their content; + They lived together in a house adigne,[20] + Of good sendaument commily and fine. + +22 But soon his brother and his sire did die, + And left to William states and renting-rolls, + And at his will his brother John supply. + He gave a chauntry to redeem their souls; + And put his brother into such a trade, + That he Lord Mayor of London town was made. + +23 Eftsoons his morning turned to gloomy night; + His dame, his second self, gave up her breath, + Seeking for eterne life and endless light, + And slew good Canynge; sad mistake of Death! + So have I seen a flower in summer-time + Trod down and broke and wither in its prime. + +24 Near Redcliff Church (oh, work of hand of Heaven! + Where Canynge showeth as an instrument) + Was to my bismarde eyesight newly given; + 'Tis past to blazon it to good content. + You that would fain the festive building see + Repair to Redcliff, and contented be. + +25 I saw the myndbruch of his notte soul + When Edward menaced a second wife; + I saw what Pheryons in his mind did roll: + Now fixed from second dames, a priest for life, + This is the man of men, the vision spoke; + Then bell for even-song my senses woke. + +[1] 'Amenged:' mixed. +[2] 'Wraytes:' flags. +[3] 'Swithin:' quickly. +[4] 'Ywrynde:' covered. +[5] 'Faitour:' vagrant. +[6] 'Digne:' worthy. +[7] 'Cuarr:' quarry. +[8] 'Forgard:' lose. +[9] 'Forstraught:' distracted. +[10] 'A crochee:' a cross. +[11] 'Adawe:' awake. +[12] 'Carvellers:' sculptors. +[13] 'A bordelier:' a cottager. +[14] 'Maynt:' many. +[15] 'Dulce:' sweet. +[16] 'Mockler:' more. +[17] 'Ying:' young. +[18] 'Bighes:' jewels. +[19] 'Ent:' bag. +[20] 'Adigne:' worthy. + + +KENRICK. + +TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON. + +When winter yelled through the leafless grove; when the black waves +rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of +the sun; when the silver brook stood still, and snow environed the top +of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blasted +fields, and the boughs of the leafless trees bent with the loads of +ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering +light of the western sky; Kenrick, terrible as the tempest, young as +the snake of the valley, strong as the mountain of the slain; his +armour shining like the stars in the dark night, when the moon is +veiled in sable, and the blasting winds howl over the wide plain; his +shield like the black rock, prepared himself for war. + +Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the first rays of the +morning star, swift as the flying deer, strong as the young oak, +fierce as an evening wolf, drew his sword; glittering like the blue +vapours in the valley of Horso; terrible as the red lightning, +bursting from the dark-brown clouds; his swift bark rode over the +foaming waves, like the wind in the tempest; the arches fell at his +blow, and he wrapped the towers in flames: he followed Kenrick, like +a wolf roaming for prey. + +Centwin of the vale arose, he seized the massy spear; terrible was his +voice, great was his strength; he hurled the rocks into the sea, and +broke the strong oaks of the forest. Slow in the race as the minutes +of impatience. His spear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, swept down +whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the stones of hail +at the approach of the sun. + +Awake, O Eldulph! thou that sleepest on the white mountain, with the +fairest of women. No more pursue the dark-brown wolf: arise from the +mossy bank of the falling waters; let thy garments be stained in +blood, and the streams of life discolour thy girdle; let thy flowing +hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into +terror. + +Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: +pursue the black companies of the enemy. + +Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the stars, act like +yourselves. + +Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, swelled with rain, the Saxons +moved along; like a blazing star the sword of Kenrick shone among the +Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he +burnt up the ranks of his enemy. + +Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward sported in blood; armies +melted at his stroke. Eldulph was a flaming vapour; destruction sat +upon his sword. Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock +before the sword of Mervin. + +Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on +his hand. + +Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the +roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain. + +The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the +howling winds. + +Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursuers; deck their brows with +chaplets of jewels; spread the branches of the oak beneath their feet. +Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon +his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his +knees are red with the gore of the foe. + +Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance +around him. + +Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the +praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to +the foundation of the black rock. + +Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious. + + +FEBRUARY, AN ELEGY. + +1 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay, + Aeonian doxies, sound the thrumming string; + Attempt no number of the plaintive Gray; + Let me like midnight cats, or Collins, sing. + +2 If in the trammels of the doleful line, + The bounding hail or drilling rain descend; + Come, brooding Melancholy, power divine, + And every unformed mass of words amend. + +3 Now the rough Goat withdraws his curling horns, + And the cold Waterer twirls his circling mop: + Swift sudden anguish darts through altering corns, + And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop. + +4 Now infant authors, maddening for renown, + Extend the plume, and hum about the stage, + Procure a benefit, amuse the town, + And proudly glitter in a title-page. + +5 Now, wrapped in ninefold fur, his squeamish Grace + Defies the fury of the howling storm; + And whilst the tempest whistles round his face, + Exults to find his mantled carcase warm. + +6 Now rumbling coaches furious drive along, + Full of the majesty of city dames, + Whose jewels, sparkling in the gaudy throng, + Raise strange emotions and invidious flames. + +7 Now Merit, happy in the calm of place, + To mortals as a Highlander appears, + And conscious of the excellence of lace, + With spreading frogs and gleaming spangles glares: + +8 Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh, + In form a shoe-boy, daubs the valued fruit, + And darting lightnings from his vengeful eye, + Raves about Wilkes, and politics, and Bute. + +9 Now Barry, taller than a grenadier, + Dwindles into a stripling of eighteen; + Or sabled in Othello breaks the ear, + Exerts his voice, and totters to the scene. + +10 Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind, + Applies his wax to personal defects; + But leaves untouched the image of the mind;-- + His art no mental quality reflects. + +11 Now Drury's potent king extorts applause, + And pit, box, gallery, echo, 'How divine!' + Whilst, versed in all the drama's mystic laws, + His graceful action saves the wooden line. + +12 Now--but what further can the muses sing? + Now dropping particles of water fall; + Now vapours riding on the north wind's wing, + With transitory darkness shadows all. + +13 Alas! how joyless the descriptive theme, + When sorrow on the writer's quiet preys; + And like a mouse in Cheshire cheese supreme, + Devours the substance of the lessening bays. + +14 Come, February, lend thy darkest sky, + There teach the wintered muse with clouds to soar: + Come, February, lift the number high; + Let the sharp strain like wind through alleys roar. + +15 Ye channels, wandering through the spacious street, + In hollow murmurs roll the dirt along, + With inundations wet the sabled feet, + Whilst gouts, responsive, join the elegiac song. + +16 Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill + Sound through meandering folds of Echo's horn; + Let the sweet cry of liberty be still, + No more let smoking cakes awake the morn. + +17 O Winter! put away thy snowy pride; + O Spring! neglect the cowslip and the bell; + O Summer! throw thy pears and plums aside; + O Autumn! bid the grape with poison swell. + +18 The pensioned muse of Johnson is no more! + Drowned in a butt of wine his genius lies. + Earth! Ocean! Heaven! the wondrous loss deplore, + The dregs of nature with her glory dies. + +19 What iron Stoic can suppress the tear! + What sour reviewer read with vacant eye! + What bard but decks his literary bier!-- + Alas! I cannot sing--I howl--I cry! + + + + +LORD LYTTELTON. + + +Dr Johnson said once of Chesterfield, 'I thought him a lord among wits, +but I find him to be only a wit among lords.' And so we may say of Lord +Lyttelton, 'He is a poet among lords, if not a lord among poets.' He was +the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton, of Hagley in Worcestershire, and was +born in 1709. He went to Eton and Oxford, where he distinguished himself. +Having gone the usual grand tour, he entered Parliament, and became an +opponent of Sir Robert Walpole. He was made secretary to the Prince of +Wales, and was in this capacity useful to Mallett and Thomson. In 1741, +he married Lucy Fortescue, of Devonshire, who died five years afterwards. +Lyttelton grieved sincerely for her, and wrote his affecting 'Monody' on +the subject. When his party triumphed, he was created a Lord of the +Treasury, and afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequer, with a peerage. He +employed much of his leisure in literary composition, writing a good +little book on the Conversion of St Paul, a laboured History of Henry II., +and some verses, including the stanza in the 'Castle of Indolence' +describing Thomson-- + + 'A bard there dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,' &c.-- + +and a very spirited prologue to Thomson's 'Coriolanus,' which was written +after that author's death, and says of him, + + --'His chaste muse employed her heaven-taught lyre + None but the noblest passions to inspire: + Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, + _One line which, dying he could wish to blot_.' + +Lyttelton himself died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. His History is +now little read. It took him, it is said, thirty years to write it, and +he employed another man to point it--a fact recalling what is told of +Macaulay, that he sent the first volume of his 'History of England' to +Lord Jeffrey, who overlooked the punctuation and criticised the style. +Of a series of Dialogues issued by this writer, Dr Johnson remarked, +with his usual pointed severity, 'Here is a man telling the world what +the world had all his life been telling him.' His 'Monody' expresses +real grief in an artificial style, but has some stanzas as natural in +the expression as they are pathetic in the feeling. + + +FROM THE 'MONODY.' + +At length escaped from every human eye, + From every duty, every care, +That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, +Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; +Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, +This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, +I now may give my burdened heart relief, + And pour forth all my stores of grief; +Of grief surpassing every other woe, +Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love + Can on the ennobled mind bestow, + Exceeds the vulgar joys that move +Our gross desires, inelegant and low. + + * * * * * + + In vain I look around + O'er all the well-known ground, +My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; + Where oft we used to walk, + Where oft in tender talk +We saw the summer sun go down the sky; + Nor by yon fountain's side, + Nor where its waters glide +Along the valley, can she now be found: +In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound + No more my mournful eye + Can aught of her espy, +But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. + + * * * * * + +Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, +Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns + By your delighted mother's side: + Who now your infant steps shall guide? +Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care +To every virtue would have formed your youth, +And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? + O loss beyond repair! + O wretched father! left alone, +To weep their dire misfortune and thy own: +How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with woe, + And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, +Perform the duties that you doubly owe! + Now she, alas! is gone, +From folly and from vice their helpless age to save? + + * * * * * + + O best of wives! O dearer far to me + Than when thy virgin charms + Were yielded to my arms: + How can my soul endure the loss of thee? + How in the world, to me a desert grown, + Abandoned and alone, + Without my sweet companion can I live? + Without thy lovely smile, + The dear reward of every virtuous toil, + What pleasures now can palled ambition give? + Even the delightful sense of well-earned praise, +Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise. + + For my distracted mind + What succour can I find? + On whom for consolation shall I call? + Support me, every friend; + Your kind assistance lend, + To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. + Alas! each friend of mine, + My dear departed love, so much was thine, + That none has any comfort to bestow. + My books, the best relief + In every other grief, + Are now with your idea saddened all: + Each favourite author we together read +My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead. + + We were the happiest pair of human kind; + The rolling year its varying course performed, + And back returned again; + Another and another smiling came, + And saw our happiness unchanged remain: + Still in her golden chain + Harmonious concord did our wishes bind: + Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. + O fatal, fatal stroke, + That all this pleasing fabric love had raised + Of rare felicity, + On which even wanton vice with envy gazed, + And every scheme of bliss our hearts had formed, + With soothing hope, for many a future day, + In one sad moment broke!-- + Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay; + Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, + Or against his supreme decree + With impious grief complain; + That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, +Was his most righteous will--and be that will obeyed. + + + + +JOHN CUNNINGHAM. + + +We know very little of the history of this pleasing poet. He was born in +1729, the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. At the age of seventeen he +wrote a farce; entitled 'Love in a Mist,' and shortly after came to +Britain as an actor. He was for a long time a performer in Digges' +company in Edinburgh, and subsequently resided in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. +Here he seems to have fallen into distressed circumstances, and was +supported by a benevolent printer, at whose house he died in 1773. His +poetry is distinguished by a charming simplicity. This characterises +'Kate of Aberdeen,' given below, and also his 'Content: a Pastoral,' in +which he says allegorically-- + + 'Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, + So simple yet sweet were her charms! + I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek, + And locked the dear maid in my arms. + + 'Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, + And if, by yon prattler, the stream, + Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep, + Her image still softens my dream.' + + +MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. + +1 The silver moon's enamoured beam + Steals softly through the night, + To wanton with the winding stream, + And kiss reflected light. + To beds of state go, balmy sleep, + (Tis where you've seldom been,) + May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep + With Kate of Aberdeen. + +2 Upon the green the virgins wait, + In rosy chaplets gay, + Till Morn unbar her golden gate, + And give the promised May. + Methinks I hear the maids declare, + The promised May, when seen, + Not half so fragrant, half so fair, + As Kate of Aberdeen. + +3 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, + We'll rouse the nodding grove; + The nested birds shall raise their throats, + And hail the maid I love: + And see--the matin lark mistakes, + He quits the tufted green: + Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, + 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. + +4 Now lightsome o'er the level mead, + Where midnight fairies rove, + Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, + Or tune the reed to love: + For see the rosy May draws nigh; + She claims a virgin queen! + And hark, the happy shepherds cry, + 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. + + + + +ROBERT FERGUSSON. + + +This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some +say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to +the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four +children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and +Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having +obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven- +teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish +Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical +knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural +Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a +passion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject +of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of +studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful +preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named +John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor +Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in +his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings in his pocket +proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of +his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell +into a severe fit of illness. + +He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and +afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to +_Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_. We remember in boyhood reading some odd +volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably +poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His +evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated +youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.' +That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of +one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns, +doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse. +Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated +by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was +warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary +benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance, +his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum. +Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered +a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The +history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and +Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact +duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the +moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,' +roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the +light. 'Thou stupid god,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By +and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his +mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated, +but his constitution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor +Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New +Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his +death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a +fortune in the East Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and +enclosing a remittance of L100 to defray the expenses of the journey. + +Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried +in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to +his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers. + +Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He +was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather +than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to +sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,' +are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is +nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low +compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft +to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, +with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- +man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On +the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he +exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, +to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay. + + +THE FARMER'S INGLE. + +Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, +Ante locum, si frigus erit.--VIRG. + +1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1] + Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre; + Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4] + An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire; + What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld, + An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; + Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, + Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; + Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain. + +2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, + Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift, + Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill, + An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift. + The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, + Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een, + That ilka turn is handled to his mind; + That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean; + For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean. + +3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require + A heartsome meltith,[14] an' refreshin' synd[15] + O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire: + Sair wark an' poortith downa[16] weel be joined. + Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks; + I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams; + The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks, + An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, + Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems. + +4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: + Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, + They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, + Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. + Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; + At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; + Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23] + Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, + Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound. + +5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed + By Caledonia's ancestors been done; + By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed + In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun. + 'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang; + That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; + Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang; + Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays; + For near our crest their heads they dought na raise. + +6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre; + The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29] + O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour, + Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30] + 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; + How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; + An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, + Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; + The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. + +7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now; + For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: + Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, + Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32] + In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low, + Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear, + O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35] + O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear, + Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear! + +8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be + Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill; + That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee; + An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln. + O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, + Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; + Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return, + And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear; + The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near. + +9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, + Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; + Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; + Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43] + On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, + Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, + Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw + Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44] + Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45] + +10 In its auld lerroch[46] yet the deas[47] remains, + Where the gudeman aft streeks[48] him at his ease; + A warm and canny lean for weary banes + O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. + Round him will baudrins[49] an' the collie come, + To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee, + To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb + O' kebbuck[50] whang'd, an' dainty fadge[51] to prie;[52] + This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee. + +11 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: + What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; + How big a birn[53] maun lie on bassie's[54] back, + For meal an' mu'ter[55] to the thirlin' mill. + Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids + Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies[56] bound; + Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,[57] + An' ca' the laiglen's[58] treasure on the ground; + Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound. + + +12 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,[59] + Their joints to slack frae industry a while; + The leaden god fa's heavy on their een, + An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil: + The cruizy,[60] too, can only blink and bleer; + The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow; + Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, + Upo' the cod[61] to clear their drumly pow,[62] + Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow. + +13 Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, + Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! + Lang may his sock[63] and cou'ter turn the gleyb,[64] + An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear! + May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green; + Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed! + May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,[65] + Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed; + An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed! + +[1] 'Keeks:' peeps. +[2] 'Owsen:' oxen. +[3] 'Sair dung:' fatigued. +[4] 'Steeks:' shuts. +[5] 'Dightin':' winnowing. +[6] 'What bangs fu' leal:' what shuts out most comfortably. +[7] 'Gars:' makes. +[8] 'Fley'd:' frightened. +[9] 'Wi' divots theekit:' thatched with turf. +[10] 'Chimley:' chimney. +[11] 'Smeek:' smoke. +[12] 'Hallan:' the inner wall of a cottage. +[13] 'Cosh:' comfortable. +[14] 'Meltith:' meal. +[15] 'Synd:' drink. +[16] 'Downa:' should not. +[17] 'Girdle:' a flat iron for toasting cakes. +[18] 'Bowie:' beer-barrel. +[19] 'Kail:' broth with greens. +[20] 'Kitchen:' anything eaten with bread. +[21] 'Gabs:' palates. +[22] 'Eident:' assidious. +[23] 'Spae:' fortell. +[24] 'Brulzies:' contests. +[25] 'Gardies:' arms. +[26] 'Yird:' earth. +[27] 'Cracks:' pleasant talk. +[28] 'Bicker:' the cup. +[29] 'gash:' debat. +[30] 'Their mailins' produce hash:' destroy the produce of their farms. +[31] 'The fient a cheep:' not a whimper. +[32] 'Maen:' moan. +[33] 'Rangles:' circles. +[34] 'Gudame's:' grandame. +[35] 'Wirrikow:' scare-crow. +[36] 'Win:' abide. +[37] 'Fleetch:' entice. +[38] 'Tint:' lost. +[39] 'Scowder'd:' scorched. +[40] 'Eild:' age. +[41] 'Bairnly:' childish. +[42] 'Stent:' task. +[43] 'Lave:' the rest. +[44] 'Oy:' grand child. +[45] 'Her foy:' her farewell entertainment. +[46] 'Lerroch:'corner. +[47] 'Deas:' bench. +[48] 'Streeks:' stretches. +[49] 'Baudrins:' the cat. +[50] 'Kebbuck:' cheese. +[51] 'Fadge:' loaf. +[52] 'To prie:' to taste. +[53] 'Birn:' burden. +[54] 'Bassie:' the horse. +[55] 'Mu'ter:' the miller's perquisite. +[56] 'Hawkies:'cows. +[57] 'Tids:' fits. +[58] 'The laiglen: 'the milk-pail. +[59] 'To green:' to long. +[60] 'The cruizy:' the lamp. +[61] 'Cod:' pillow. +[62] 'Drumly pow:' thick heads. +[63] 'Sock:' ploughshare. +[64] 'Gleyb:' soil. +[65] 'Bien: 'comfortable. + + + + +DR WALTER HARTE. + + +Campbell, in his 'Specimens,' devotes a large portion of space to Dr +Walter Harte, and has quoted profusely from a poem of his entitled +'Eulogius.' We may give some of the best lines here:-- + + 'This spot for dwelling fit Eulogius chose, + And in a month a decent homestall rose, + Something between a cottage and a cell; + Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell. + + 'The site was neither granted him nor given; + 'Twas Nature's, and the ground-rent due to Heaven. + + Wife he had none, nor had he love to spare,-- + An aged mother wanted all his care. + They thanked their Maker for a pittance sent, + Supped on a turnip, slept upon content.' + +Again, of a neighbouring matron, who died leaving Eulogius money-- + + 'This matron, whitened with good works and age, + Approached the Sabbath of her pilgrimage; + Her spirit to himself the Almighty drew, + _Breathed on the alembic, and exhaled the dew_.' + +And once more-- + + 'Who but Eulogius now exults for joy? + New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind employ; + Pride pushed forth buds at every branching shoot, + And virtue shrank almost beneath the root. + High raised on fortune's hill, new Alps he spies, + O'ershoots the valley which beneath him lies, + Forgets the depths between, and travels with his eyes.' + + + + +EDWARD LOVIBOND. + + +Hampton in Middlesex was the birthplace of our next poet, Edward Lovibond. +He was a gentleman of fortune, who chiefly employed his time in rural +occupations. He became a director of the East India Company. He helped his +friend Moore in conducting the periodical called _The World_, to which he +contributed several papers, including the very pleasing poem entitled +'The Tears of Old May-Day.' He died in 1775. + + +THE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY. + +WRITTEN ON THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754. + +1 Led by the jocund train of vernal hours + And vernal airs, uprose the gentle May; + Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flowers + That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray. + +2 Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were bright, + And amorous zephyrs fluttered on her breast: + With every shifting gleam of morning light, + The colours shifted of her rainbow vest. + +3 Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form, + A golden key and golden wand she bore; + This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm, + And that unlocks the summer's copious store. + +4 Onward in conscious majesty she came, + The grateful honours of mankind to taste: + To gather fairest wreaths of future fame, + And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past. + +5 Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite + Her virgin votaries, and at early dawn, + Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite, + Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled lawn. + +6 To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride + Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine: + Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide, + A purer offering at her rustic shrine. + +7 No more the Maypole's verdant height around + To valour's games the ambitious youth advance; + No merry bells and tabor's sprightlier sound + Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance. + +8 Sudden in pensive sadness drooped her head, + Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson died-- + 'O chaste victorious triumphs! whither fled? + My maiden honours, whither gone?' she cried. + +9 Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born, + The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise, + With time coeval and the star of morn, + The first, the fairest daughter of the skies. + +10 Then, when at Heaven's prolific mandate sprung + The radiant beam of new-created day, + Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung, + Hailed the glad dawn, and angels called me May. + +11 Space in her empty regions heard the sound, + And hills, and dales, and rocks, and valleys rung; + The sun exulted in his glorious round, + And shouting planets in their courses sung. + +12 For ever then I led the constant year; + Saw youth, and joy, and love's enchanting wiles; + Saw the mild graces in my train appear, + And infant beauty brighten in my smiles. + +13 No winter frowned. In sweet embrace allied, + Three sister seasons danced the eternal green; + And Spring's retiring softness gently vied + With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty mien. + +14 Too soon, when man profaned the blessings given, + And vengeance armed to blot a guilty age, + With bright Astrea to my native heaven + I fled, and flying saw the deluge rage; + +15 Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, + While sounding billows from the mountains rolled, + With bitter waves polluting all my streams, + My nectared streams, that flowed on sands of gold. + +16 Then vanished many a sea-girt isle and grove, + Their forests floating on the watery plain: + Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove, + My Atalantis sunk beneath the main. + +17 No longer bloomed primeval Eden's bowers, + Nor guardian dragons watched the Hesperian steep: + With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flowers, + Torn from the continent to glut the deep. + +18 No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deigned, + Yet oft descending to the languid earth, + With quickening powers the fainting mass sustained, + And waked her slumbering atoms into birth. + +19 And every echo taught my raptured name, + And every virgin breathed her amorous vows, + And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame, + Showered by the Muses, crowned my lofty brows. + +20 But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride, + My Albion's favoured realms, I rose adored; + And poured my wealth, to other climes denied; + From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored. + +21 Ah me! for now a younger rival claims + My ravished honours, and to her belong + My choral dances, and victorious games, + To her my garlands and triumphal song. + +22 O say what yet untasted beauties flow, + What purer joys await her gentler reign? + Do lilies fairer, violets sweeter blow? + And warbles Philomel a softer strain? + +23 Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise? + Does evening fan her with serener gales? + Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies, + Or wantons plenty in her happier vales? + +24 Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light + Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day; + And Cynthia, riding on the car of night, + Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way. + +25 Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs, + Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flower; + Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings + When silence listens at the midnight hour. + +26 Nor wonder, man, that Nature's bashful face, + And opening charms, her rude embraces fear: + Is she not sprung from April's wayward race, + The sickly daughter of the unripened year? + +27 With showers and sunshine in her fickle eyes, + With hollow smiles proclaiming treacherous peace, + With blushes, harbouring, in their thin disguise, + The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase? + +28 Is this the fair invested with my spoil + By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command? + Ungenerous Europe! let me fly thy soil, + And waft my treasures to a grateful land; + +29 Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore, + My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain; + Again to Afric's sultry sands restore + Embowering shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane: + +30 Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast, + There hush to silence elemental strife; + Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost, + And swell her barren womb with heat and life. + +31 Then Britain--Here she ceased. Indignant grief, + And parting pangs, her faltering tongue suppressed: + Veiled in an amber cloud she sought relief, + And tears and silent anguish told the rest. + + + + +FRANCIS FAWKES. + + +This 'learned and jovial parson,' as Campbell calls him, was born in 1721, +in Yorkshire. He studied at Cambridge, and became curate at Croydon, in +Surrey. Here he obtained the friendship of Archbishop Herring, and was by +him appointed vicar of Orpington in Kent, a situation which he ultimately +exchanged for the rectory of Hayes, in the same county. He translated +various minor Greek poets, including Anacreon, Sappho, Bion and Moschus, +Theocritus, &c. He died in 1777. His 'Brown Jug' breathes some of the +spirit of the first of these writers, and two or three lines of it were +once quoted triumphantly in Parliament by Sheil, while charging Peel, we +think it was, with appropriating arguments from Bishop Philpotts--'Harry +of Exeter.' + + 'Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, + Was once Toby Philpotts,' &c. + + +THE BROWN JUG. + +1 Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, + (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale,) + Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul + As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl; + In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel, + And among jolly topers lie bore off the bell. + +2 It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease + In his flower-woven arbour as gay as you please, + With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away, + And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, + His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, + And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. + +3 His body, when long in the ground it had lain, + And time into clay had resolved it again, + A potter found out in its covert so snug, + And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug + Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale; + So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale. + + + + +JOHN LANGHORNE. + + +This poetical divine was born in 1735, at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland. +Left fatherless at four years old, his mother fulfilled her double charge +of duty with great tenderness and assiduity. He was educated at Appleby, +and subsequently became assistant at the free-school of Wakefield, took +deacon's orders, and gave promise, although very young, of becoming a +popular preacher. After various vicissitudes of life and fortune, and +publishing a number of works in prose and verse, Langhorne repaired to +London, and obtained, in 1764, the curacy and lectureship of St John's, +Clerkenwell. He soon afterwards became assistant-preacher in Lincoln's +Inn Chapel, where he had a very intellectual audience to address, and +bore a somewhat trying ordeal with complete success. He continued for a +number of years in London, maintaining his reputation both as a preacher +and writer. His most popular works were the 'Letters of Theodosius and +Constantia,' and a translation of Plutarch's Lives, which Wrangham +afterwards corrected and improved, and which is still standard. He was +twice married, and survived both his wives. He obtained the living of +Blagden in Somersetshire, and in addition to it, in 1777, a prebend in +the Cathedral of Wells. He died in 1779, aged only forty-four; his death, +it is supposed, being accelerated by intemperance, although it does not +seem to have been of a gross or aggravated description. Langhorne, an +amiable man, and highly popular as well as warmly beloved in his day, +survives now in memory chiefly through his Plutarch's Lives, and through +a few lines in his 'Country Justice,' which are immortalised by the well- +known story of Scott's interview with Burns. Campbell puts in a plea +besides for his 'Owen of Carron,' but the plea, being founded on early +reading, is partial, and has not been responded to by the public. + + +FROM 'THE COUNTRY JUSTICE.' + +The social laws from insult to protect, +To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; +The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, +To smooth the bed of penury and pain; +The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, +The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore; +The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art, +To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; +Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell, +Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, +Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, +For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm; +For this the rural magistrate, of yore, +Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore. + +Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, +On silver waves that flow through smiling vales; +In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, +Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; +With many a group of antique columns crowned, +In Gothic guise such, mansion have I found. + +Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, +Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face, +Of the more manly structures here ye view; +They rose for greatness that ye never knew! +Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my spleen +With Venus and the Graces on your green! +Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, +Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, +The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, +Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! +But spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, +Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face! + +Ye royal architects, whose antic taste +Would lay the realms of sense and nature waste; +Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, +That folly only points each other way; +Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees, +Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the trees; +Yet let not too severe a censure fall +On the plain precincts of the ancient hall. + +For though no sight your childish fancy meets, +Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets; +Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, +And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail; +Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, +The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone; +And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes, +Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting gods. + +Long have these mighty monsters known disgrace, +Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place; +Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase rears +The field-day triumphs of two hundred years. + +The enormous antlers here recall the day +That saw the forest monarch forced away; +Who, many a flood, and many a mountain passed, +Not finding those, nor deeming these the last, +O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly, +Long ere the death-drop filled his failing eye! + +Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown old, +Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. +Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer, +The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, +And tells his old, traditionary tale, +Though known to every tenant of the vale. + +Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, +Marked with his weight, the mighty horns are spread: +Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, +Where the vast master with the vast sirloin +Vied in round magnitude--Respect I bear +To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair. + +These, and such antique tokens that record +The manly spirit, and the bounteous board, +Me more delight than all the gewgaw train, +The whims and zigzags of a modern brain, +More than all Asia's marmosets to view, +Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew. + +Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast thou strayed, +By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, +And seen with lionest, antiquated air, +In the plain hall the magistratial chair? +There Herbert sat--The love of human kind, +Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind, +In the free eye the featured soul displayed, +Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting shade: +Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, +Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, +Bend o'er her urn with many a generous fear, +Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear; +Fair equity, and reason scorning art, +And all the sober virtues of the heart-- +These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail +Where statutes order, or where statutes fail. + +Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan: +Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. + +He whom the mighty master of this ball +We fondly deem, or farcically call, +To own the patriarch's truth, however loth, +Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth. + +Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, +Born but to err, and erring to bewail, +Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, +And give to life one human weakness more? + +Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; +Still mark the strong temptation and the need: +On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, +At least more lenient let thy justice fall. + +For him who, lost to every hope of life, +Has long with fortune held unequal strife, +Known to no human love, no human care, +The friendless, homeless object of despair; +For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, +Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. +Alike, if folly or misfortune brought +Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; +Believe with social mercy and with me, +Folly's misfortune in the first degree. + +Perhaps on some inhospitable shore +The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore; +Who then, no more by golden prospects led, +Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed. +Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, +Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain; +Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, +The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, +Gave the sad presage of his future years, +The child of misery, baptized in tears! + + +GIPSIES. + +FROM THE SAME. + +The gipsy-race my pity rarely move; +Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love: +Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, more; +Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore. + +For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves +The tawny father with his offspring roves; +When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, +In mossy caves, where welling waters play, +Fanned by each gale that cools the fervid sky, +With this in ragged luxury they lie. +Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain +The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again; +Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, +For their prophetic mother's mantle call. + +Far other cares that wandering mother wait, +The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! +From her to hear, in evening's friendly shade, +Of future fortune, flies the village-maid, +Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, +And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold. + +But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures! +She opens not the womb of time, but yours. +Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, +Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung! +The parson's maid--sore cause had she to rue +The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too. +Long had that anxious daughter sighed to know +What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau, +Meant by those glances which at church he stole, +Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl; +Long had she sighed; at length a prophet came, +By many a sure prediction known to fame, +To Marian known, and all she told, for true: +She knew the future, for the past she knew. + + +A CASE WHERE MERCY SHOULD HAVE MITIGATED JUSTICE. + +FROM THE SAME. + +Unnumbered objects ask thy honest care, +Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer: +Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless, +Unnumbered evils call for thy redress. + +Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn, +Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn? +While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye, +A few seem straggling in the evening sky! +Not many suns have hastened down the day, +Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way, +Since there, a scene that stained their sacred light, +With horror stopped a felon in his flight; +A babe just born that signs of life expressed, +Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast. +The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued, +He had no time to waste, yet stood and viewed; +To the next cot the trembling infant bore, +And gave a part of what he stole before; +Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear, +He felt as man, and dropped a human tear. + +Far other treatment she who breathless lay, +Found from a viler animal of prey. + +Worn with long toil on many a painful road, +That toil increased by nature's growing load, +When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, +And all the mother thronged about her breast, +The ruffian officer opposed her stay, +And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, +So far beyond the town's last limits drove, +That to return were hopeless, had she strove; +Abandoned there, with famine, pain, and cold, +And anguish, she expired,--The rest I've told. + +'Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh, +That thief shall live, that overseer shall die.' + +Too late!--his life the generous robber paid, +Lost by that pity which his steps delayed! +No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, +No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; +No liberal justice first assigned the gaol, +Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his tale. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. + + +This is not the place for writing the life of the great lawyer whose +awful wig has been singed by the sarcasm of Junius. He was born in +London in 1723, and died in 1780. He had early coquetted with poetry, +but on entering the Middle Temple he bade a 'Farewell to his Muse' in +the verses subjoined. So far as lucre was concerned, he chose the better +part, and rose gradually on the ladder of law to be a knight and a judge +in the Court of Common Pleas. It has been conjectured, from some notes +on Shakspeare published by Stevens, that Sir William continued till the +end of his days to hold occasional flirtations with his old flame. + + +THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. + +As, by some tyrant's stern command, +A wretch forsakes his native land, +In foreign climes condemned to roam +An endless exile from his home; +Pensive he treads the destined way, +And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; +Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow +He stops, and turns his eyes below; +There, melting at the well-known view, +Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: +So I, thus doomed from thee to part, +Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art, +Reluctant move, with doubtful mind +Oft stop, and often look behind. + +Companion of my tender age, +Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, +How blithesome were we wont to rove +By verdant hill, or shady grove, +Where fervent bees, with humming voice, +Around the honeyed oak rejoice, +And aged elms with awful bend +In long cathedral walks extend! +Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, +Cheered by the warbling of the woods, +How blessed my days, my thoughts how free, +In sweet society with thee! +Then all was joyous, all was young, +And years unheeded rolled along: +But now the pleasing dream is o'er, +These scenes must charm me now no more. +Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-- +Farewell!--a long, a last adieu. +Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, +To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: +There selfish faction rules the day, +And pride and avarice throng the way; +Diseases taint the murky air, +And midnight conflagrations glare; +Loose Revelry and Riot bold +In frighted streets their orgies hold; +Or, where in silence all is drowned, +Fell Murder walks his lonely round; +No room for peace, no room for you, +Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! + +Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, +Nor all the art of Addison, +Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, +Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: +Instead of these a formal band, +In furs and coifs, around me stand; +With sounds uncouth and accents dry, +That grate the soul of harmony, +Each pedant sage unlocks his store +Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; +And points with tottering hand the ways +That lead me to the thorny maze. + +There, in a winding close retreat, +Is Justice doomed to fix her seat; +There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, +She keeps the wondering world in awe; +And there, from vulgar sight retired, +Like eastern queens, is more admired. + +Oh, let me pierce the sacred shade +Where dwells the venerable maid! +There humbly mark, with reverent awe, +The guardian of Britannia's law; +Unfold with joy her sacred page, +The united boast of many an age; +Where mixed, yet uniform, appears +The wisdom of a thousand years. +In that pure spring the bottom view, +Clear, deep, and regularly true; +And other doctrines thence imbibe +Than lurk within the sordid scribe; +Observe how parts with parts unite +In one harmonious rule of right; +See countless wheels distinctly tend +By various laws to one great end: +While mighty Alfred's piercing soul +Pervades, and regulates the whole. + +Then welcome business, welcome strife, +Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, +The visage wan, the poreblind sight, +The toil by day, the lamp at night, +The tedious forms, the solemn prate, +The pert dispute, the dull debate, +The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall, +For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! +Thus though my noon of life be passed, +Yet let my setting sun, at last, +Find out the still, the rural cell, +Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! +There let me taste the homefelt bliss. +Of innocence and inward peace; +Untainted by the guilty bribe; +Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; +No orphan's cry to wound my ear; +My honour and my conscience clear; +Thus may I calmly meet my end, +Thus to the grave in peace descend. + + + + +JOHN SCOTT. + + +This poet is generally known as 'Scott of Amwell.' This arises from the +fact that his father, a draper in Southwark, where John was born in +1730, retired ten years afterwards to Amwell. He had never been +inoculated with the small-pox, and such was his dread of the disease, +and that of his family, that for twenty years, although within twenty +miles of London, he never visited it. His parents, who belonged to the +amiable sect of Quakers, sent him to a day-school at Ware, but that too +he left upon the first alarm of infection. At seventeen, although his +education was much neglected, he began to relish reading, and was +materially assisted in his studies by a neighbour of the name of +Frogley, a master bricklayer, who, though somewhat illiterate, admired +poetry. Scott sent his first essays to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and +in his thirtieth year published four elegies, which met with a kind +reception, although Dr Johnson said only of them, 'They are very well, +but such as twenty people might write.' He produced afterwards 'The +Garden,' 'Amwell,' and other poems, besides some rather narrow 'Critical +Essays on the English Poets.' When thirty-six years of age, he submitted +to inoculation, and henceforward visited London frequently, and became +acquainted with Dr Johnson, Sir William Jones, Mrs Montague, and other +eminent characters. He was a very active promoter of local improvements, +and diligent in cultivating his grounds and garden. He was twice +married, his first wife being a daughter of his friend Frogley. He died +in 1783, not of that disease which he so 'greatly feared,' but of a +putrid fever, at Radcliff. One note of his, entitled 'Ode on Hearing the +Drum,' still reverberates on the ear of poetic readers. Wordsworth has +imitated it in his 'Andrew Jones.' Sir Walter makes Rachel Geddes say, +in 'Redgauntlet,' alluding to books of verse, 'Some of our people do +indeed hold that every writer who is not with us is against us, but +brother Joshua is mitigated in his opinions, and correspondeth with our +friend John Scott of Amwell, who hath himself constructed verses well +approved of even in the world.' + + +ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM. + +1 I hate that drum's discordant sound, + Parading round, and round, and round: + To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, + And lures from cities and from fields, + To sell their liberty for charms + Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms; + And when ambition's voice commands, + To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. + +2 I hate that drum's discordant sound, + Parading round, and round, and round: + To me it talks of ravaged plains, + And burning towns, and ruined swains, + And mangled limbs, and dying groans, + And widows' tears, and orphans' moans; + And all that misery's hand bestows, + To fill the catalogue of human woes. + + +THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. + +AN ODE. + +1 There's grandeur in this sounding storm, + That drives the hurrying clouds along, + That on each other seem to throng, + And mix in many a varied form; + While, bursting now and then between, + The moon's dim misty orb is seen, + And casts faint glimpses on the green. + +2 Beneath the blast the forests bend, + And thick the branchy ruin lies, + And wide the shower of foliage flies; + The lake's black waves in tumult blend, + Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, + And foaming on the rocky shore, + Whose caverns echo to their roar. + +3 The sight sublime enrapts my thought, + And swift along the past it strays, + And much of strange event surveys, + What history's faithful tongue has taught, + Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill + The page with fabled change can fill + Of ill to good, or good to ill. + +4 But can my soul the scene enjoy, + That rends another's breast with pain? + O hapless he, who, near the main, + Now sees its billowy rage destroy! + Beholds the foundering bark descend, + Nor knows but what its fate may end + The moments of his dearest friend! + + + + +ALEXANDER ROSS. + + +Of this fine old Scottish poet we regret that we can tell our readers so +little. He was born in 1698, became parish schoolmaster at Lochlee in +Angusshire, and published, by the advice of Dr Beattie, in 1768, a +volume entitled 'Helenore; or, The Fortunate Shepherdess: a Pastoral Tale +in the Scottish Dialect; along with a few Songs.' Some of these latter, +such as 'Woo'd, and Married, and a',' became very popular. Beattie loved +the 'good-humoured, social, happy old man,' who was 'passing rich' on +twenty pounds a-year, and wrote in the _Aberdeen Journal_ a poetical +letter in the Scotch language to promote the sale of his poem. Ross died +in 1784, about eighty-six years old, and is buried in a churchyard at the +east end of the loch. + +Lochlee is a very solitary and romantic spot. The road to it from the +low country, or Howe of the Mearns, conducts us through a winding, +unequal, but very interesting glen, which, after bearing at its foot +many patches of corn, yellowing amidst thick green copsewood and birch +trees, fades and darkens gradually into a stern, woodless, and rocky +defile, which emerges on a solitary loch, lying 'dern and dreary' amidst +silent hills. It is one of those lakes which divide the distance between +the loch and the tarn, being two miles in length and one in breadth. The +hills, which are stony and savage, sink directly down upon its brink. +A house or two are all the dwellings in view. The celebrated Thomas +Guthrie dearly loves this lake, lives beside it for months at a time, +and is often seen rowing his lonely boat in the midst of it, by sunlight +and by moonlight too. On the west, one bold, sword-like summit, Craig +Macskeldie by name, cuts the air, and relieves the monotony of the other +mountains. Fit rest has Ross found in that calm, rural burying-place, +beside 'the rude forefathers of the hamlet,' with short, sweet, flower- +sprinkled grass covering his dust, the low voice of the lake sounding +a few yards from his cold ear, and a plain gravestone uniting with his +native mountains to form his memorial. 'Fortunate Shepherd,' (shall we +call him?) to have obtained a grave so intensely characteristic of a +Scottish poet! + + +WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'. + +1 The bride cam' out o' the byre, + And, O, as she dighted her cheeks! + 'Sirs, I'm to be married the night, + And have neither blankets nor sheets; + Have neither blankets nor sheets, + Nor scarce a coverlet too; + The bride that has a' thing to borrow, + Has e'en right muckle ado.' + Woo'd, and married, and a', + Married, and woo'd, and a'! + And was she nae very weel off, + That was woo'd, and married, and a'? + +2 Out spake the bride's father, + As he cam' in frae the pleugh: + 'O, haud your tongue my dochter, + And ye'se get gear eneugh; + The stirk stands i' the tether, + And our braw bawsint yade, + Will carry ye hame your corn-- + What wad ye be at, ye jade?' + +3 Out spake the bride's mither: + 'What deil needs a' this pride? + I had nae a plack in my pouch + That night I was a bride; + My gown was linsey-woolsey, + And ne'er a sark ava; + And ye hae ribbons and buskins, + Mae than ane or twa.' + * * * * * + +4 Out spake the bride's brither, + As he cam' in wi' the kye: + 'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, + Had he kent ye as weel as I; + For ye're baith proud and saucy, + And no for a poor man's wife; + Gin I canna get a better, + I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' + * * * * * + + +THE ROCK AN' THE WEE PICKLE TOW. + +1 There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow, + And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't; + But lootin' her doun, her rock took a-lowe, + And that was an ill beginnin' o't. + She spat on 't, she flat on 't, and tramped on its pate, + But a' she could do it wad ha'e its ain gate; + At last she sat down on't and bitterly grat, + For e'er ha'in' tried the spinnin' o't. + +2 Foul fa' them that ever advised me to spin, + It minds me o' the beginnin' o't; + I weel might ha'e ended as I had begun, + And never ha'e tried the spinnin' o't. + But she's a wise wife wha kens her ain weird, + I thought ance a day it wad never be spier'd, + How let ye the lowe tak' the rock by the beard, + When ye gaed to try the spinnin' o't? + +3 The spinnin', the spinnin', it gars my heart sab + To think on the ill beginnin' o't; + I took't in my head to mak' me a wab, + And that was the first beginnin' o't. + But had I nine daughters, as I ha'e but three, + The safest and soundest advice I wad gi'e, + That they wad frae spinnin' aye keep their heads free, + For fear o' an ill beginnin' o't. + +4 But if they, in spite o' my counsel, wad run + The dreary, sad task o' the spinnin' o't; + Let them find a lown seat by the light o' the sun, + And syne venture on the beginnin' o't. + For wha's done as I've done, alake and awowe! + To busk up a rock at the cheek o' a lowe; + They'll say that I had little wit in my pow-- + O the muckle black deil tak' the spinnin' o't. + + + + +RICHARD GLOVER. + + +Glover was a man so remarkable as to be thought capable of having written +the letters of Junius, although no one now almost names his name or reads +his poetry. He was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in London, and born +(1712) in St Martin's Lane, Cannon Street. He was educated at a private +school in Surrey, but being designed for trade, was never sent to a +university, yet by his own exertions he became an excellent classical +scholar. At sixteen he wrote a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, +and at twenty-five produced nine books of his 'Leonidas.' Partly through +its own merits, partly through its liberal political sentiments, and +partly through the influence of Lord Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, +and the praise of Fielding and Chatham, it became very popular. In 1739, +he produced a poem entitled 'London; or, The Progress of Commerce,' and a +spirited ballad entitled 'Admiral Hosier's Ghost,' which we have given, +both designed to rouse the national spirit against the Spaniards. + +Glover was a merchant, and very highly esteemed among his commercial +brethren, although at one time unfortunate in business. When forced by +his failure to seek retirement, he produced a tragedy on the subject of +Boadicea, which ran the usual nine nights, although it has long since +ceased to be acted or read. In his later years his affairs improved; he +returned again to public life, was elected to Parliament, and approved +himself a painstaking and popular M.P. In 1770, he enlarged his +'Leonidas' from nine books to twelve, and afterwards wrote a sequel to +it, entitled 'The Athenais.' Glover spent his closing years in opulent +retirement, enjoying the intimacy and respect of the most eminent men of +the day, and died in 1785. + +'Leonidas' may be called the epic of the eighteenth century, and betrays +the artificial genius of its age. The poet rises to his flight like a +heavy heron--not a hawk or eagle. Passages in it are good, but the effect +of the whole is dulness. It reminds you of Cowper's 'Homer,' in which all +is accurate, but all is cold, and where even the sound of battle lulls +to slumber--or of Edwin Atherstone's 'Fall of Nineveh,' where you are +fatigued with uniform pomp, and the story struggles and staggers under a +load of words. Thomson exclaimed when he heard of the work of Glover, 'He +write an epic, who never saw a mountain!' And there was justice in the +remark. The success of 'Leonidas' was probably one cause of the swarm of +epics which appeared in the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of +the nineteenth century.--Cottle himself being, according to De Quincey, +'the author of four epic poems, _and_ a new kind of blacking.' Their day +seems now for ever at an end. + + +FROM BOOK XII + + Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen band after their + return from the inroad into the Persian camp, on the night before + the Battle of Thermopylae. + +Back to the pass in gentle march he leads +The embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs, +Where Medon sent such numbers to the shades, +In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown. +Soft breezes only from the Malian wave +O'er each grim face, besmeared with smoke and gore, +Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale, +A crystal rill near Oeta's verdant feet, +Dispel the languor from their harassed nerves, +Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their heads +Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears +Melissa, bearing in her hand divine +The eternal guardian of illustrious deeds, +The sweet Phoebean lyre. Her graceful train +Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range +Half down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks, +All with concordant strings, and accents clear, +A torrent pour of melody, and swell +A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, +Anticipating fame. Of endless joys +In blessed Elysium was the song. Go, meet +Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage, +Let them salute the children of their laws. +Meet Homer, Orpheus, and the Ascraean bard, +Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food +Refined, and more exalted, shall contend +Your splendid fate to warble through the bowers +Of amaranth and myrtle ever young, +Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. +In yonder fane deposited, your urns, +Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire. +Whatever offerings, genius, science, art +Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours, +The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit +You on the enlivened canvas, marble, brass, +In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song, +In every tongue, through every age and clime, +You of this earth the brightest flowers, not cropt, +Transplanted only to immortal bloom +Of praise with men, of happiness with gods. + + + +ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. + +ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS +BY ADMIRAL VERNON--Nov. 22, 1739. + +1 As near Porto-Bello lying + On the gently swelling flood, + At midnight with streamers flying, + Our triumphant navy rode: + There while Vernon sat all-glorious + From the Spaniards' late defeat; + And his crews, with shouts victorious, + Drank success to England's fleet: + +2 On a sudden shrilly sounding, + Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; + Then each heart with fear confounding, + A sad troop of ghosts appeared, + All in dreary hammocks shrouded, + Which for winding-sheets they wore, + And with looks by sorrow clouded, + Frowning on that hostile shore. + +3 On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, + When the shade of Hosier brave + His pale bands was seen to muster, + Rising from their watery grave: + O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, + Where the Burford[1] reared her sail, + With three thousand ghosts beside him, + And in groans did Vernon hail: + +4 'Heed, O heed, our fatal story, + I am Hosier's injured ghost, + You, who now have purchased glory + At this place where I was lost; + Though in Porto-Bello's ruin + You now triumph free from fears, + When you think on our undoing, + You will mix your joy with tears. + +5 'See these mournful spectres, sweeping + Ghastly o'er this hated wave, + Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; + These were English captains brave: + Mark those numbers pale and horrid, + Those were once my sailors bold, + Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, + While his dismal tale is told. + +6 'I, by twenty sail attended, + Did this Spanish town affright: + Nothing then its wealth defended + But my orders not to fight: + Oh! that in this rolling ocean + I had cast them with disdain, + And obeyed my heart's warm motion, + To have quelled the pride of Spain. + +7 'For resistance I could fear none, + But with twenty ships had done + What thou, brave and happy Vernon, + Hast achieved with six alone. + Then the Bastimentos never + Had our foul dishonour seen, + Nor the sea the sad receiver + Of this gallant train had been. + +8 'Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, + And her galleons leading home, + Though condemned for disobeying, + I had met a traitor's doom; + To have fallen, my country crying, + He has played an English part, + Had been better far than dying + Of a grieved and broken heart. + +9 'Unrepining at thy glory, + Thy successful arms we hail; + But remember our sad story, + And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. + Sent in this foul clime to languish, + Think what thousands fell in vain, + Wasted with disease and anguish, + Not in glorious battle slain. + +10 'Hence, with all my train attending + From their oozy tombs below, + Through the hoary foam ascending, + Here I feed my constant woe: + Here the Bastimentos viewing, + We recall our shameful doom, + And our plaintive cries renewing, + Wander through the midnight gloom. + +11 'O'er these waves for ever mourning + Shall we roam deprived of rest, + If to Britain's shores returning, + You neglect my just request. + After this proud foe subduing, + When your patriot friends you see, + Think on vengeance for my ruin, + And for England shamed in me.' + +[1] 'The Burford:' Admiral Vernon's ship. + + + + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. + + +There was also a Paul Whitehead, who wrote a satire entitled 'Manners,' +which is highly praised by Boswell, and mentioned contemptuously by +Campbell, and who lives in the couplet of Churchill-- + + 'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) + Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul.' + +William Whitehead was the son of a baker in Cambridge, was born in 1715, +and studied first at Winchester, and then in Clare Hall, in his own +city. He became tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey, wrote one or two +poor plays, and in 1757, on the death of Colley Cibber, was appointed +Poet-Laureate--the office having previously been refused by Gray. This +roused against him a large class of those 'beings capable of envying +even a poet-laureate,' to use Gray's expression, and especially the +wrath of Churchill, then the man-mountain of satiric literature, who, in +his 'Ghost,' says-- + + 'But he who in the laureate chair, + By grace, not merit, planted there, + In awkward pomp is seen to sit, + And by his patent proves his wit,' &c. + +To these attacks Whitehead, who was a good-natured and modest man, made +no reply. In his latter years the Laureate resided in the family of Lord +Jersey, and died in 1785. His poem called 'Variety' is light and pleasant, +and deserves a niche in our 'Specimens.' + + +VARIETY. + +A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE. + +A gentle maid, of rural breeding, +By Nature first, and then by reading, +Was filled with all those soft sensations +Which we restrain in near relations, +Lest future husbands should be jealous, +And think their wives too fond of fellows. + +The morning sun beheld her rove +A nymph, or goddess of the grove! +At eve she paced the dewy lawn, +And called each clown she saw, a faun! +Then, scudding homeward, locked her door, +And turned some copious volume o'er. +For much she read; and chiefly those +Great authors, who in verse, or prose, +Or something betwixt both, unwind +The secret springs which move the mind. +These much she read; and thought she knew +The human heart's minutest clue; +Yet shrewd observers still declare, +(To show how shrewd observers are,) +Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, +And novels, in profusion, came, +Imported fresh-and-fresh from France, +She only read the heart's romance. + +The world, no doubt, was well enough +To smooth the manners of the rough; +Might please the giddy and the vain, +Those tinselled slaves of folly's train: +But, for her part, the truest taste +She found was in retirement placed, +Where, as in verse it sweetly flows, +'On every thorn instruction grows.' + +Not that she wished to 'be alone,' +As some affected prudes have done; +She knew it was decreed on high +We should 'increase and multiply;' +And therefore, if kind Fate would grant +Her fondest wish, her only want, +A cottage with the man she loved +Was what her gentle heart approved; +In some delightful solitude +Where step profane might ne'er intrude; +But Hymen guard the sacred ground, +And virtuous Cupids hover round. +Not such as flutter on a fan +Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, +(Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses, +And hold their fingers to their noses,) +But simpering, mild, and innocent, +As angels on a monument. + +Fate heard her prayer: a lover came, +Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame; +One who had trod, as well as she, +The flowery paths of poesy; +Had warmed himself with Milton's heat, +Could every line of Pope repeat, +Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains, +'The lover's hopes,' 'the lover's pains.' + +Attentive to the charmer's tongue, +With him she thought no evening long; +With him she sauntered half the day; +And sometimes, in a laughing way, +Ran o'er the catalogue by rote +Of who might marry, and who not; +'Consider, sir, we're near relations--' +'I hope so in our inclinations.'-- +In short, she looked, she blushed consent; +He grasped her hand, to church they went; +And every matron that was there, +With tongue so voluble and supple, +Said for her part, she must declare, +She never saw a finer couple. +halcyon days! 'Twas Nature's reign, +'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain, +The fields assumed unusual bloom, +And every zephyr breathed perfume, +The laughing sun with genial beams +Danced lightly on the exulting streams; +And the pale regent of the night +In dewy softness shed delight. +'Twas transport not to be expressed; +'Twas Paradise!--But mark the rest. + +Two smiling springs had waked the flowers +That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers, +(Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears, +Who count by months, and not by years,) +Two smiling springs had chaplets wove +To crown their solitude, and love: +When lo, they find, they can't tell how, +Their walks are not so pleasant now. +The seasons sure were changed; the place +Had, somehow, got a different face. +Some blast had struck the cheerful scene; +The lawns, the woods, were not so green. +The purling rill, which murmured by, +And once was liquid harmony, +Became a sluggish, reedy pool: +The days grew hot, the evenings cool. +The moon, with all the starry reign, +Were melancholy's silent train. +And then the tedious winter night-- +They could not read by candle-light. + +Full oft, unknowing why they did, +They called in adventitious aid. +A faithful, favourite dog ('twas thus +With Tobit and Telemachus) +Amused their steps; and for a while +They viewed his gambols with a smile. +The kitten too was comical, +She played so oddly with her tail, +Or in the glass was pleased to find +Another cat, and peeped behind. + +A courteous neighbour at the door +Was deemed intrusive noise no more. +For rural visits, now and then, +Are right, as men must live with men. +Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town, + +A new recruit, a dear delight! +Made many a heavy hour go down, +At morn, at noon, at eve, at night: +Sure they could hear her jokes for ever, +She was so sprightly, and so clever! + +Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; +What joy, alas! could converse bring +With awkward creatures bred at home?-- +The dog grew dull, or troublesome. +The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit, +And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. +And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, +Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. +--'And then, my dear, I can't abide +This always sauntering side by side.' +'Enough!' he cries, 'the reason's plain: +For causes never rack your brain. +Our neighbours are like other folks, +Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, +Are still delightful, still would please, +Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. +Look round, with an impartial eye, +On yonder fields, on yonder sky; +The azure cope, the flowers below, +With all their wonted colours glow. +The rill still murmurs; and the moon +Shines, as she did, a softer sun. +No change has made the seasons fail, +No comet brushed us with his tail. +The scene's the same, the same the weather-- +We live, my dear, too much together.' + +Agreed. A rich old uncle dies, +And added wealth the means supplies. +With eager haste to town they flew, +Where all must please, for all was new. + +But here, by strict poetic laws, +Description claims its proper pause. + +The rosy morn had raised her head +From old Tithonus' saffron bed; +And embryo sunbeams from the east, +Half-choked, were struggling through the mist, +When forth advanced the gilded chaise; +The village crowded round to gaze. +The pert postilion, now promoted +From driving plough, and neatly booted, +His jacket, cap, and baldric on, +(As greater folks than he have done,) +Looked round; and, with a coxcomb air, +Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair +Bowed graceful, from a separate door, +And Jenny, from the stool before. + +Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes +New objects every moment rise. +Each carriage passing on the road, +From the broad waggon's ponderous load +To the light car, where mounted high +The giddy driver seems to fly, +Were themes for harmless satire fit, +And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit. +Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful, +No noise was harsh, no danger frightful. +The dash and splash through thick and thin, +The hairbreadth 'scapes, the bustling inn, +(Where well-bred landlords were so ready +To welcome in the 'squire and lady,) +Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, +Determined to be pleased, and please. + +Now nearer town, and all agog, +They know dear London by its fog. +Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, +Leave Hounslow's dangerous heath behind, +Through Brentford win a passage free +By roaring, 'Wilkes and Liberty!' +At Knightsbridge bless the shortening way, +Where Bays's troops in ambush lay, +O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, +With palaces to grace its side, +Till Bond Street with its lamps a-blaze +Concludes the journey of three days. + +Why should we paint, in tedious song, +How every day, and all day long, +They drove at first with curious haste +Through Lud's vast town; or, as they passed +'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs +Of streets on streets, and squares on squares, +Describe how strong their wonder grew +At buildings--and at builders too? + +Scarce less astonishment arose +At architects more fair than those-- +Who built as high, as widely spread +The enormous loads that clothed their head. +For British dames new follies love, +And, if they can't invent, improve. +Some with erect pagodas vie, +Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry, +Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest, +Convolved, contorted, and compressed; +With intermingling trees, and flowers, +And corn, and grass, and shepherd's bowers, +Stage above stage the turrets run, +Like pendent groves of Babylon, +Till nodding from the topmost wall +Otranto's plumes envelop all! +Whilst the black ewes, who owned the hair, +Feed harmless on, in pastures fair, +Unconscious that their tails perfume, +In scented curls, the drawing-room. + +When Night her murky pinions spread, +And sober folks retire to bed, +To every public place they flew, +Where Jenny told them who was who. +Money was always at command, +And tripped with pleasure hand in hand. +Money was equipage, was show, +Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho; +The _passe-partout_ through every vein +Of dissipation's hydra reign. + +O London, thou prolific source, +Parent of vice, and folly's nurse! +Fruitful as Nile, thy copious springs +Spawn hourly births--and all with stings: +But happiest far the he, or she, + +I know not which, that livelier dunce +Who first contrived the coterie, + +To crush domestic bliss at once. +Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames, +As Nero fiddled to the flames. + +Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak +With reverence, though in numbers weak; +Thy beauties satire's frown beguile, +We spare the follies for the pile. +Flounced, furbelowed, and tricked for show, +With lamps above, and lamps below, +Thy charms even modern taste defied, +They could not spoil thee, though they tried. + +Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings +Must sweep thee off with vulgar things! +Let architects of humbler name +On frail materials build their fame, +Their noblest works the world might want, +Wyatt should build in adamant. + +But what are these to scenes which lie +Secreted from the vulgar eye, +And baffle all the powers of song?-- +A brazen throat, an iron tongue, +(Which poets wish for, when at length +Their subject soars above their strength,) +Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, +Who only reads the public news +And idly utters what she gleans +From chronicles and magazines, +Recoiling feels her feeble fires, +And blushing to her shades retires, +Alas! she knows not how to treat +The finer follies of the great, +Where even, Democritus, thy sneer +Were vain as Heraclitus' tear. + +Suffice it that by just degrees +They reached all heights, and rose with ease; +(For beauty wins its way, uncalled, +And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.) +Each gambling dame she knew, and he +Knew every shark of quality; +From the grave cautious few who live +On thoughtless youth, and living thrive, +To the light train who mimic France, +And the soft sons of _nonchalance_. +While Jenny, now no more of use, +Excuse succeeding to excuse, +Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew +To shilling whist, and chicken loo. + +Advanced to fashion's wavering head, +They now, where once they followed, led. +Devised new systems of delight, +A-bed all day, and up all night, +In different circles reigned supreme. +Wives copied her, and husbands him; +Till so divinely life ran on, +So separate, so quite _bon-ton_, +That meeting in a public place, +They scarcely knew each other's face. + +At last they met, by his desire, +A _tete-a-tete_ across the fire; +Looked in each other's face awhile, +With half a tear, and half a smile. +The ruddy health, which wont to grace +With manly glow his rural face, +Now scarce retained its faintest streak; +So sallow was his leathern cheek. +She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed, +With rouge had striven in vain to hide +What once was beauty, and repair +The rapine of the midnight air. + +Silence is eloquence, 'tis said. +Both wished to speak, both hung the head. +At length it burst.----''Tis time,' he cries, +'When tired of folly, to be wise. +Are you too tired?'--then checked a groan. +She wept consent, and he went on: + +'How delicate the married life! +You love your husband, I my wife! +Not even satiety could tame, +Nor dissipation quench the flame. + +'True to the bias of our kind, +'Tis happiness we wish to find. +In rural scenes retired we sought +In vain the dear, delicious draught, +Though blest with love's indulgent store, +We found we wanted something more. +'Twas company, 'twas friends to share +The bliss we languished to declare. +'Twas social converse, change of scene, +To soothe the sullen hour of spleen; +Short absences to wake desire, +And sweet regrets to fan the fire. + +'We left the lonesome place; and found, +In dissipation's giddy round, +A thousand novelties to wake +The springs of life and not to break. +As, from the nest not wandering far, +In light excursions through the air, +The feathered tenants of the grove +Around in mazy circles move, +Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, +Or taste the blossom on the bough. +We sported freely with the rest; +And still, returning to the nest, +In easy mirth we chatted o'er +The trifles of the day before. + +'Behold us now, dissolving quite +In the full ocean of delight; +In pleasures every hour employ, +Immersed in all the world calls joy; +Our affluence easing the expense +Of splendour and magnificence; +Our company, the exalted set +Of all that's gay, and all that's great: +Nor happy yet!--and where's the wonder!-- +We live, my dear, too much asunder.' + +The moral of my tale is this, +Variety's the soul of bless; +But such variety alone +As makes our home the more our own. +As from the heart's impelling power +The life-blood pours its genial store; +Though taking each a various way, +The active streams meandering play +Through every artery, every vein, +All to the heart return again; +From thence resume their new career, +But still return and centre there: +So real happiness below +Must from the heart sincerely flow; +Nor, listening to the syren's song, +Must stray too far, or rest too long. +All human pleasures thither tend; +Must there begin, and there must end; +Must there recruit their languid force, +And gain fresh vigour from their source. + + + + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. + + +This poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, in 1734. His father was +minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after +attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately +a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he +repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his +patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of +view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the +Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his 'Pollio,' his 'Concubine,' +--a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, +which became popular,--and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of +the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, +was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and +established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the +press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near +Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore +Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much +distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins' +daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at +Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788. + +His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, +and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to +Homer. 'Cumnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of +'Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful +locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a +song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, +as Burns says, of 'the first poet.' + + +CUMNOR HALL. + +1 The dews of summer night did fall, + The moon, sweet regent of the sky, + Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, + And many an oak that grew thereby. + +2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies, + The sounds of busy life were still, + Save an unhappy lady's sighs, + That issued from that lonely pile. + +3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love + That thou so oft hast sworn to me, + To leave me in this lonely grove, + Immured in shameful privity? + +4 'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, + Thy once beloved bride to see; + But be she alive, or be she dead, + I fear, stern Earl,'s the same to thee. + +5 'Not so the usage I received + When happy in my father's hall; + No faithless husband then me grieved, + No chilling fears did me appal. + +6 'I rose up with the cheerful morn, + No lark so blithe, no flower more gay; + And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, + So merrily sung the livelong day. + +7 'If that my beauty is but small, + Among court ladies all despised, + Why didst thou rend it from that hall, + Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? + +8 'And when you first to me made suit, + How fair I was, you oft would say! + And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, + Then left the blossom to decay. + +9 'Yes! now neglected and despised, + The rose is pale, the lily's dead; + But he that once their charms so prized, + Is sure the cause those charms are fled. + +10 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey, + And tender love's repaid with scorn, + The sweetest beauty will decay: + What floweret can endure the storm? + +11 'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, + Where every lady's passing rare, + That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, + Are not so glowing, not so fair. + +12 'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds + Where roses and where lilies vie, + To seek a primrose, whose pale shades + Must sicken when those gauds are by? + +13 ''Mong rural beauties I was one; + Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; + Some country swain might me have won, + And thought my passing beauty rare. + +14 'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, + It is not beauty lures thy vows; + Rather ambition's gilded crown + Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. + +15 'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, + The injured surely may repine, + Why didst thou wed a country maid, + When some fair princess might be thine? + +16 'Why didst thou praise my humble charms, + And, oh! then leave them to decay? + Why didst thou win me to thy arms, + Then leave me to mourn the livelong day? + +17 'The village maidens of the plain + Salute me lowly as they go: + Envious they mark my silken train, + Nor think a countess can have woe. + +18 'The simple nymphs! they little know + How far more happy's their estate; + To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; + To be content, than to be great. + +19 'How far less blessed am I than them, + Daily to pine and waste with care! + Like the poor plant, that, from its stem + Divided, feels the chilling air. + +20 'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy + The humble charms of solitude; + Your minions proud my peace destroy, + By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. + +21 'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, + The village death-bell smote my ear; + They winked aside, and seemed to say, + "Countess, prepare--thy end is near." + +22 'And now, while happy peasants sleep, + Here I sit lonely and forlorn; + No one to soothe me as I weep, + Save Philomel on yonder thorn. + +23 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay; + Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; + And many a body seems to say, + "Countess, prepare--thy end is near."' + +24 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; + And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, + And let fall many a bitter tear. + +25 And ere the dawn of day appeared, + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, + Full many a piercing scream was heard, + And many a cry of mortal fear. + +26 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, + An aerial voice was heard to call, + And thrice the raven flapped his wing + Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. + +27 The mastiff howled at village door, + The oaks were shattered on the green; + Woe was the hour, for never more + That hapless Countess e'er was seen. + +28 And in that manor, now no more + Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball; + For ever since that dreary hour + Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. + +29 The village maids, with fearful glance, + Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; + Nor never lead the merry dance + Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. + +30 Full many a traveller has sighed, + And pensive wept the Countess' fall, + As wandering onwards they've espied + The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. + + + +THE MARINER'S WIFE. + +1 But are ye sure the news is true? + And are ye sure he's weel? + Is this a time to think o' wark? + Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck at a', + There's nae luck about the house, + When our gudeman's awa. + +2 Is this a time to think o' wark, + When Colin's at the door? + Rax down my cloak--I'll to the quay, + And see him come ashore. + +3 Rise up and mak a clean fireside, + Put on the mickle pat; + Gie little Kate her cotton goun, + And Jock his Sunday's coat. + +4 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, + Their stocking white as snaw; + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-- + He likes to see them braw. + +5 There are twa hens into the crib, + Hae fed this month and mair; + Mak haste and thraw their necks about, + That Colin weel may fare. + +6 My Turkey slippers I'll put on, + My stocking pearl blue-- + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, + For he's baith leal and true. + +7 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; + His breath's like caller air; + His very fit has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + +8 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. + + + + +LORD NUGENT. + + +Robert Craggs, afterwards created Lord Nugent, was an Irishman, a younger +son of Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Robert, Lord Trimlestown, and +born in 1709. He was in 1741 elected M.P. for St Mawes, in Cornwall, and +became in 1747 comptroller to the Prince of Wales' household. He after- +wards made peace with the Court, and received various promotions and +marks of favour besides the peerage. In 1739, he published anonymously +a volume of poems possessing considerable merit. He was converted from +Popery, and wrote some vigorous verses on the occasion. Unfortunately, +however, he relapsed, and again celebrated the event in a very weak poem, +entitled 'Faith.' He died in 1788. Although a man of decided talent, as +his 'Ode to Mankind' proves, Nugent does not stand very high either in +the catalogue of Irish patriots or of 'royal and noble authors.' + + +ODE TO MANKIND. + +1 Is there, or do the schoolmen dream? + Is there on earth a power supreme, + The delegate of Heaven, + To whom an uncontrolled command, + In every realm o'er sea and land, + By special grace is given? + +2 Then say, what signs this god proclaim? + Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame, + A throne his hallowed shrine? + The borrowed pomp, the armed array, + Want, fear, and impotence, betray + Strange proofs of power divine! + +3 If service due from human kind, + To men in slothful ease reclined, + Can form a sovereign's claim: + Hail, monarchs! ye, whom Heaven ordains, + Our toils unshared, to share our gains, + Ye idiots, blind and lame! + +4 Superior virtue, wisdom, might, + Create and mark the ruler's right, + So reason must conclude: + Then thine it is, to whom belong + The wise, the virtuous, and the strong, + Thrice sacred multitude! + +5 In thee, vast All! are these contained, + For thee are those, thy parts ordained, + So nature's systems roll: + The sceptre's thine, if such there be; + If none there is, then thou art free, + Great monarch! mighty whole! + +6 Let the proud tyrant rest his cause + On faith, prescription, force, or laws, + An host's or senate's voice! + His voice affirms thy stronger due, + Who for the many made the few, + And gave the species choice. + +7 Unsanctified by thy command, + Unowned by thee, the sceptred hand + The trembling slave may bind; + But loose from nature's moral ties, + The oath by force imposed belies + The unassenting mind. + +8 Thy will's thy rule, thy good its end; + You punish only to defend + What parent nature gave: + And he who dares her gifts invade, + By nature's oldest law is made + Thy victim or thy slave. + +9 Thus reason founds the just degree + On universal liberty, + Not private rights resigned: + Through various nature's wide extent, + No private beings e'er were meant + To hurt the general kind. + +10 Thee justice guides, thee right maintains, + The oppressor's wrongs, the pilferer's gains, + Thy injured weal impair. + Thy warmest passions soon subside, + Nor partial envy, hate, nor pride, + Thy tempered counsels share. + +11 Each instance of thy vengeful rage, + Collected from each clime and age, + Though malice swell the sum, + Would seem a spotless scanty scroll, + Compared with Marius' bloody roll, + Or Sylla's hippodrome. + +12 But thine has been imputed blame, + The unworthy few assume thy name, + The rabble weak and loud; + Or those who on thy ruins feast, + The lord, the lawyer, and the priest; + A more ignoble crowd. + +13 Avails it thee, if one devours, + Or lesser spoilers share his powers, + While both thy claim oppose? + Monsters who wore thy sullied crown, + Tyrants who pulled those monsters down, + Alike to thee were foes. + +14 Far other shone fair Freedom's band, + Far other was the immortal stand, + When Hampden fought for thee: + They snatched from rapine's gripe thy spoils, + The fruits and prize of glorious toils, + Of arts and industry. + +15 On thee yet foams the preacher's rage, + On thee fierce frowns the historian's page, + A false apostate train: + Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb; + Unpitied in their harder doom, + Thy thousands strow the plain. + +16 These had no charms to please the sense, + No graceful port, no eloquence, + To win the Muse's throng: + Unknown, unsung, unmarked they lie; + But Caesar's fate o'ercasts the sky, + And Nature mourns his wrong. + +17 Thy foes, a frontless band, invade; + Thy friends afford a timid aid, + And yield up half the right. + Even Locke beams forth a mingled ray, + Afraid to pour the flood of day + On man's too feeble sight. + +18 Hence are the motley systems framed, + Of right transferred, of power reclaimed; + Distinctions weak and vain. + Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd; + For unreclaimed, and untransferred, + Her powers and rights remain. + +19 While law the royal agent moves, + The instrument thy choice approves, + We bow through him to you. + But change, or cease the inspiring choice, + The sovereign sinks a private voice, + Alike in one, or few! + +20 Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart + Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part, + And only dares betray; + With reptile wiles, alas! prevail, + Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail, + To pilfer power away? + +21 Oh! shall the bought, and buying tribe, + The slaves who take, and deal the bribe, + A people's claims enjoy! + So Indian murderers hope to gain + The powers and virtues of the slain, + Of wretches they destroy. + +22 'Avert it, Heaven! you love the brave, + You hate the treacherous, willing slave, + The self-devoted head; + Nor shall an hireling's voice convey + That sacred prize to lawless sway, + For which a nation bled.' + +23 Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource! + Directing reason, active force, + Propitious Heaven bestows. + But ne'er shall flame the thundering sky, + To aid the trembling herd that fly + Before their weaker foes. + +24 In names there dwell no magic charms, + The British virtues, British arms + Unloosed our fathers' band: + Say, Greece and Rome! if these should fail, + What names, what ancestors avail, + To save a sinking land? + +25 Far, far from us such ills shall be, + Mankind shall boast one nation free, + One monarch truly great: + Whose title speaks a people's choice, + Whose sovereign will a people's voice, + Whose strength a prosperous state. + + + + +JOHN LOGAN. + + +John Logan was born in the year 1748. He was the son of a farmer at +Soutra, in the parish of Fala, Mid-Lothian. He was educated for the +church at Edinburgh, where he became intimate with Robertson, afterwards +the historian. So, at least, Campbell asserts; but he strangely calls him +a student of the same standing, whereas, in fact, Robertson saw light in +1721, and had been a settled minister five years before Logan was born. +After finishing his studies, he became tutor in the family of Mr Sinclair +of Ulbster, and the late well-known Sir John Sinclair was one of his +pupils. When licensed to preach, Logan became popular, and was in his +twenty-fifth year appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. In 1781, +he read in Edinburgh a course of lectures on the Philosophy of History, +and in 1782, he printed one of them, on the Government of Asia. In the +same year he published a volume of poems, which were well received. In +1783, he wrote a tragedy called 'Runnymede,' which was, owing to some +imagined incendiary matter, prohibited from being acted on the London +boards, but which was produced on the Edinburgh stage, and afterwards +published. This, along with some alleged irregularities of conduct on the +part of Logan, tended to alienate his flock, and he was induced to retire +on a small annuity. He betook himself to London, where, in conjunction +with the Rev. Mr Thomson,--who had left the parish of Monzievaird, in +Perthshire, owing to a scandal,--he wrote for the _English Review_, and +was employed to defend Warren Hastings. This he did in an able manner, +although a well-known story describes him as listening to Sheridan, on +the Oude case, with intense interest, and exclaiming, after the first +hour, 'This is mere declamation without proof'--after the next two, 'This +is a man of extraordinary powers'--and ere the close of the matchless +oration, 'Of all the monsters in history, Warren Hastings is the vilest.' +Logan died in the year 1788, in his lodgings, Marlborough Street. His +sermons were published shortly after his death, and if parts of them are, +as is alleged, pilfered from a Swiss divine, (George Joachim Zollikofer,) +they have not remained exclusively with the thief, since no sermons have +been so often reproduced in Scottish pulpits as the elegant orations +issued under the name of Logan. + +We have already declined to enter on the controversy about 'The Cuckoo,' +intimating, however, our belief, founded partly upon Logan's unscrupulous +character and partly on internal evidence, that it was originally written +by Bruce, but probably polished to its present perfection by Logan, whose +other writings give us rather the impression of a man of varied +accomplishments and excellent taste, than of deep feeling or original +genius. If Logan were not the author of 'The Cuckoo,' there was a special +baseness connected with the fact, that when Burke sought him out in +Edinburgh, solely from his admiration of that poem, he owned the soft and +false impeachment, and rolled as a sweet morsel praise from the greatest +man of the age, which he knew was the rightful due of another. + + + +THE LOVERS. + +1 _Har_. 'Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, + My father's house is hushed in sleep; + In dreams the lover meets his bride, + She sees her lover at her side; + The mourner's voice is now suppressed, + A while the weary are at rest: + 'Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep; + I only wake, and wake to weep. + +2 The window's drawn, the ladder waits, + I spy no watchman at the gates; + No tread re-echoes through the hall, + No shadow moves along the wall. + I am alone. 'Tis dreary night, + Oh, come, thou partner of my flight! + Shield me from darkness, from alarms; + Oh, take me trembling to thine arms! + +3 The dog howls dismal in the heath, + The raven croaks the dirge of death; + Ah me! disaster's in the sound! + The terrors of the night are round; + A sad mischance my fears forebode, + The demon of the dark's abroad, + And lures, with apparition dire, + The night-struck man through flood and fire. + +4 The owlet screams ill-boding sounds, + The spirit walks unholy rounds; + The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls; + The shades of hell usurp the poles; + The moon retires; the heaven departs. + From opening earth a spectre starts: + My spirit dies--Away, my fears! + My love, my life, my lord, appears! + +5 _Hen_. I come, I come, my love! my life! + And, nature's dearest name, my wife! + Long have I loved thee; long have sought: + And dangers braved, and battles fought; + In this embrace our evils end; + From this our better days ascend; + The year of suffering now is o'er, + At last we meet to part no more! + +6 My lovely bride! my consort, come! + The rapid chariot rolls thee home. + _Har_. I fear to go----I dare not stay. + Look back.----I dare not look that way. + _Hen_. No evil ever shall betide + My love, while I am at her side. + Lo! thy protector and thy friend, + The arms that fold thee will defend. + +7 _Har_. Still beats my bosom with alarms: + I tremble while I'm in thy arms! + What will impassioned lovers do? + What have I done--to follow you? + I leave a father torn with fears; + I leave a mother bathed in tears; + A brother, girding on his sword, + Against my life, against my lord. + +8 Now, without father, mother, friend, + On thee my future days depend; + Wilt thou, for ever true to love, + A father, mother, brother, prove? + O Henry!----to thy arms I fall, + My friend! my husband! and my all! + Alas! what hazards may I run? + Shouldst thou forsake me--I'm undone. + +9 _Hen_. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, + And let a husband wipe thy tears; + For ever joined our fates combine, + And I am yours, and you are mine. + The fires the firmament that rend, + On this devoted head descend, + If e'er in thought from thee I rove, + Or love thee less than now I love! + +10 Although our fathers have been foes, + From hatred stronger love arose; + From adverse briars that threatening stood, + And threw a horror o'er the wood, + Two lovely roses met on high, + Transplanted to a better sky; + And, grafted in one stock, they grow. + In union spring, in beauty blow. + +11 _Har_. My heart believes my love; but still + My boding mind presages ill: + For luckless ever was our love, + Dark as the sky that hung above. + While we embraced, we shook with fears, + And with our kisses mingled tears; + We met with murmurs and with sighs, + And parted still with watery eyes. + +12 An unforeseen and fatal hand + Crossed all the measures love had planned; + Intrusion marred the tender hour, + A demon started in the bower; + If, like the past, the future run, + And my dark day is but begun, + What clouds may hang above my head? + What tears may I have yet to shed? + +13 _Hen_. Oh, do not wound that gentle breast, + Nor sink, with fancied ills oppressed; + For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, + And love is virtue in thy heart. + That bosom ne'er shall heave again + But to the poet's tender strain; + And never more these eyes o'erflow + But for a hapless lover's woe. + +14 Long on the ocean tempest-tossed, + At last we gain the happy coast; + And safe recount upon the shore + Our sufferings past, and dangers o'er: + Past scenes, the woes we wept erewhile, + Will make our future minutes smile: + When sudden joy from sorrow springs, + How the heart thrills through all its strings! + +15 _Har_. My father's castle springs to sight; + Ye towers that gave me to the light! + O hills! O vales! where I have played; + Ye woods, that wrap me in your shade! + O scenes I've often wandered o'er! + O scenes I shall behold no more! + I take a long, last, lingering view: + Adieu! my native land, adieu! + +16 O father, mother, brother dear! + O names still uttered with a tear! + Upon whose knees I've sat and smiled, + Whose griefs my blandishments beguiled; + Whom I forsake in sorrows old, + Whom I shall never more behold! + Farewell, my friends, a long farewell, + Till time shall toll the funeral knell. + +17 _Hen_. Thy friends, thy father's house resign; + My friends, my house, my all is thine: + Awake, arise, my wedded wife, + To higher thoughts, and happier life! + For thee the marriage feast is spread, + For thee the virgins deck the bed; + The star of Venus shines above, + And all thy future life is love. + +18 They rise, the dear domestic hours! + The May of love unfolds her flowers; + Youth, beauty, pleasure spread the feast, + And friendship sits a constant guest; + In cheerful peace the morn ascends, + In wine and love the evening ends; + At distance grandeur sheds a ray, + To gild the evening of our day. + +19 Connubial love has dearer names, + And finer ties, and sweeter claims, + Than e'er unwedded hearts can feel, + Than wedded hearts can e'er reveal; + Pure as the charities above, + Rise the sweet sympathies of love; + And closer cords than those of life + Unite the husband to the wife. + +20 Like cherubs new come from the skies, + Henries and Harriets round us rise; + And playing wanton in the hall, + With accent sweet their parents call; + To your fair images I run, + You clasp the husband in the son; + Oh, how the mother's heart will bound! + Oh, how the father's joy be crowned! + + +WRITTEN IN A VISIT TO THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN. + +1 'Tis past! no more the Summer blooms! + Ascending in the rear, + Behold congenial Autumn comes, + The Sabbath of the year! + What time thy holy whispers breathe, + The pensive evening shade beneath, + And twilight consecrates the floods; + While nature strips her garment gay, + And wears the vesture of decay, + Oh, let me wander through the sounding woods! + +2 Ah! well-known streams!--ah! wonted groves, + Still pictured in my mind! + Oh! sacred scene of youthful loves, + Whose image lives behind! + While sad I ponder on the past, + The joys that must no longer last; + The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier + The dying music of the grove, + And the last elegies of love, + Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear! + +3 Alas! the hospitable hall, + Where youth and friendship played, + Wide to the winds a ruined wall + Projects a death-like shade! + The charm is vanished from the vales; + No voice with virgin-whisper hails + A stranger to his native bowers: + No more Arcadian mountains bloom, + Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume; + The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers! + +4 Companions of the youthful scene, + Endeared from earliest days! + With whom I sported on the green, + Or roved the woodland maze! + Long exiled from your native clime, + Or by the thunder-stroke of time + Snatched to the shadows of despair; + I hear your voices in the wind, + Your forms in every walk I find; + I stretch my arms: ye vanish into air! + +5 My steps, when innocent and young, + These fairy paths pursued; + And wandering o'er the wild, I sung + My fancies to the wood. + I mourned the linnet-lover's fate, + Or turtle from her murdered mate, + Condemned the widowed hours to wail: + Or while the mournful vision rose, + I sought to weep for imaged woes, + Nor real life believed a tragic tale! + +6 Alas! misfortune's cloud unkind + May summer soon o'ercast! + And cruel fate's untimely wind + All human beauty blast! + The wrath of nature smites our bowers, + And promised fruits and cherished flowers, + The hopes of life in embryo sweeps; + Pale o'er the ruins of his prime, + And desolate before his time, + In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps! + +7 Relentless power! whose fated stroke + O'er wretched man prevails! + Ha! love's eternal chain is broke, + And friendship's covenant fails! + Upbraiding forms! a moment's ease-- + O memory! how shall I appease + The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost? + What charm can bind the gushing eye, + What voice console the incessant sigh, + And everlasting longings for the lost? + +8 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood + That hides me in its gloom, + While lost in melancholy mood + I muse upon the tomb. + Their chequered leaves the branches shed; + Whirling in eddies o'er my head, + They sadly sigh that Winter's near: + The warning voice I hear behind, + That shakes the wood without a wind, + And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. + +9 Nor will I court Lethean streams, + The sorrowing sense to steep; + Nor drink oblivion of the themes + On which I love to weep. + Belated oft by fabled rill, + While nightly o'er the hallowed hill + Aerial music seems to mourn; + I'll listen Autumn's closing strain; + Then woo the walks of youth again, + And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely urn! + + +COMPLAINT OF NATURE. + +1 Few are thy days and full of woe, + O man of woman born! + Thy doom is written, dust thou art, + And shalt to dust return. + +2 Determined are the days that fly + Successive o'er thy head; + The numbered hour is on the wing + That lays thee with the dead. + +3 Alas! the little day of life + Is shorter than a span; + Yet black with thousand hidden ills + To miserable man. + +4 Gay is thy morning, flattering hope + Thy sprightly step attends; + But soon the tempest howls behind, + And the dark night descends. + +5 Before its splendid hour the cloud + Comes o'er the beam of light; + A pilgrim in a weary land, + Man tarries but a night. + +6 Behold, sad emblem of thy state! + The flowers that paint the field; + Or trees that crown the mountain's brow, + And boughs and blossoms yield. + +7 When chill the blast of Winter blows, + Away the Summer flies, + The flowers resign their sunny robes, + And all their beauty dies. + +8 Nipt by the year the forest fades; + And shaking to the wind, + The leaves toss to and fro, and streak + The wilderness behind. + +9 The Winter past, reviving flowers + Anew shall paint the plain, + The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, + And flourish green again. + +10 But man departs this earthly scene, + Ah! never to return! + No second Spring shall e'er revive + The ashes of the urn. + +11 The inexorable doors of death + What hand can e'er unfold? + Who from the cerements of the tomb + Can raise the human mould? + +12 The mighty flood that rolls along + Its torrents to the main, + The waters lost can ne'er recall + From that abyss again. + +13 The days, the years, the ages, dark + Descending down to night, + Can never, never be redeemed + Back to the gates of light. + +14 So man departs the living scene, + To night's perpetual gloom; + The voice of morning ne'er shall break + The slumbers of the tomb. + +15 Where are our fathers? Whither gone + The mighty men of old? + The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, + In sacred books enrolled? + +16 Gone to the resting-place of man, + The everlasting home, + Where ages past have gone before, + Where future ages come, + +17 Thus nature poured the wail of woe, + And urged her earnest cry; + Her voice, in agony extreme, + Ascended to the sky. + +18 The Almighty heard: then from his throne + In majesty he rose; + And from the heaven, that opened wide, + His voice in mercy flows: + +19 'When mortal man resigns his breath, + And falls a clod of clay, + The soul immortal wings its flight + To never-setting day. + +20 'Prepared of old for wicked men + The bed of torment lies; + The just shall enter into bliss + Immortal in the skies.' + + + + +THOMAS BLACKLOCK. + + +The amiable Dr Blacklock deserves praise for his character and for his +conduct under very peculiar circumstances, much more than for his +poetry. He was born at Annan, where his father was a bricklayer, in +1721. When about six months old, he lost his eyesight by small-pox. His +father used to read to him, especially poetry, and through the kindness +of friends he acquired some knowledge of the Latin tongue. His father +having been accidentally killed when Thomas was nineteen, it might +have fared hard with him, but Dr Stevenson, an eminent medical man +in Edinburgh, who had seen some verses composed by the blind youth, +took him to the capital, sent him to college to study divinity, and +encouraged him to write and to publish poetry. His volume, to which +was prefixed an account of the author, by Professor Spence of Oxford, +attracted much attention. Blacklock was licensed to preach in 1759, and +three years afterwards was married to a Miss Johnstone of Dumfries, an +exemplary but plain-looking lady, whose beauty her husband was wont to +praise so warmly that his friends were thankful that his infirmity was +never removed, and thought how justly Cupid had been painted blind. He +was even, through the influence of the Earl of Selkirk, appointed to the +parish of Kirkcudbright, but the parishioners opposed his induction on +the plea of his want of sight, and, in consideration of a small annuity, +he withdrew his claims. He finally settled down in Edinburgh, where he +supported himself chiefly by keeping young gentlemen as boarders in his +house. His chief amusements were poetry and music. His conduct to (1786) +and correspondence with Burns are too well known to require to be +noticed at length here. He published a paper of no small merit in the +'Encyclopaedia Britannica' on Blindness, and is the author of a work +entitled 'Paraclesis; or, Consolations of Religion,'--which surely none +require more than the blind. He died of a nervous fever on the 7th of +July 1791, so far fortunate that he did not live to see the ruin of his +immortal _protege_. + +Blacklock was a most amiable, genial, and benevolent being. He was +sometimes subject to melancholy--_un_like many of the blind, and one +especially, whom we name not, but who, still living, bears a striking +resemblance to Blacklock in fineness of mind, warmth of heart, and high- +toned piety, but who is cheerful as the day. As to his poetry, it is +undoubtedly wonderful, considering the circumstances of its production, +if not _per se_. Dr Johnson says to Boswell,--'As Blacklock had the +misfortune to be blind, we may be absolutely sure that the passages in +his poems descriptive of visible objects are combinations of what he +remembered of the works of other writers who could see. That foolish +fellow Spence has laboured to explain philosophically how Blacklock may +have done, by his own faculties, what it is impossible he should do. The +solution, as I have given it, is plain. Suppose I know a man to be so +lame that he is absolutely incapable to move himself, and I find him in a +different room from that in which I left him, shall I puzzle myself with +idle conjectures that perhaps his nerves have, by some unknown change, +all at once become effective? No, sir; it is clear how he got into a +different room--he was CARRIED.' + +Perhaps there is a fallacy in this somewhat dogmatic statement. Perhaps +the blind are not so utterly dark but they may have certain dim +_simulacra_ of external objects before their eyes and minds. Apart from +this, however, Blacklock's poetry endures only from its connexion with +the author's misfortune, and from the fact that through the gloom he +groped greatly to find and give the burning hand of the peasant poet the +squeeze of a kindred spirit,--kindred, we mean, in feeling and heart, +although very far removed in strength of intellect and genius. + + +THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE. + +While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, +And touch each feature with a trembling hand; +Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride, +To mix the colours, and the pencil guide. + +Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind; +How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind! +By self the fop in magic colours shown, +Though, scorned by every eye, delights his own: +When age and wrinkles seize the conquering maid, +Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade. +Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay; +Thy charms to others as to me display. + +Straight is my person, but of little size; +Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes; +My youthful down is, like my talents, rare; +Politely distant stands each single hair. +My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear; +So smooth, a child may listen without fear; +Not formed in cadence soft and warbling lays, +To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways. +My form so fine, so regular, so new, +My port so manly, and so fresh my hue; +Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say, +'See, see _Memento Mori_ cross the way.' +The ravished Proserpine at last, we know, +Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau; +But, thanks to nature! none from me need fly; +One heart the devil could wound--so cannot I. + +Yet, though my person fearless may be seen, +There is some danger in my graceful mien: +For, as some vessel tossed by wind and tide, +Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to side; +In just vibration thus I always move: +This who can view and not be forced to love? + +Hail! charming self! by whose propitious aid +My form in all its glory stands displayed: +Be present still; with inspiration kind, +Let the same faithful colours paint the mind. + +Like all mankind, with vanity I'm blessed, +Conscious of wit I never yet possessed. +To strong desires my heart an easy prey, +Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway. +This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe; +The next, I wonder why I should do so. +Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye; +Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie. +I ne'er for satire torture common sense; +Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense. +Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown; +Wish well to all, and yet do good to none. +Unmerited contempt I hate to bear; +Yet on my faults, like others, am severe. +Dishonest flames my bosom never fire; +The bad I pity, and the good admire; +Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days, +And scribble--not for pudding, but for praise. + +These careless lines, if any virgin hears, +Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years, +She may consent a generous flame to own, +And I no longer sigh the nights alone. +But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice, +Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice; +Cry, 'Save us, Heaven! a spectre, not a man!' +Her hartshorn snatch or interpose her fan: +If I my tender overture repeat; +Oh! may my vows her kind reception meet! +May she new graces on my form bestow, +And with tall honours dignify my brow! + + +ODE TO AURORA, ON MELISSA'S BIRTHDAY. + +Of time and nature eldest born, +Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn, +Emerge, in purest dress arrayed, +And chase from heaven night's envious shade, +That I once more may, pleased, survey, +And hail Melissa's natal day. +Of time and nature eldest born, +Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn; +In order at the eastern gate +The hours to draw thy chariot wait; +Whilst zephyr, on his balmy wings +Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, +With odours sweet to strew thy way, +And grace the bland revolving day. + +But as thou leadst the radiant sphere, +That gilds its birth, and marks the year, +And as his stronger glories rise, +Diffused around the expanded skies, +Till clothed with beams serenely bright, +All heaven's vast concave flames with light; +So, when, through life's protracted day, +Melissa still pursues her way, +Her virtues with thy splendour vie, +Increasing to the mental eye: +Though less conspicuous, not less dear, +Long may they Bion's prospect cheer; +So shall his heart no more repine, +Blessed with her rays, though robbed of thine. + + + + +MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN. + + +Here we find two ladies amicably united in the composition of one of +Scotland's finest songs, the 'Flowers of the Forest.' Miss Jane Elliot of +Minto, sister of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, wrote the first and the +finest of the two versions. Mrs Cockburn, the author of the second, was a +remarkable person. Her maiden name was Alicia Rutherford, and she was the +daughter of Mr Rutherford of Fernilee, in Selkirkshire. She married Mr +Patrick Cockburn, a younger son of Adam Cockburn of Ormiston, Lord +Justice-Clerk of Scotland. She became prominent in the literary circles +of Edinburgh, and an intimate friend of David Hume, with whom she carried +on a long and serious correspondence on religious subjects, in which it +is understood the philosopher opened up his whole heart, but which is +unfortunately lost. Mrs Cockburn, who was born in 1714, lived to 1794, +and saw and proclaimed the wonderful promise of Walter Scott. She wrote +a great deal, but the 'Flowers of the Forest' is the only one of her +effusions that has been published. A ludicrous story is told of her son, +who was a dissipated youth, returning one night drunk, while a large +party of _savans_ was assembled in the house, and locking himself up in +the room in which their coats and hats were deposited. Nothing would +rouse him; and the company had to depart in the best substitutes they +could find for their ordinary habiliments,--Hume (characteristically) in +a dreadnought, Monboddo in an old shabby hat, &c.--the echoes of the +midnight Potterrow resounding to their laughter at their own odd figures. +It is believed that Mrs Cockburn's song was really occasioned by the +bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, although she chose +to throw the new matter of lamentation into the old mould of song. + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. + +BY MISS JANE ELLIOT. + +1 I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, + Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; + But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- + The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + +2 At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, + The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; + Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, + Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. + +3 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, + The 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. + +4 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies 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 a' wede away. + +5 Dule 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 foucht aye the foremost, + The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. + +6 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, + Women and bairns are heartless and wae; + Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- + The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. + +BY MRS COCKBURN. + +1 I've seen the smiling + Of Fortune beguiling; +I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: + Sweet was its blessing, + Kind its caressing; +But now 'tis fled--fled far away. + +2 I've seen the forest + Adorned the foremost +With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; + Sae bonnie was their blooming! + Their scent the air perfuming! +But now they are withered and weeded away. + +3 I've seen the morning + With gold the hills adorning, +And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. + I've seen Tweed's silver streams, + Shining in the sunny beams, +Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. + +4 Oh, fickle Fortune, + Why this cruel sporting? +Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? + Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, + Nae mair your frowns can fear me; +For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM JONES. + + +This extraordinary person, the 'Justinian of India,' the master of +twenty-eight languages, who into the short space of forty-eight years +(he was born in 1746, and died 27th of April 1794) compressed such a +vast quantity of study and labour, is also the author of two volumes +of poetry, of unequal merit. We quote the best thing in the book. + + +A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. + +1 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, + And bid these arms thy neck enfold; + That rosy cheek, that lily hand, + Would give thy poet more delight + Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold, + Than all the gems of Samarcand. + +2 Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, + And bid thy pensive heart be glad, + Whate'er the frowning zealots say: + Tell them, their Eden cannot show + A stream so clear as Rocnabad, + A bower so sweet as Mosellay. + +3 Oh! when these fair perfidious maids, + Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, + Their dear destructive charms display, + Each glance my tender breast invades, + And robs my wounded soul of rest, + As Tartars seize their destined prey. + +4 In vain with love our bosoms glow: + Can all our tears, can all our sighs, + New lustre to those charms impart? + Can cheeks, where living roses blow, + Where nature spreads her richest dyes, + Require the borrowed gloss of art? + +5 Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme, + And talk of odours, talk of wine, + Talk of the flowers that round us bloom: + 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream; + To love and joy thy thoughts confine, + Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. + +6 Beauty has such resistless power, + That even the chaste Egyptian dame + Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy: + For her how fatal was the hour, + When to the banks of Nilus came + A youth so lovely and so coy! + +7 But, ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear, + (Youth should attend when those advise + Whom long experience renders sage): + While music charms the ravished ear, + While sparkling cups delight our eyes, + Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age. + +8 What cruel answer have I heard? + And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still: + Can aught be cruel from thy lip? + Yet say, how fell that bitter word + From lips which streams of sweetness fill, + Which nought but drops of honey sip? + +9 Go boldly forth, my simple lay, + Whose accents flow with artless ease, + Like orient pearls at random strung: + Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; + But, oh! far sweeter, if they please + The nymph for whom these notes are sung. + + + + +SAMUEL BISHOP. + + +This gentleman was born in 1731, and died in 1795. He was an English +clergyman, master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, and author of a +volume of Latin pieces, entitled 'Feriae Poeticae,' and of various other +poetical pieces. We give some verses to his wife, from which it appears +that he remained an ardent lover long after having become a husband. + + +TO MRS BISHOP, + +WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE. + +'A knife,' dear girl, 'cuts love,' they say! +Mere modish love, perhaps it may-- +For any tool, of any kind, +Can separate--what was never joined. + +The knife, that cuts our love in two, +Will have much tougher work to do; +Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit, +Down to the vulgar size of merit; +To level yours, with modern taste, +Must cut a world of sense to waste; +And from your single beauty's store, +Clip what would dizen out a score. + +That self-same blade from me must sever +Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever: +All memory of endearments past, +All hope of comforts long to last; +All that makes fourteen years with you, +A summer, and a short one too; +All that affection feels and fears, +When hours without you seem like years. + +Till that be done, and I'd as soon +Believe this knife will chip the moon, +Accept my present, undeterred, +And leave their proverbs to the herd. + +If in a kiss--delicious treat!-- +Your lips acknowledge the receipt, +Love, fond of such substantial fare, +And proud to play the glutton there, +'All thoughts of cutting will disdain, +Save only--'cut and come again.' + + +TO THE SAME, + +ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH +WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RING. + +'Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed'-- +So, fourteen years ago, I said.---- +Behold another ring!--'For what?' +'To wed thee o'er again?'--Why not? + +With that first ring I married youth, +Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; +Taste long admired, sense long revered, +And all my Molly then appeared. +If she, by merit since disclosed, +Prove twice the woman I supposed, +I plead that double merit now, +To justify a double vow. + +Here then to-day, with faith as sure, +With ardour as intense, as pure, +As when, amidst the rites divine, +I took thy troth, and plighted mine, +To thee, sweet girl, my second ring +A token and a pledge I bring: +With this I wed, till death us part, +Thy riper virtues to my heart; +Those virtues which, before untried, +The wife has added to the bride: +Those virtues, whose progressive claim, +Endearing wedlock's very name, +My soul enjoys, my song approves, +For conscience' sake, as well as love's. + +And why? They show me every hour, +Honour's high thought, Affection's power, +Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, +And teach me all things--but repentance. + + + + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE. + + +This lady was born at Cardew Hall, near Carlisle, and remained there +from the date of her birth (1747) till she was twenty years of age, when +she accompanied her sister--who had married Colonel Graham of Duchray, +Perthshire--to Scotland, and continued there some years. She became +enamoured of Scottish music and poetry, and thus qualified herself for +writing such sweet lyrics as 'The Nabob,' and 'What ails this heart o' +mine?' On her return to Cumberland she wrote several pieces illustrative +of Cumbrian manners. She died unmarried in 1794. Her poetical pieces, +some of which had been floating through the country in the form of +popular songs, were collected by Mr Patrick Maxwell, and published in +1842. The two we have quoted rank with those of Lady Nairne in nature +and pathos. + + +THE NABOB. + +1 When silent time, wi' lightly foot, + Had trod on thirty years, + I sought again my native land + Wi' mony hopes and fears. + Wha kens gin the dear friends I left + May still continue mine? + Or gin I e'er again shall taste + The joys I left langsyne? + +2 As I drew near my ancient pile, + My heart beat a' the way; + Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak + O' some dear former day; + Those days that followed me afar, + Those happy days o' mine, + Whilk made me think the present joys + A' naething to langsyne! + +3 The ivied tower now met my eye, + Where minstrels used to blaw; + Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand, + Nae weel-kenned face I saw; + Till Donald tottered to the door, + Wham I left in his prime, + And grat to see the lad return + He bore about langsyne. + +4 I ran to ilka dear friend's room, + As if to find them there, + I knew where ilk ane used to sit, + And hang o'er mony a chair; + Till soft remembrance throw a veil + Across these een o' mine, + I closed the door, and sobbed aloud, + To think on auld langsyne! + +5 Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, + Wad next their welcome pay, + Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's, + And wished my groves away. + 'Cut, cut,' they cried, 'those aged elms, + Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' + Na! na! our fathers' names grow there, + Memorials o' langsyne. + +6 To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, + They took me to the town; + But sair on ilka weel-kenned face + I missed the youthfu' bloom. + At balls they pointed to a nymph + Wham a' declared divine; + But sure her mother's blushing cheeks + Were fairer far langsyne! + +7 In vain I sought in music's sound + To find that magic art, + Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays + Has thrilled through a' my heart. + The sang had mony an artfu' turn; + My ear confessed 'twas fine; + But missed the simple melody + I listened to langsyne. + +8 Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, + Forgie an auld man's spleen, + Wha' midst your gayest scenes still mourns + The days he ance has seen. + When time has passed and seasons fled, + Your hearts will feel like mine; + And aye the sang will maist delight + That minds ye o' langsyne! + + +WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? + +1 What ails this heart o' mine? + What ails this watery ee? + What gars me a' turn pale as death + When I tak leave o' thee? + When thou art far awa', + Thou'lt dearer grow to me; + But change o' place and change o' folk + May gar thy fancy jee. + +2 When I gae out at e'en, + Or walk at morning air, + Ilk rustling bush will seem to say + I used to meet thee there. + Then I'll sit down and cry, + And live aneath the tree, + And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, + I'll ca't a word frae thee. + +3 I'll hie me to the bower + That thou wi' roses tied, + And where wi' mony a blushing bud + I strove myself to hide. + I'll doat on ilka spot + Where I ha'e been wi' thee; + And ca' to mind some kindly word + By ilka burn and tree. + + + + +JAMES MACPHERSON. + + +Now we come to one who, with all his faults, was not only a real, but a +great poet. The events of his life need not detain us long. He was born +at Kingussie, Inverness-shire, in 1738, and educated at Aberdeen. At +twenty he published a very juvenile production in verse, called 'The +Highlandman: a Heroic Poem, in six cantos.' He taught for some time the +school of Ruthven, near his native place, and became afterwards tutor +in the family of Graham of Balgowan. While attending a scion of this +family--afterwards Lord Lynedoch--at Moffat Wells, Macpherson became +acquainted with Home, the author of 'Douglas,' and shewed to him some +fragments of Gaelic poetry, translated by himself. Home was delighted +with these specimens, and the consequence was, that our poet, under the +patronage of Home, Blair, Adam Fergusson, and Dr Carlyle, (the once +famous 'Jupiter Carlyle,' minister of Inveresk--called 'Jupiter' because +he used to sit to sculptors for their statues of 'Father Jove,' and +declared by Sir Walter Scott to have been the 'grandest demigod he ever +saw,') published, in a small volume of sixty pages, his 'Fragments of +Ancient Poetry, translated from the Gaelic or Erse language.' This +_brochure_ became popular, and Macpherson was provided with a purse to +go to the Highlands to collect additional pieces. The result was, in +1762, 'Fingal: an Epic Poem;' and, in the next year, 'Temora,' another +epic poem. Their sale was prodigious, and the effect not equalled till, +twenty-four years later, the poems of Burns appeared. He realised L1200 +by these productions. In 1764 he accompanied Governor Johnston to +Pensacola as his secretary, but quarrelled with him, and returned to +London. Here he became a professional pamphleteer, always taking the +ministerial side, and diversifying these labours by publishing a +translation of Homer, in the style of his Ossian, which, as Coleridge +says of another production, was 'damned unanimously.' Our readers are +familiar with his row with Dr Johnson, who, when threatened with +personal chastisement for his obstinate and fierce incredulity in the +matter of Ossian, thus wrote the author:-- + +'To Mr JAMES MACPHERSON. + +'I received your foolish and impudent letter. Any violence offered me +I shall do the best to repel, and what I cannot do for myself, the law +shall do for me. I hope I shall not be deterred from detecting what I +think a cheat by the menaces of a ruffian. + +'What would you have me to retract? I thought your book an imposture. I +think it an imposture still. For this opinion I have given my reasons to +the public, which I dare you to refute. Your rage I defy. Your abilities, +since your Homer, are not so formidable, and what I hear of your morals +inclines me to pay regard, not to what you shall say, but to what you +shall prove. You may print this if you will. + +'SAM. JOHNSON.' + +Nothing daunted by this, and a hundred other similar rebuffs; Macpherson, +like Mallett before him, but with twenty times his abilities, pursued +his peculiar course. He was appointed agent for the Nabob of Arcot, +and became M.P. for Carnelford. In this way he speedily accumulated a +handsome fortune, and in 1789, while still a youngish man, he retired to +his native parish, where he bought the estate of Raitts, and founded a +splendid villa, called Belleville, where, in ease and affluence, he spent +his remaining days. Surviving Johnson, his ablest opponent, by twelve +years, he died on the 17th of February 1796, in the full view of Ossian's +country. One of his daughters became his heir, and another was the first +wife of Sir David Brewster. Macpherson in his will ordered that his body +should be buried in Westminster Abbey, and left a sum of money to erect a +monument to him near Belleville. He lies, accordingly, in Poets' Corner, +and a marble obelisk to his memory may be seen near Kingussie, in the +centre of some trees. + +There is nothing new that is true, or true that is new, to be said about +the questions connected with Ossian's Poems. That Macpherson is the sole +author is a theory now as generally abandoned as the other, which held +that he was simply a free translator of the old bard. To the real +fragments of Ossian, which he found in the Highlands, he acted very much +as he did to the ancient property of Raitts, in his own native parish. +This he purchased in its crude state, and beautified into a mountain +paradise. He changed, however, its name into Belleville, and it had been +better if he had behaved in a similar way with the poems, and published +them as, with some little groundwork from another, the veritable writings +of James Macpherson, Esq. The ablest opponent of his living reputation +was, as we said, Johnson; and the ablest enemy of his posthumous fame has +been Macaulay. We are at a loss to understand _his_ animosity to the +author of Ossian. Were the Macphersons and Macaulays ever at feud, and +did the historian lose his great-great-grandmother in some onslaught made +on the Hebrides by the progenitors of the pseudo-Ossian? Macpherson as +a man we respect not, and we are persuaded that the greater part of +Ossian's Poems can be traced no further than his teeming brain. Nor are +we careful to defend his poetry from the common charges of monotony, +affectation, and fustian. But we deem Macaulay grossly unjust in his +treatment of Macpherson's genius and its results, and can fortify our +judgment by that of Sir Walter Scott and Professor Wilson, two men as far +superior to the historian in knowledge of the Highlands and of Highland +song, and in genuine poetic taste, as they were confessedly in original +imagination. The former says, 'Macpherson was certainly a man of high +talents, and his poetic powers are honourable to his country.' Wilson, in +an admirable paper in _Blackwood_ for November 1839, while admitting many +faults in Ossian, eloquently proclaims the presence in his strains of +much of the purest, most pathetic, and most sublime poetry, instancing +the 'Address to the Sun' as equal to anything in Homer or Milton. Both +these great writers have paid Macpherson a higher compliment still,--they +have imitated him, and the speeches of Allan Macaulay (a far greater +genius than his namesake), Ranald MacEagh, and Elspeth MacTavish, in the +'Waverley Novels,' and such, articles by Christopher North as 'Cottages,' +'Hints for the Holidays,' and a 'Glance at Selby's Ornithology,' are all +coloured by familiarity and fellow-feeling with Ossian's style. Best of +all, the Highlanders as a nation have accepted Ossian as their bard; he +is as much the poet of Morven as Burns of Coila, and it is as hopeless to +dislodge the one from the Highland as the other from the Lowland heart. +The true way to learn to appreciate Ossian's poetry is not to hurry, as +Macaulay seems to have done, in a steamer from Glasgow to Oban, and +thence to Ballachulish, and thence through Glencoe, (mistaking a fine +lake for a 'sullen pool' on his way, and ignoring altogether its peculiar +features of grandeur,) and thence to Inverness or Edinburgh; but it is to +live for years--as Macpherson did while writing Ossian, and Wilson also +did to some extent--under the shadow of the mountains,--to wander through +lonely moors amidst drenching mists and rains,--to hold trysts with +thunder-storms on the summit of savage hills,--to bathe after nightfall +in dreary tarns,--to lie over the ledge and dip one's fingers in the +spray of cataracts,--to plough a solitary path into the heart of forests, +and to sleep and dream for hours amidst their sunless glades,--to meet +on twilight hills the apparition of the winter moon rising over snowy +wastes,--to descend by her ghastly light precipices where the eagles +are sleeping,--and, returning home, to be haunted by night-visions of +mightier mountains, wilder desolations, and giddier descents;--experience +somewhat like this is necessary to form a true 'Child of the Mist,' and +to give the full capacity for sharing in or appreciating the shadowy, +solitary, pensive, and magnificent spirit which tabernacles in Ossian's +poetry. + +Never, at least, can we forget how, in our boyhood, while feeling, but +quite unable to express, the emotions which were suggested by the bold +shapes of mountains resting against the stars, mirrored from below in +lakes and wild torrents, and quaking sometimes in concert with the +quaking couch of the half-slumbering earthquake, the poems of Ossian +served to give our thoughts an expression which they could not otherwise +have found--how they at once strengthened and consolidated enthusiasm, +and are now regarded with feelings which, wreathed around earliest +memories and the strongest fibres of the heart, no criticism can ever +weaken or destroy. + + +OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. + +I feel the sun, O Malvina!--leave me to my rest. Perhaps +they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! +The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of +Carthon: I feel it warm around. + +O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my +fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? +Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide +themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the +western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a +companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the +mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and +grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou +art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy +course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder +rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from +the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou +lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether +thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou +tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, +like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou +shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the +morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! +Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of +the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist +is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the +traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. + + +DESOLATION OF BALCLUTHA. + +I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. +The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the +people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed +from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook +there its lonely head; the moss whistled to the wind. The +fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall +waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina; +silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of +mourning, O bards! over the land of strangers. They have but +fallen before us: for one day we must fall. Why dost thou +build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from +thy towers to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the +desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles +round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert +come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm +shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the +song, send round the shell: let joy be heard in my hall. +When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if thou shalt fail, +thou mighty light! if thy brightness is but for a season, +like Fingal, our fame shall survive thy beams. Such was the +song of Fingal in the day of his joy. + + +FINGAL AND THE SPIRIT OF LODA. + +Night came down on the sea; Roma's bay received the ship. A +rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the +top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A +narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged +trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn +from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there! +the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The +flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around: but +the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief +distressed. + +The wan, cold moon, rose in the east; sleep descended on the +youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading +fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in +the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to +behold the flame of Sarno's tower. + +The flame was dim and distant, the moon hid her red face in +the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was +the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and +shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his +dark face; his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal +advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on high. + +Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou +come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy +gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of +clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls +them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my +presence, son of night! Call thy winds, and fly! + +Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. +The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of +the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my +nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the +winds: the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is +calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant. + +Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king; let Comhal's +son be forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my hills, into thy +peaceful plains? Do I meet thee, with a spear, on thy cloud, +spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why +shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled +from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the wind +frighten the king of Morven? No: he knows the weakness of +their arms! + +Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind, and +fly! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of +the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at +the storm of my power. His battle is around Carric-thura; +and he will prevail! Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel +my flaming wrath! + +He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his +dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword; the +blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel +winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into +air, like a column of smoke, which the staff of the boy +disturbs, as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace. + +The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he +rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound, the waves +heard it on the deep. They stopped in their course with +fear: the friends of Fingal started at once, and took their +heavy spears. They missed the king; they rose in rage; all +their arms resound! + + +ADDRESS TO THE MOON. + +Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face +is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars +attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in +thy presence, O moon! they brighten their dark-brown sides. +Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The +stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their +sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course, +when the darkness of thy countenance grows? hast thou thy +hall, like Ossian? dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? +have thy sisters fallen from heaven? are they who rejoiced +with thee at night no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair +light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself +shalt fail one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The +stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in +thy presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy +brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, +O wind! that the daughter of night may look forth! that the +shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white +waves in light. + + +FINGAL'S SPIRIT-HOME. + +His friends sit around the king, on mist! They hear the +songs of Ullin: he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises +the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand +meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a +blush is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown faces of her +fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. 'Art thou come so +soon?' said Fingal, 'daughter of generous Toscar. Sadness +dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the +breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It +comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is +mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy +rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises +yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The +maids are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, +mournest there!' + + +THE CAVE. + +1 The wind is up, the field is bare, + Some hermit lead me to his cell, + Where Contemplation, lonely fair, + With blessed content has chose to dwell. + +2 Behold! it opens to my sight, + Dark in the rock, beside the flood; + Dry fern around obstructs the light; + The winds above it move the wood. + +3 Reflected in the lake, I see + The downward mountains and the skies, + The flying bird, the waving tree, + The goats that on the hill arise. + +4 The gray-cloaked herd[1] drives on the cow; + The slow-paced fowler walks the heath; + A freckled pointer scours the brow; + A musing shepherd stands beneath. + +5 Curved o'er the ruin of an oak, + The woodman lifts his axe on high; + The hills re-echo to the stroke; + I see--I see the shivers fly! + +6 Some rural maid, with apron full, + Brings fuel to the homely flame; + I see the smoky columns roll, + And, through the chinky hut, the beam. + +7 Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss, + Two well-met hunters talk at ease; + Three panting dogs beside repose; + One bleeding deer is stretched on grass. + +8 A lake at distance spreads to sight, + Skirted with shady forests round; + In midst, an island's rocky height + Sustains a ruin, once renowned. + +9 One tree bends o'er the naked walls; + Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh; + By intervals a fragment falls, + As blows the blast along the sky. + +10 The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide + With labouring oars along the flood; + An angler, bending o'er the tide, + Hangs from the boat the insidious wood. + +11 Beside the flood, beneath the rocks, + On grassy bank, two lovers lean; + Bend on each other amorous looks, + And seem to laugh and kiss between. + +12 The wind is rustling in the oak; + They seem to hear the tread of feet; + They start, they rise, look round the rock; + Again they smile, again they meet. + +13 But see! the gray mist from the lake + Ascends upon the shady hills; + Dark storms the murmuring forests shake, + Rain beats around a hundred rills. + +14 To Damon's homely hut I fly; + I see it smoking on the plain; + When storms are past and fair the sky, + I'll often seek my cave again. + +[1] 'Herd': neat-herd. + + + + +WILLIAM MASON. + + +This gentleman is now nearly forgotten, except as the friend, biographer, +and literary executor of Gray. He was born in 1725, and died in 1797. +His tragedies, 'Elfrida' and 'Caractacus,' are spirited declamations +in dramatic form, not dramas. His odes have the turgidity without the +grandeur of Gray's. His 'English Garden' is too long and too formal. His +Life of Gray was an admirable innovation on the form of biography then +prevalent, interspersing, as it does, journals and letters with mere +narrative. Mason was a royal chaplain, held the living of Ashton, and +was precentor of York Cathedral. We quote the best of his minor poems. + + +EPITAPH ON MRS MASON, +IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL. + +1 Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: + Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: + To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care + Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave, + And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? + Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? + Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine: + Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. + +2 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; + Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; + And if so fair, from vanity as free; + As firm in friendship, and as fond in love; + Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, + ('Twas even to thee,) yet the dread path once trod, + Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, + And bids 'the pure in heart behold their God.' + + +AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, KNIGHT, +COMPTROLLER-GENERAL OF HIS MAJESTY'S WORKS, ETC. + +Knight of the Polar Star! by fortune placed +To shine the Cynosure of British taste; +Whose orb collects in one refulgent view +The scattered glories of Chinese virtu; +And spreads their lustre in so broad a blaze, +That kings themselves are dazzled while they gaze: +Oh, let the Muse attend thy march sublime, +And, with thy prose, caparison her rhyme; +Teach her, like thee, to gild her splendid song, +With scenes of Yven-Ming, and sayings of Li-Tsong; +Like thee to scorn dame Nature's simple fence; +Leap each ha-ha of truth and common sense; +And proudly rising in her bold career, +Demand attention from the gracious ear +Of him, whom we and all the world admit, +Patron supreme of science, taste, and wit. +Does envy doubt? Witness, ye chosen train, +Who breathe the sweets of his Saturnian reign; +Witness, ye Hills, ye Johnsons, Scots, Shebbeares, +Hark to my call, for some of you have ears. +Let David Hume, from the remotest north, +In see-saw sceptic scruples hint his worth; +David, who there supinely deigns to lie +The fattest hog of Epicurus' sty; +Though drunk with Gallic wine, and Gallic praise, +David shall bless Old England's halcyon days; +The mighty Home, bemired in prose so long, +Again shall stalk upon the stilts of song: +While bold Mac-Ossian, wont in ghosts to deal, +Bids candid Smollett from his coffin steal; +Bids Mallock quit his sweet Elysian rest, +Sunk in his St John's philosophic breast, +And, like old Orpheus, make some strong effort +To come from Hell, and warble Truth at Court. +There was a time, 'in Esher's peaceful grove, +When Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love,' +That Pope beheld them with auspicious smile, +And owned that beauty blest their mutual toil. +Mistaken bard! could such a pair design +Scenes fit to live in thy immortal line? +Hadst thou been born in this enlightened day, +Felt, as we feel, taste's oriental ray, +Thy satire sure had given them both a stab, +Called Kent a driveller, and the nymph a drab. +For what is Nature? Ring her changes round, +Her three flat notes are water, plants, and ground; +Prolong the peal, yet, spite of all your clatter, +The tedious chime is still ground, plants, and water. +So, when some John his dull invention racks, +To rival Boodle's dinners, or Almack's; +Three uncouth legs of mutton shock our eyes, +Three roasted geese, three buttered apple-pies. +Come, then, prolific Art, and with thee bring +The charms that rise from thy exhaustless spring; +To Richmond come, for see, untutored Browne +Destroys those wonders which were once thy own. +Lo, from his melon-ground the peasant slave +Has rudely rushed, and levelled Merlin's cave; +Knocked down the waxen wizard, seized his wand, +Transformed to lawn what late was fairy-land; +And marred, with impious hand, each sweet design +Of Stephen Duck, and good Queen Caroline. +Haste, bid yon livelong terrace re-ascend, +Replace each vista, straighten every bend; +Shut out the Thames; shall that ignoble thing +Approach the presence of great Ocean's king? +No! let barbaric glories feast his eyes, +August pagodas round his palace rise, +And finished Richmond open to his view, +'A work to wonder at, perhaps a Kew.' +Nor rest we here, but, at our magic call, +Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards crawl; +Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove, +Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love; +In some fair island will we turn to grass +(With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass. +Giants from Africa shall guard the glades, +Where hiss our snakes, where sport our Tartar maids; +Or, wanting these, from Charlotte Hayes we bring +Damsels, alike adroit to sport and sting. +Now to our lawns of dalliance and delight, +Join we the groves of horror and affright; +This to achieve no foreign aids we try,-- +Thy gibbets, Bagshot! shall our wants supply; +Hounslow, whose heath sublimer terror fills, +Shall with her gibbets lend her powder-mills. +Here, too, O king of vengeance, in thy fane, +Tremendous Wilkes shall rattle his gold chain; +And round that fane, on many a Tyburn tree, +Hang fragments dire of Newgate-history; +On this shall Holland's dying speech be read, +Here Bute's confession, and his wooden head: +While all the minor plunderers of the age, +(Too numerous far for this contracted page,) +The Rigbys, Calcrafts, Dysons, Bradshaws there, +In straw-stuffed effigy, shall kick the air. +But say, ye powers, who come when fancy calls, +Where shall our mimic London rear her walls? +That eastern feature, Art must next produce, +Though not for present yet for future use, +Our sons some slave of greatness may behold, +Cast in the genuine Asiatic mould: +Who of three realms shall condescend to know +No more than he can spy from Windsor's brow; +For him, that blessing of a better time, +The Muse shall deal a while in brick and lime; +Surpass the bold [Greek: ADELPHI] in design, +And o'er the Thames fling one stupendous line +Of marble arches, in a bridge, that cuts +From Richmond Ferry slant to Brentford Butts. +Brentford with London's charms will we adorn; +Brentford, the bishopric of Parson Horne. +There, at one glance, the royal eye shall meet +Each varied beauty of St James's Street; +Stout Talbot there shall ply with hackney chair, +And patriot Betty fix her fruit-shop there. +Like distant thunder, now the coach of state +Rolls o'er the bridge, that groans beneath its weight. +The court hath crossed the stream; the sports begin; +Now Noel preaches of rebellion's sin: +And as the powers of his strong pathos rise, +Lo, brazen tears fall from Sir Fletcher's eyes. +While skulking round the pews, that babe of grace, +Who ne'er before at sermon showed his face, +See Jemmy Twitcher shambles; stop! stop thief! +He's stolen the Earl of Denbigh's handkerchief, +Let Barrington arrest him in mock fury, +And Mansfield hang the knave without a jury. +But hark, the voice of battle shouts from far, +The Jews and Maccaronis are at war: +The Jews prevail, and, thundering from the stocks, +They seize, they bind, they circumcise Charles Fox. +Fair Schwellenbergen smiles the sport to see, +And all the maids of honour cry 'Te! He!' +Be these the rural pastimes that attend +Great Brunswick's leisure: these shall best unbend +His royal mind, whene'er from state withdrawn, +He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn; +These shall prolong his Asiatic dream, +Though Europe's balance trembles on its beam. +And thou, Sir William! while thy plastic hand +Creates each wonder which thy bard has planned, +While, as thy art commands, obsequious rise +Whate'er can please, or frighten, or surprise, +Oh, let that bard his knight's protection claim, +And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame. + + + + +JOHN LOWE. + + +The author of 'Mary's Dream' was born in 1750, at Kenmore, Galloway, and +was the son of a gardener. He became a student of divinity, and acted +as tutor in the family of a Mr McGhie of Airds. A daughter of Mr McGhie +was attached to a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, and on the +occasion of his death Lowe wrote his beautiful 'Mary's Dream,' the +exquisite simplicity and music of the first stanza of which has often +been admired. Lowe was betrothed to a sister of 'Mary,' but having +emigrated to America, he married another, fell into dissipated habits, +and died in a miserable plight at Fredericksburgh in 1798. He wrote many +other pieces, but none equal to 'Mary's Dream.' + + +MARY'S DREAM. + +1 The moon had climbed the highest hill + Which rises o'er the source of Dee, + And from the eastern summit shed + Her silver light on tower and tree; + When Mary laid her down to sleep, + Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, + When, soft and low, a voice was heard, + Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!' + +2 She from her pillow gently raised + Her head, to ask who there might be, + And saw young Sandy shivering stand, + With visage pale, and hollow ee. + 'O Mary dear, cold is my clay; + It lies beneath a stormy sea. + Far, far from thee I sleep in death; + So, Mary, weep no more for me! + +3 'Three stormy nights and stormy days + We tossed upon the raging main; + And long we strove our bark to save, + But all our striving was in vain. + Even then, when horror chilled my blood, + My heart was filled with love for thee: + The storm is past, and I at rest; + So, Mary, weep no more for me! + +4 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare; + We soon shall meet upon that shore, + Where love is free from doubt and care, + And thou and I shall part no more!' + Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, + No more of Sandy could she see; + But soft the passing spirit said, + 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' + + + + +JOSEPH WARTON. + + +This accomplished critic and poet was born in 1722. He was son to the +Vicar of Basingstoke, and brother to Thomas Warton. (See a former volume +for his life.) Joseph was educated at Winchester College, and became +intimate there with William Collins. He wrote when quite young some +poetry in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. He was in due time removed to Oriel +College, where he composed two poems, entitled 'The Enthusiast,' and 'The +Dying Indian.' In 1744, he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at Oxford, +and was ordained to his father's curacy at Basingstoke. He went thence +to Chelsea, but did not remain there long, owing to some disagreement +with his parishioners, and returned to Basingstoke. In 1746, he published +a volume of Odes, and in the preface expressed his hope that it might +be successful as an attempt to bring poetry back from the didactic and +satirical taste of the age, to the truer channels of fancy and description. +The motive of this attempt was, however, more praiseworthy than its success +was conspicuous. + +In 1748, Warton was presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory of +Winslade, and he straightway married a Miss Daman, to whom he had for +some time been attached. In the same year he began, and in 1753 he +finished and printed, an edition of Virgil in English and Latin. Of this +large, elaborate work, Warton himself supplied only the life of Virgil, +with three essays on pastoral, didactic, and epic poetry, and a poetical +version of the Eclogues and the Georgics, more correct but less spirited +than Dryden's. He adopted Pitt's version of the Aeneid, and his friends +furnished some of the dissertations, notes, &c. Shortly after, he +contributed twenty-four excellent papers, including some striking +allegories, and some good criticisms on Shakspeare, to the _Adventurer_. +In 1754, he was appointed to the living of Tunworth, and the next year +was elected second master of Winchester School. Soon after this he +published anonymously 'An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope,' +which, whether because he failed in convincing the public that his +estimate of Pope was the correct one, or because he stood in awe of +Warburton, he did not complete or reprint for twenty-six years. It is a +somewhat gossiping book, but full of information and interest. + +In May 1766, he was made head-master of Winchester. In 1768, he lost his +wife, and next year married a Miss Nicholas of Winchester. In 1782, he +was promoted, through Bishop Lowth, to a prebend's post in St Paul's, and +to the living of Thorley, which he exchanged for that of Wickham. Other +livings dropped in upon him, and in 1793 he resigned the mastership of +Winchester, and went to reside at Wickham. Here he employed himself in +preparing an edition of Pope, which he published in 1797. In 1800 he +died. + +Warton, like his brother, did good service in resisting the literary +despotism of Pope, and in directing the attention of the public to the +forgotten treasures of old English poetry. He was a man of extensive +learning, a very fair and candid, as well as acute critic, and his 'Ode +to Fancy' proves him to have possessed no ordinary genius. + + +ODE TO FANCY. + +O parent of each lovely Muse, +Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, +O'er all my artless songs preside, +My footsteps to thy temple guide, +To offer at thy turf-built shrine, +In golden cups no costly wine, +No murdered fatling of the flock, +But flowers and honey from the rock. +O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, +With buskined leg, and bosom bare, +Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, +Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned, +Waving in thy snowy hand +An all-commanding magic wand, +Of power to bid fresh gardens blow, +'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow, +Whose rapid wings thy flight convey +Through air, and over earth and sea, +While the vast various landscape lies +Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. +O lover of the desert, hail! +Say, in what deep and pathless vale, +Or on what hoary mountain's side, +'Mid fall of waters, you reside, +'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene, +With green and grassy dales between, +'Mid forests dark of aged oak, +Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, +Where never human art appeared, +Nor even one straw-roofed cot was reared, +Where Nature seems to sit alone, +Majestic on a craggy throne; +Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, +To thy unknown sequestered cell, +Where woodbines cluster round the door, +Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, +And on whose top a hawthorn blows, +Amid whose thickly-woven boughs +Some nightingale still builds her nest, +Each evening warbling thee to rest: +Then lay me by the haunted stream, +Rapt in some wild, poetic dream, +In converse while methinks I rove +With Spenser through a fairy grove; +Till, suddenly awaked, I hear +Strange whispered music in my ear, +And my glad soul in bliss is drowned +By the sweetly-soothing sound! +Me, goddess, by the right hand lead +Sometimes through the yellow mead, +Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, +And Venus keeps her festive court; +Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, +And lightly trip with nimble feet, +Nodding their lily-crowned heads, +Where Laughter rose-lipped Hebe leads; +Where Echo walks steep hills among, +Listening to the shepherd's song: +Yet not these flowery fields of joy +Can long my pensive mind employ; +Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, +To meet the matron Melancholy, +Goddess of the tearful eye, +That loves to fold her arms, and sigh; +Let us with silent footsteps go +To charnels and the house of woe, +To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, +Where each sad night some virgin comes, +With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, +Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek; +Or to some abbey's mouldering towers, +Where, to avoid cold wintry showers, +The naked beggar shivering lies, +While whistling tempests round her rise, +And trembles lest the tottering wall +Should on her sleeping infants fall. +Now let us louder strike the lyre, +For my heart glows with martial fire,-- +I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, +My big tumultuous bosom beat; +The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear, +A thousand widows' shrieks I hear, +Give me another horse, I cry, +Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; +Whence is this rage?--what spirit, say, +To battle hurries me away? +'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, +Transports me to the thickest war, +There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, +Where Tumult and Destruction reign; +Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed +Tramples the dying and the dead; +Where giant Terror stalks around, +With sullen joy surveys the ground, +And, pointing to the ensanguined field, +Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! +Oh, guide me from this horrid scene, +To high-arched walks and alleys green, +Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun +The fervours of the mid-day sun; +The pangs of absence, oh, remove! +For thou canst place me near my love, +Canst fold in visionary bliss, +And let me think I steal a kiss, +While her ruby lips dispense +Luscious nectar's quintessence! +When young-eyed Spring profusely throws +From her green lap the pink and rose, +When the soft turtle of the dale +To Summer tells her tender tale; +When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, +And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; +When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, +Shakes his silver beard with cold; +At every season let my ear +Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. +O warm, enthusiastic maid, +Without thy powerful, vital aid, +That breathes an energy divine, +That gives a soul to every line, +Ne'er may I strive with lips profane +To utter an unhallowed strain, +Nor dare to touch the sacred string, +Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing. +Oh, hear our prayer! oh, hither come +From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, +On which thou lovest to sit at eve, +Musing o'er thy darling's grave; +O queen of numbers, once again +Animate some chosen swain, +Who, filled with unexhausted fire, +May boldly smite the sounding lyre, +Who with some new unequalled song +May rise above the rhyming throng, +O'er all our listening passions reign, +O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, +With terror shake, and pity move, +Rouse with revenge, or melt with love; +Oh, deign to attend his evening walk, +With him in groves and grottoes talk; +Teach him to scorn with frigid art +Feebly to touch the enraptured heart; +Like lightning, let his mighty verse +The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; +With native beauties win applause +Beyond cold critics' studied laws; +Oh, let each Muse's fame increase! +Oh, bid Britannia rival Greece! + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS. + + +SONG. + +FROM 'THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES.' DUBLIN, 1772. + +1 Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit + Do various passions raise; + And, like the lightning, yield a bright, + But momentary blaze. + +2 Eliza's milder, gentler sway, + Her conquests fairly won, + Shall last till life and time decay, + Eternal as the sun. + +3 Thus the wild flood with deafening roar + Bursts dreadful from on high; + But soon its empty rage is o'er, + And leaves the channel dry: + +4 While the pure stream, which still and slow + Its gentler current brings, + Through every change of time shall flow + With unexhausted springs. + + +VERSES, + +COPIED FROM THE WINDOW OF AN OBSCURE LODGING-HOUSE, +IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF LONDON. + +Stranger! whoe'er thou art, whose restless mind, +Like me within these walls is cribbed, confined; +Learn how each want that heaves our mutual sigh +A woman's soft solicitudes supply. +From her white breast retreat all rude alarms, +Or fly the magic circle of her arms; +While souls exchanged alternate grace acquire, +And passions catch from passion's glorious fire: +What though to deck this roof no arts combine, +Such forms as rival every fair but mine; +No nodding plumes, our humble couch above, +Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love; +No silver lamp with sculptured Cupids gay, +O'er yielding beauty pours its midnight ray; +Yet Fanny's charms could Time's slow flight beguile, +Soothe every care, and make each dungeon smile: +In her, what kings, what saints have wished, is given, +Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven. + + +THE OLD BACHELOR. + +AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER. + +1 In Phoebus' region while some bards there be + That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar; + Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me, + Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar! + Haply a scene of meaner view to scan, + Beneath their laurelled praise my verse may give, + To trace the features of unnoticed man; + Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! + Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, + From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach. + +2 A wight there was, who single and alone + Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, + Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known + His heart to captive, or his thought engage: + Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind + Might female worth or beauty give to wear, + Yet to the nobler sex he held confined + The genuine graces of the soul sincere, + And well could show with saw or proverb quaint + All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint. + +3 In plain attire this wight apparelled was, + (For much he conned of frugal lore and knew,) + Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, + From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: + But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, + Or feast, or birthday, should it chance to be, + A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore, + And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, + Gold clasped his shoon, by maiden brushed so sheen, + And his rough beard he shaved, and donned his linen clean. + +4 But in his common garb a coat he wore, + A faithful coat that long its lord had known, + That once was black, but now was black no more, + Attinged by various colours not its own. + All from his nostrils was the front embrowned, + And down the back ran many a greasy line, + While, here and there, his social moments owned + The generous signet of the purple wine. + Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appeared, + Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeared. + +5 One only maid he had, like turtle true, + But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; + For many a time her tongue bewrayed the shrew, + And in meet words unpacked her peevish mind. + Ne formed was she to raise the soft desire + That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, + Ne formed was she to light the tender fire, + By many a bard is sung in many a strain: + Hooked was her nose, and countless wrinkles told + What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old. + +6 When the clock told the wonted hour was come + When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew, + Eight patient would she watch his wending home, + His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. + If long his time was past, and leaden sleep + O'er her tired eyelids 'gan his reign to stretch, + Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep, + And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach; + Haply if potent gin had armed her tongue, + All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung. + +7 For though, the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle + O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign, + On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile, + Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign: + For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink + Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, + And for the medicine's sake, might envy think, + Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral; + Yet much the proffer did she loathe, and say + No dram might maiden taste, and often answered nay. + +8 So as in single animals he joyed, + One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed; + The first the cate-devouring mice destroyed, + Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled: + All in the sunbeams basked the lazy cat, + Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; + On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat, + And loud he barked should Puss his right invade. + The human pair oft marked them as they lay, + And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they. + +9 A room he had that faced the southern ray, + Where oft he walked to set his thoughts in tune, + Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway, + All to the music of his creeking shoon. + And at the end a darkling closet stood, + Where books he kept of old research and new, + In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood, + And rusty nails and phials not a few: + Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, + And papers squared and trimmed for use unmeet to tell. + +10 For still in form he placed his chief delight, + Nor lightly broke his old accustomed rule, + And much uncourteous would he hold the wight + That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool; + And oft in meet array their ranks he placed, + And oft with careful eye their ranks reviewed; + For novel forms, though much those forms had graced, + Himself and maiden-minister eschewed: + One path he trod, nor ever would decline + A hair's unmeasured breadth from off the even line. + +11 A Club select there was, where various talk + On various chapters passed the lingering hour, + And thither oft he bent his evening walk, + And warmed to mirth by wine's enlivening power. + And oft on politics the preachments ran, + If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume: + And oft important matters would they scan, + And deep in council fix a nation's doom: + And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer, + Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved to hear. + +12 For men like him they were of like consort, + Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn, + Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport, + And blessed their stars that kept the curse from them! + No honest love they knew, no melting smile + That shoots the transports to the throbbing heart! + Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile + Lascivious smiling through the mask of art: + And so of women deemed they as they knew, + And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew. + +13 But most abhorred they hymeneal rites, + And boasted oft the freedom of their fate: + Nor 'vailed, as they opined, its best delights + Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait; + And often would they tell of henpecked fool + Snubbed by the hard behest of sour-eyed dame. + And vowed no tongue-armed woman's freakish rule + Their mirth should quail, or damp their generous flame: + Then pledged their hands, and tossed their bumpers o'er, + And Io! Bacchus! sung, and owned no other power. + +14 If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose + Within some breast of less obdurate frame, + Lo! where its hideous form a phantom shows + Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name. + Him Scorn attended with a glance askew, + And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, + Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew, + And vexed the region round the Cupid's throne: + 'Far be from us,' they cried, 'the treacherous bane, + Far be the dimply guile, and far the flowery chain!' + + +CARELESS CONTENT. + +1 I am content, I do not care, + Wag as it will the world for me; + When fuss and fret was all my fare, + It got no ground as I could see: + So when away my caring went, + I counted cost, and was content. + +2 With more of thanks and less of thought, + I strive to make my matters meet; + To seek what ancient sages sought, + Physic and food in sour and sweet: + To take what passes in good part, + And keep the hiccups from the heart. + +3 With good and gentle-humoured hearts, + I choose to chat where'er I come, + Whate'er the subject be that starts; + But if I get among the glum, + I hold my tongue to tell the truth, + And keep my breath to cool my broth. + +4 For chance or change of peace or pain, + For Fortune's favour or her frown, + For lack or glut, for loss or gain, + I never dodge, nor up nor down: + But swing what way the ship shall swim, + Or tack about with equal trim. + +5 I suit not where I shall not speed, + Nor trace the turn of every tide; + If simple sense will not succeed, + I make no bustling, but abide: + For shining wealth, or scaring woe, + I force no friend, I fear no foe. + +6 Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, + Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right, + I shun the rancours and the routs; + And wishing well to every wight, + Whatever turn the matter takes, + I deem it all but ducks and drakes. + +7 With whom I feast I do not fawn, + Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; + If wonted welcome be withdrawn, + I cook no kind of a complaint: + With none disposed to disagree, + But like them best who best like me. + +8 Not that I rate myself the rule + How all my betters should behave + But fame shall find me no man's fool, + Nor to a set of men a slave: + I love a friendship free and frank, + And hate to hang upon a hank. + +9 Fond of a true and trusty tie, + I never loose where'er I link; + Though if a business budges by, + I talk thereon just as I think; + My word, my work, my heart, my hand, + Still on a side together stand. + +10 If names or notions make a noise, + Whatever hap the question hath, + The point impartially I poise, + And read or write, but without wrath; + For should I burn, or break my brains, + Pray, who will pay me for my pains? + +11 I love my neighbour as myself, + Myself like him too, by his leave; + Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, + Came I to crouch, as I conceive: + Dame Nature doubtless has designed + A man the monarch of his mind. + +12 Now taste and try this temper, sirs, + Mood it and brood it in your breast; + Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, + That man does right to mar his rest, + Let me be deft, and debonair, + I am content, I do not care. + + +A PASTORAL. + +1 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, + When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; + Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: + Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! + But now she is gone, and has left me behind, + What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! + When things were as fine as could possibly be, + I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she. + +2 With such a companion to tend a few sheep, + To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep: + I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay, + My heart was as light as a feather all day; + But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, + So strangely uneasy, as never was known. + My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, + And my heart--I am sure it weighs more than a pound. + +3 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, + And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; + Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, + 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: + But now she is absent, I walk by its side, + And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; + Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? + Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. + +4 My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, + And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; + How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, + When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime! + But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, + I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass: + Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, + To see you so merry while I am so sad. + +5 My dog I was ever well pleased to see + Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; + And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, + 'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. + But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look + Cry 'Sirrah;' and give him a blow with my crook: + And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray + Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away? + +6 When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, + How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! + What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, + The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! + But now she has left me, though all are still there, + They none of them now so delightful appear: + 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, + Made so many beautiful prospects arise. + +7 Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, + The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; + Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, + And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. + But now she is absent, though still they sing on, + The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: + Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, + Gave everything else its agreeable sound. + +8 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? + And where is the violet's beautiful blue? + Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile? + That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? + Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed, + And made yourselves fine for--a place in her breast: + You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, + To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. + +9 How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! + While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: + Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, + I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. + Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, + And rest so much longer for't when she is here. + Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, + Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. + +10 Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, + Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? + To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; + But what swain is so silly to live without love! + No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, + For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. + Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair; + Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. + + +ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE. + +Little tube of mighty power, +Charmer of an idle hour, +Object of my warm desire, +Lip of wax and eye of fire; +And thy snowy taper waist, +With my finger gently braced; +And thy pretty swelling crest, +With my little stopper pressed; +And the sweetest bliss of blisses, +Breathing from thy balmy kisses. +Happy thrice, and thrice again, +Happiest he of happy men; +Who when again the night returns, +When again the taper burns, +When again the cricket's gay, +(Little cricket full of play,) +Can afford his tube to feed +With the fragrant Indian weed: +Pleasure for a nose divine, +Incense of the god of wine. +Happy thrice, and thrice again, +Happiest he of happy men. + + +AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. + +1 Away! let nought to love displeasing, + My Winifreda, move your care; + Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, + Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. + +2 What though no grants of royal donors, + With pompous titles grace our blood; + We'll shine in more substantial honours, + And, to be noble, we'll be good. + +3 Our name while virtue thus we tender, + Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; + And all the great ones, they shall wonder + How they respect such little folk. + +4 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, + No mighty treasures we possess; + We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, + And be content without excess. + +5 Still shall each kind returning season + Sufficient for our wishes give; + For we will live a life of reason, + And that's the only life to live. + +6 Through youth and age, in love excelling, + We'll hand in hand together tread; + Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, + And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. + +7 How should I love the pretty creatures, + While round my knees they fondly clung! + To see them look their mother's features, + To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! + +8 And when with envy Time transported, + Shall think to rob us of our joys; + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing in my boys. + + +RICHARD BENTLEY'S SOLE POETICAL COMPOSITION. + +1 Who strives to mount Parnassus' hill, + And thence poetic laurels bring, + Must first acquire due force and skill, + Must fly with swan's or eagle's wing. + +2 Who Nature's treasures would explore, + Her mysteries and arcana know, + Must high as lofty Newton soar, + Must stoop as delving Woodward low. + +3 Who studies ancient laws and rites, + Tongues, arts, and arms, and history; + Must drudge, like Selden, days and nights, + And in the endless labour die. + +4 Who travels in religious jars, + (Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,) + Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars, + In ocean wide or sinks or strays. + +5 But grant our hero's hope, long toil + And comprehensive genius crown, + All sciences, all arts his spoil, + Yet what reward, or what renown? + +6 Envy, innate in vulgar souls, + Envy steps in and stops his rise; + Envy with poisoned tarnish fouls + His lustre, and his worth decries. + +7 He lives inglorious or in want, + To college and old books confined: + Instead of learned, he's called pedant; + Dunces advanced, he's left behind: + Yet left content, a genuine Stoic he, + Great without patron, rich without South Sea. + + +LINES ADDRESSED TO POPE.[1] + +1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page + Its own celestial fire; + While critics and while bards in rage + Admiring, won't admire: + +2 While wayward pens thy worth assail, + And envious tongues decry; + These times, though many a friend bewail, + These times bewail not I. + +3 But when the world's loud praise is thine, + And spleen no more shall blame; + When with thy Homer thou shalt shine + In one unclouded fame: + +4 When none shall rail, and every lay + Devote a wreath to thee; + That day (for come it will) that day + Shall I lament to see. + +[1] Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by +Johnson.--_See_ Boswell. + + + +THE END. + + + + +INDEX + + VOL. +A Ballad upon a Wedding, SUCKLING, i. +Abel's Blood, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the + Legion Club, SWIFT, iii. +A Cradle Hymn, WATTS, iii. +Address to the Nightingale, BARNFIELD, i. +A Description of Castara, HABINGTON, ii. +A Distempered Fancy, MORE, ii. +Admiral Hosier's Ghost, GLOVER, iii. +Address to the Moon, MACPHERSON, iii. +A Friend, PHILLIPS, ii. +A Fragment of Sappho, PHILIPS, iii. +Allegorical Characters from 'The Mirror for +Magistrates,' SACKVILLE, i. +ALEXANDER, WILLIAM, EARL OF STIRLING, i. +A Loose Saraband, LOVELACE, ii. +A Meditation, WOTTON, i. +An Epitaph, BEAUMONT, i. +An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers, MASON, iii. +An Ode to the Right Hon. Lord Gower, FENTON, iii. +An American Love Ode, WARTON THE ELDER, iii. +Apostrophe to Freedom, BARBOUR, i. +A Praise to his Lady, ANONYMOUS, i. +A Pastoral Dialogue, CAREW, i. +A Pastoral, iii. +Apostrophe to Fletcher the Dramatist, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Persian Song of Hafiz, JONES, iii. +Arcadia, CHALKHILL, ii. +Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks, CHAMBERLAYNE, ii. +Ascension-Day, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Vision upon the "Fairy Queen," RALEIGH, i. +A Valediction, BROWNE, i. +A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque, COTTON, ii. +Away! Let nought to Love Displeasing, iii. + +BAMPFYLDE, JOHN, iii. +BARBOUR, JOHN, i. +BARCLAY, ALEXANDER i. +BARNFIELD, RICHARD i. +Battle of Black Earnside BLIND HARRY, i. +Baucis and Philemon SWIFT, iii. +BEAUMONT, FRANCIS i. +BEAUMONT, DR JOSEPH ii. +BISHOP, SAMUEL iii. +BLACKMORE, SIR RICHARD iii. +BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM iii. +BLACKLOCK, THOMAS iii. +BLAMIRE, SUSANNA iii. +BLIND HARRY i. +Breathing toward the Heavenly Country WATTS, iii. +Bristowe Tragedy CHATTERTON, iii. +BROWN, JOHN iii. +BROWNE, ISAAC HAWKINS iii. +BROWNE, WILLIAM i. +BROOKE, HENRY iii. +BRUCE, MICHAEL iii. +BURTON, ROBERT i. +Burial VAUGHAN, ii. +BOOTH, BARTON iii. +BRAMSTON iii. + +Canace Condemned to Death by her Father LYDGATE, i. +Careless Content iii. +CAREW, THOMAS i. +CARTWRIGHT, WILLIAM i. +CAREY, HENRY iii. +Celia Singing STANLEY, ii. +CHALKHILL, JOHN ii. +CHAMBERLAYNE, WILLIAM ii. +CHATTERTON, THOMAS iii. +Cherry Ripe HERRICK, ii. +Cheerfulness VAUGHAN, ii. +CHESTERFIELD, LORD iii. +Childhood VAUGHAN, ii. +Close of 'Christ's Victory and Triumph' FLETCHER, i. +Cock-crowing VAUGHAN, ii. +COCKBURN, MRS iii. +Complaint of Nature LOGAN, iii. +CORBET, RICHARD i. +Corinna's Going a-Maying HERRICK, ii. +COOPER, JOHN GILBERT iii. +COTTON, CHARLES ii. +COTTON, NATHANIEL iii. +COWLEY, ABRAHAM ii. +CRAWFORD, ROBERT iii. +Creation, BLACKMORE, iii. +Cumnor Hall, MICKLE, iii. +CUNNINGHAM, JOHN, iii. + +DANIEL, SAMUEL, i. +DAVIES, SIR JOHN, i. +Davideis--Book II., COWLEY, ii. +DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM, ii. +Description of King's Mistress, JAMES I., i. +Death of Sir Henry de Bohun, BARBOUR, i. +Description of Morning, DRAYTON, i. +Description of Parthenia, FLETCHER, i. +Destruction and Renovation of all Things, DR H. MORE, ii. +Desolation of Balclutha, MACPHERSON, iii. +Dinner given by the Town Mouse to the Country + Mouse, HENRYSON, i. +Directions for Cultivating a Hop Garden, TUSSER, i. +DODSLEY, ROBERT, iii. +DONNE, JOHN, i. +DOUGLAS, GAVIN, i. +DRAYTON, MICHAEL, i. +DRUMMOND, WILLIAM, i. +DU BARTAS, i. +DUNBAR, WILLIAM, i. +Dwelling of the Witch Orandra, CHALKHILL, ii. + +Early Love, DANIEL, i. +EDWARDS, RICHARD, i. +Elegy XIII., HAMMOND, iii. +Elegy written in Spring, BRUCE, iii. +ELLIOT, Miss JANE, iii. +End, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke, JONSON, i. +Epistle addressed to the Honourable W. E. HABINGTON, ii. +Epitaph on Mrs Mason, MASON, iii. +Evening, BROWNE, i. +Eve, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Exordium of Third Part of 'Pyschozoia', DR H. MORE, ii. + +FAIRFAX, EDWARD, i. +Farewell to the Vanities of the World, WOTTON, i. +FANSHAWE, SIR RICHARD, ii. +FAWKES, FRANCIS, iii. +FENTON, ELIJAH, iii. +Few Happy Matches, WATTS, iii. +February--an Elegy, CHATTERTON, iii. +FERGUSSON, ROBERT, iii. +Fingal and the Spirit of Loda, MACPHERSON, iii. +Fingal's Spirit-Home, MACPHERSON, iii. +FLETCHER, GILES +FLETCHER, PHINEAS +From 'The Phoenix' Nest' ANONYMOUS, i. +From the Same ANONYMOUS, i. +From 'Britannia's Pastorals' W. BROWNE, i. +From 'The Shepherd's Hunting' WITHER, i. +From the Same WITHER, ii. +From 'Gondibert,' Canto II. DAVENANT, ii. +From 'Gondibert,' Canto IV. DAVENANT, ii. +From 'An Essay on Translated Verse' EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ii. +From 'The Gentle Shepherd,' Act I., Scene II. RAMSAY, iii. +From 'The Monody' LYTTELTON, iii. +From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii. +From the Same LANGHORNE, iii. +From 'Leonidas,' Book XII. GLOVER, iii. + +GARTH, SIR SAMUEL iii. +GASCOIGNE, GEORGE i. +Gipsies--From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii. +GLOVER, RICHARD iii. +Good-morrow GASCOIGNE, i. +Good-night GASCOIGNE, i. +GOULD iii. +GOWER, JOHN i. +Gratification which the Lover's Passion receives + from the Sense of Hearing GOWER, i. +GRAINGER, DR JAMES iii. +GREVILLE, MRS iii. + +HABINGTON, WILLIAM ii. +HALL, JOSEPH, BISHOP OF NORWICH ii. +Hallo, my Fancy ii. +HAMMOND, JAMES iii. +HAMILTON, WILLIAM iii. +Happiness of the Shepherd's Life P. FLETCHER, i. +HARDING, JOHN i. +HARRINGTON, JOHN i. +Harpalus' Complaint of Phillida's Love + bestowed on Corin i. +HARTE, DR WALTER iii. +HAWES, STEPHEN i. +HENRYSON, ROBERT i. +Henry, Duke of Buckingham, in the Infernal + Regions T. SACKVILLE, i. +HERRICK, ROBERT ii. +Hell DR J. BEAUMONT, ii. +HEATH, ROBERT ii. +HEADLEY, HENRY iii. +Holy Sonnets, DONNE, i. +Housewifely Physic, TUSSER, i. +HUME, ALEXANDER, i. + +Image of Death, SOUTHWELL, i. +Imperial Rome Personified, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Imitation of Thomson, ISAAC BROWNE, iii. +Imitation of Pope, ISAAC BBOWNE, iii. +Imitation of Swift, ISAAC BROWNE, iii. +Instability of Human Greatness, P. FLETCHER, i. +Introduction to the Poem on the Soul of Man, DAVIES, i. +Invitation to Izaak Walton, COTTON, ii. +In praise of the renowned Lady Anne, Countess + of Warwick, TURBERVILLE, i. +Isaac's Marriage, VAUGHAN, ii. + +JAGO, REV. RICHARD, iii. +JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND, i. +Jacob's Pillow and Pillar, VAUGHAN, ii. +Jephthah's Daughter, HERRICK, ii. +JOHN THE CHAPLAIN, i. +JONSON, BEN, i. +JONES, SIR WILLIAM, iii. +Joseph's Dream, DE BEAUMONT, ii. +Journey into France, CORBET, i. + +KAY, JOHN, i. +Kenrick--translated from the Saxon, CHATTERTON, iii. +KING, DE HENRY, ii. + +La Belle Confidante, STANLEY, ii. +LANGHORNE, JOHN, iii. +Life, COWLEY, ii. +Life, KING, ii. +Lines addressed to Pope, LEWIS, iii. +LLOYD, ROBERT, iii. +Lochaber no more, RAMSAY, iii. +LOGAN, JOHN, iii. +London Lyckpenny, The LYDGATE, i. +Look Home, SOUTHWELL, i. +Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i. +Love admits no Rival, RALEIGH, i. +Love's Darts, CARTWRIGHT, i. +LOVELACE, RICHARD, ii. +Love-Sick, VAUGHAN, ii. +LOVIBOND, EDWARD, iii. +LOWE, JOHN, iii. +LYDGATE, JOHN, i. +LYNDSAY, SIR DAVID, i. +LYTTELTON, LORD, iii. + +MACPHERSON, JAMES iii. +MAITLAND, SIR RICHARD, OF LETHINGTON i. +MALLETT, DAVID iii. +Man's Fall and Recovery VAUGHAN, ii. +Marriage of Christ and the Church P. FLETCHER, i. +MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE ii. +Mary's Dream LOWE, iii. +MARVELL, ANDREW ii. +MASON, WILLIAM iii. +May-Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen CUNNINGHAM, iii. +Meldrum's Duel with the English Champion + Talbert LYNDSAY, i. +Melancholy described by Mirth DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii. +Melancholy describing herself DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii. +MERRICK, JAMES iii. +MESTON, WILLIAM iii. +MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS iii. +Misery VAUGHAN, ii. +MONTGOMERY, ALEXANDER i. +MOORE, EDWARD iii. +MOORE, SIR JOHN HENRY iii. +MORE, DR HENRY ii. +Morning in May DOUGLAS, i. +Moral Reflections on the Wind TUSSER, i. +Mount of Olives VAUGHAN, ii. +My Mind to me a Kingdom is ii. + +Note on Anacreon STANLEY ii. +NUGENT, LORD (ROBERT CRAGGS) iii. + +Oberon's Palace HERRICK, ii. +Oberon's Feast HERRICK, ii. +OCCLEVE, THOMAS i. +Ode to Solitude GRAINGER, iii. +Ode on hearing the Drum JOHN SCOTT, iii. +Ode to Mankind NUGENT, iii. +Ode to Aurora BLACKLOCK, iii. +Ode to Fancy JOSEPH WARTON, iii. +Ode to a Tobacco-pipe iii. +Of Wit COWLEY, ii. +Of Solitude COWLEY, ii. +OLDYS, WILLIAM iii. +On Tombs in Westminster BEAUMONT, i. +On Man's Resemblance to God DU BARTAS, i. +On the Portrait of Shakspeare JONSON, i. +On Melancholy BURTON, i. +On the Death of Sir Bevil Granville CARTWRIGHT, i. +On the Praise of Poetry COWLEY, ii. +On Paradise Lost MARVELL, ii. +Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i. + +On a Charnel-house, VAUGHAN, ii. +On Gombauld's 'Endymion,' VAUGHAN, ii. +On Poetry, SWIFT, iii. +On the Death of Dr Swift, SWIFT, iii. +Opening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia,' DR MORE, ii. +Ossian's Address to the Sun, MACPHERSON, iii. + +Palm-Sunday, VAUGHAN, ii. +Paradise, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +PENROSE, THOMAS, iii. +Persuasions to Love, CAREW, i. +PHILIPS, AMBROSE, iii. +PHILIPS, JOHN, iii. +PHILLIPS, CATHERINE, ii. +Picture of the Town, VAUGHAN, ii. +POMFRET, JOHN, iii. +POPE, DR WALTER, iii. +Power of Genius over Envy, W. BROWNE, i. +Priestess of Diana, CHALKHILL, ii. +Protest of Love, HEATH, ii. +Providence, VAUGHAN, ii. +Psalm CIV., VAUGHAN, ii. + +RALEIGH, SIR WALTER, i. +RAMSAY, ALLAN, iii. +RANDOLPH, THOMAS, i. +Regeneration, VAUGHAN, ii. +Repentance, VAUGHAN, ii. +Resurrection and Immortality, VAUGHAN, ii. +Richard II. the Morning before his Murder + in Pomfret Castle, DANIEL, i. +Richard Bentley's Sole Poetical Composition, iii. +Righteousness, VAUGHAN, ii. +Rinaldo at Mount Olivet, FAIRFAX, i. +ROBERTS, WILLIAM HAYWARD, iii. +ROSCOMMON, THE EARL OF, ii. +ROSS, ALEXANDER, iii. +Rules and Lessons, VAUGHAN, ii. + +SACKVILLE, THOMAS, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET, i. +SACKVILLE, CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET, iii. +Sally in our Alley, CAREY, iii. +Satire I., HALL, ii. +Satire VII., HALL, ii. +Satire on Holland, MARVELL, ii. +SAVAGE, RICHARD, iii. +SCOTT, JOHN, iii. +SCOTT, THOMAS, iii. +Selections from Sonnets, DANIEL, i. +SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES, iii. +SEWELL, DR GEORGE, iii. +SHAW, CUTHBERT, iii. +Sic Vita, KING, ii. +SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP, i. +SKELTON, JOHN, i. +SMART, CHRISTOPHER, iii. +Song of Sorceress seeking to Tempt + Jesus, G. FLETCHER, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, SUCKLING, i. +Song, SUCKLING, i. +Song, W. BROWNE, i. +Song, W. BROWNE, i. +Song to Althea from Prison, LOVELACE, ii. +Song, LOVELACE, ii. +Song, HERRICK, ii. +Song, KING, ii. +Song, WILMOT, ii. +Song, WILMOT, ii. +Song, C. SACKVILLE, iii. +Song, SEDLEY, iii. +Song to David, SMART, iii. +Song, ANONYMOUS, iii. +Sonnet on Isabella Markham, HARRINGTON, i. +Sonnet, WATSON, i. +Sonnet, ALEXANDER, i. +Sonnets, SIDNEY, i. +Sonnets, DRUMMOND, i. +Soul compared to a Lantern, DR H. MORE, ii. +SOUTHWELL, EGBERT, i. +Spiritual Poems, DRUMMOND, i. +Spirituality of the Soul, DAVIES, i. +St Mary Magdalene, VAUGHAN, ii. +STANLEY, THOMAS, ii. +STEVENS, GEORGE ALEXANDER, iii. +STORRER, THOMAS, i. +SUCKLING, SIR JOHN, i. +Supplication in Contemption of Side-tails, LYNDSAY, i. +SYLVESTER, JOSHUA, i. +SWIFT, JONATHAN, iii. +SCOTT, ALEXANDER, i. + +That all things sometimes find Ease of their + Pain save only the Lover, UNKNOWN, i. +Thanks for a Summer's Day, HUME, i. +The Angler's Wish, WALTON, ii. +The Author's Picture BLACKLOCK, iii. +The Birks of Invermay MALLETT, iii. +The Bastard SAVAGE, iii. +The Braes of Yarrow HAMILTON, iii. +The Bush aboon Traquair CRAWFORD, iii. +The Brown Jug FAWKES, iii. +The Cave MACPHERSON, iii. +The Choice POMFRET, iii. +The Chameleon MERRICK, iii. +The Chariot of the Sun DU BARTAS, i. +The Chariot of the Sun GOWER, i. +The Chronicle: A Ballad COWLEY, ii. +The Country's Recreations RALEIGH, i. +The Country Life HERRICK, ii. +The Complaint COWLEY, ii. +The Constellation VAUGHAN, ii. +The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell DUNBAR, i. +The Dawning VAUGHAN, ii. +The Death of Wallace BLIND HARRY, i. +The Despair COWLEY, ii. +The Dispensary GARTH, iii. +The Emigrants MARVELL, ii. +The Farmer's Ingle FERGUSSON, iii. +The Feast VAUGHAN, ii. +The Flowers of the Forest MISS ELLIOT, iii. +The Same MRS COCKBURN, iii. +The Fairy Queen ii. +The Garland VAUGHAN, ii. +The Garment of Good Ladies HENRYSON, i. +The Golden Age VAUGHAN, ii. +The Inquiry C. PHILLIPS, ii. +The Jews VAUGHAN, ii. +The Kiss: A Dialogue HERRICK, ii. +The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse BLACKSTONE, iii. +The Last Time I came o'er the Moor RAMSAY, iii. +The Loss STANLEY, ii. +The Lovers LOGAN, iii. +The Mad Maid's Song HERRICK, ii. +The Mariner's Wife MICKLE, iii. +The Merle and the Nightingale DUNBAR, i. +The Miseries of a Poet's Life LLOYD, iii. +The Motto--'Tentanda via est,' &c. COWLEY, ii. +The Nativity G. FLETCHER, i. +The Nabob BLAMIRE, iii. +The Nymph complaining of the Death of her Fawn MARVELL, ii. +The Nymphs to their May Queen WATSON, i. +The Old Bachelor, ANONYMOUS, iii. +The Old and Young Courtier, ii. +The Palm-Tree, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Passion, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Picture of the Body, JONSON, i. +The Plagues of Egypt, COWLEY, ii. +The Praise of Woman, RANDOLPH, i. +The Progress of the Soul, DONNE, i. +The Rainbow, VAUGHAN, ii. +The River Forth Feasting, DRUMMOND, i. +The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow, A. ROSS, iii. +The Rose, WATTS, iii. +The Seed growing secretly (Mark iv. 26), VAUGHAN, ii. +The Search, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Self-subsistence of the Soul, DAVIES, i. +The Shepherd's Resolution, WITHER, ii. +The Steadfast Shepherd, WITHER, ii. +The Silent Lover, RALEIGH, i. +The Sluggard, WATTS, iii. +The Shower, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Story of William Canynge, CHATTERTON, iii. +The Splendid Shilling, J. PHILIPS, iii. +The Spring: A Sonnet from the Spanish, FANSHAWE, ii. +The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets, &c., GOWER, i. +The Tears of Old May-day, LOVIBOND, iii. +The Tempest, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Tempestuous Evening: An Ode, J. SCOTT, iii. +The Timber, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Waterfall, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Wish, COWLEY, ii. +The World, VAUGHAN, ii. +Thealma: A Deserted Shepherdess, CHALKHILL, ii. +Thealma in Full Dress, CHALKHILL, ii. +There is a Garden in her Face, ii. +TICKELL, THOMAS, iii. +Times go by Turns, SOUTHWELL, i. +THOMPSON, EDWARD, iii. +Thoughts in a Garden, MARVELL, ii. +To a Lady admiring herself in a + Looking-glass, RANDOLPH, i. +To a very young Lady, SEDLEY, iii. +To Ben Jonson, BEAUMONT, i. +To Blossoms, HERRICK, ii. +To Clarastella, HEATH, ii. +To Daffodils, HERRICK, ii. +To his noblest Friend, J. C., Esq., HABINGTON, ii. +To my Mistress, sitting by a River's side, CAREW, i. +To my Picture, RANDOLPH, i. +To Mrs Bishop, BISHOP, iii. +To the Same BISHOP, iii. +To Penshurst JONSON, i. +To Primroses HERRICK, ii. +To Religion SYLVESTER, i. +To the Cuckoo BRUCE, iii. +To the Rev. J. Howe WATTS, iii. +To the Memory of my beloved Master, William + Shakspeare, and what he left us JONSON, i. +To the Memory of his Wife DR BEAUMONT, ii. +To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr + Addison TICKELL, iii. +TUSSER, THOMAS i. +TURBERVILLE, THOMAS i. + +UNKNOWN i. +Upon the Shortness of Man's Life COWLEY, ii. + +VANBRUGH, SIR JOHN iii. +Variety WHITEHEAD, iii. +VAUX, THOMAS, LORD i. +VAUGHAN, HENRY ii. +VERE, EDWARD i. +Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden HARRINGTON, i. +Verses written after seeing Windsor Castle T. WARTON, iii. +Verses ANONYMOUS, iii. + +WALSH iii. +WALTON, IZAAK ii. +WARD, EDWARD iii. +WARTON, THOMAS, THE ELDER iii. +WARTON, JOSEPH iii. +WATSON, THOMAS i. +WATTS, ISAAC iii. +WEEKES, JAMES EYRE iii. +WEST, RICHARD iii. +What is Love? HEATH, ii. +What Ails this Heart o' mine? BLAMIRE, iii. +WHITEHEAD, WILLIAM iii. +WILMOT, JOHN, EARL OF ROCHESTER ii. +William and Margaret MALLETT, iii. +WITHER, GEORGE ii. +Woo'd, and Married, and a' A. ROSS, iii. +WOTTON, SIR HENRY i. +Written on a Visit to the Country in Autumn LOGAN, iii. +WYNTOUN, ANDREW i. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the +Less-known British Poets, Vol. 3, by George Gilfillan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL 3 *** + +***** This file should be named 9669.txt or 9669.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/6/6/9669/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/9669.zip b/9669.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b43265 --- /dev/null +++ b/9669.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bc0fd6b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #9669 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9669) diff --git a/old/7lbp310.txt b/old/7lbp310.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a744b88 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7lbp310.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13359 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known +British Poets, Vol. 3, by George Gilfillan +#4 in our series by George Gilfillan + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 3 + +Author: George Gilfillan + +Release Date: January, 2006 [EBook #9669] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 14, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL. 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe +and the PG Online Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. + +With an Introductory Essay, + +By + +THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN. + +IN THREE VOLS. + +VOL. III. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +THIRD PERIOD--FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER. + + +SIR CHARLES SEDLEY + To a very young Lady + Song + +JOHN POMFRET + The Choice + +THE EARL OF DORSET + Song + +JOHN PHILIPS + The Splendid Shilling + +WALSH, GOULD, &c. + +SIR SAMUEL GARTH + The Dispensary + +SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE + Creation + +ELIJAH FENTON + An Ode to the Right Hon. John Lord Gower + +ROBERT CRAWFORD + The Bush aboon Traquair + +THOMAS TICKELL + To the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr Addison + +JAMES HAMMOND + Elegy XIII + +SEWELL, VANBRUGH, &c. + +RICHARD SAVAGE + The Bastard + +THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER + An American Love Ode + +JONATHAN SWIFT + Baucis and Philemon + On Poetry + On the Death of Dr Swift + A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the Legion-Club,1736 + +ISAAC WATTS + Few Happy Matches + The Sluggard + The Rose + A Cradle Hymn + Breathing toward the Heavenly Country + To the Rev. Mr John Howe + +AMBROSE PHILIPS + A Fragment of Sappho + +WILLIAM HAMILTON + The Braes of Yarrow + +ALLAN RAMSAY + Lochaber no more + Tho Last Time I came o'er the Moor + From 'The Gentle Shepherd'--Act I., Scene II. + +DODSLEY, BROWN, &c + +ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE + Imitation of Thomson + Imitation of Pope + Imitation of Swift + +WILLIAM OLDYS + Song, occasioned by a Fly drinking out of a Cup of Ale + +ROBERT LLOYD + The Miseries of a Poet's Life + +HENRY CAREY + Sally in our Alley + +DAVID MALLETT + William and Margaret + The Birks of Invermay + +JAMES MERRICK + The Chameleon + +DR JAMES GRAINGER + Ode to Solitude + +MICHAEL BRUCE + To the Cuckoo + Elegy, written in Spring + +CHRISTOPHER SMART + Song to David + +THOMAS CHATTERTON + Bristowe Tragedy + Minstrel's Song + The Story of William Canynge + Kenrick + February, an Elegy + +LORD LYTTELTON + From the 'Monody' + +JOHN CUNNINGHAM + May-eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen + +ROBERT FERGUSSON + The Farmer's Ingle + +DR WALTER HARTE + +EDWARD LOVIBOND + The Tears of Old May-Day + +FRANCIS FAWKES + The Brown Jug + +JOHN LANGHORNE + From 'The Country Justice' + Gipsies + A Case where Mercy should have mitigated Justice + +SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE + The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse + +JOHN SCOTT + Ode on hearing the Drum + The Tempestuous Evening + +ALEXANDER ROSS + Woo'd, and Married, and a' + The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow + +RICHARD GLOVER + From 'Leonidas,' Book XII + Admiral Hosier's Ghost + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + Variety + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE + Cumnor Hall + The Mariner's Wife + +LORD NUGENT + Ode to Mankind + +JOHN LOGAN + The Lovers + Written in a Visit to the Country in Autumn + Complaint of Nature + +THOMAS BLACKLOCK + The Author's Picture + Ode to Aurora, on Melissa's Birthday + +MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN + The Flowers of the Forest + The Same + +SIR WILLIAM JONES + A Persian Song of Hafiz + +SAMUEL BISHOP + To Mrs Bishop + To the Same + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE + The Nabob + What Ails this Heart o' mine? + +JAMES MACPHERSON + Ossian's Address to the Sun + Desolation of Balclutha + Fingal and the Spirit of Loda + Address to the Moon + Fingal's Spirit-home + The Cave + +WILLIAM MASON + Epitaph on Mrs Mason + An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers + +JOHN LOWE + Mary's Dream + +JOSEPH WARTON + Ode to Fancy + +MISCELLANEOUS + Song + Verses, copied from the Window of an obscure Lodging-house, in the + neighbourhood of London + The Old Bachelor + Careless Content + A Pastoral + Ode to a Tobacco-pipe + Away! let nought to Love displeasing + Richard Bentley's sole Poetical Composition + Lines addressed to Pope + +INDEX + + + + +SPECIMENS, WITH MEMOIRS, OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. + + * * * * * + +THIRD PERIOD. + +FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER. + + * * * * * + + + +SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. + + +Sedley was one of those characters who exert a personal fascination over +their own age without leaving any works behind them to perpetuate the +charm to posterity. He was the son of Sir John Sedley of Aylesford, in +Kent, and was born in 1639. When the Restoration took place he repaired +to London, and plunged into all the licence of the time, shedding, +however, over the putrid pool the sheen of his wit, manners, and genius. +Charles was so delighted with him, that he is said to have asked him +whether he had not obtained a patent from Nature to be Apollo's viceroy. +He cracked jests, issued lampoons, wrote poems and plays, and, despite +some great blunders, was universally admired and loved. When his comedy +of 'Bellamira' was acted, the roof fell in, and a few, including the +author, were slightly injured. When a parasite told him that the fire of +the play had blown up the poet, house and all, Sedley replied, 'No; the +play was so heavy that it broke down the house, and buried the poet in +his own rubbish.' Latterly he sobered down, entered parliament, attended +closely to public business, and became a determined opponent of the +arbitrary measures of James II. To this he was stimulated by a personal +reason. James had seduced Sedley's daughter, and made her Countess of +Dorchester. 'For making my daughter a countess,' the father said, 'I +have helped to make his daughter' (Mary, Princess of Orange,) 'a queen.' +Sedley, thus talking, acting, and writing, lived on till he was sixty- +two years of age. He died in 1701. + +He has left nothing that the world can cherish, except such light and +graceful songs, sparkling rather with point than with poetry, as we +quote below. + + +TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. + +1 Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit + As unconcerned, as when + Your infant beauty could beget + No pleasure, nor no pain. + +2 When I the dawn used to admire, + And praised the coming day; + I little thought the growing fire + Must take my rest away. + +3 Your charms in harmless childhood lay, + Like metals in the mine, + Age from no face took more away, + Than youth concealed in thine. + +4 But as your charms insensibly + To their perfection pressed, + Fond Love as unperceived did fly, + And in my bosom rest. + +5 My passion with your beauty grew, + And Cupid at my heart, + Still as his mother favoured you, + Threw a new flaming dart. + +6 Each gloried in their wanton part, + To make a lover, he + Employed the utmost of his art, + To make a Beauty, she. + +7 Though now I slowly bend to love, + Uncertain of my fate, + If your fair self my chains approve, + I shall my freedom hate. + +8 Lovers, like dying men, may well + At first disordered be, + Since none alive can truly tell + What fortune they must see. + + +SONG. + +1 Love still has something of the sea, + From whence his mother rose; + No time his slaves from doubt can free, + Nor give their thoughts repose. + +2 They are becalmed in clearest days, + And in rough weather tossed; + They wither under cold delays, + Or are in tempests lost. + +3 One while they seem to touch the port, + Then straight into the main + Some angry wind, in cruel sport, + The vessel drives again. + +4 At first Disdain and Pride they fear, + Which if they chance to 'scape, + Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, + In a more cruel shape. + +5 By such degrees to joy they come, + And are so long withstood; + So slowly they receive the sum, + It hardly does them good. + +6 'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; + And to defer a joy, + Believe me, gentle Celemene, + Offends the winged boy. + +7 An hundred thousand oaths your fears, + Perhaps, would not remove; + And if I gazed a thousand years, + I could not deeper love. + + + + +JOHN POMFRET, + + +The author of the once popular 'Choice,' was born in 1667. He was the +son of the rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire, and, after attending +Queen's College, Cambridge, himself entered the Church. He became +minister of Malden, which is also situated in Bedfordshire, and there he +wrote and, in 1699, published a volume of poems, including some Pindaric +essays, in the style of Cowley and 'The Choice.' He might have risen +higher in his profession, but Dr Compton, Bishop of London, was +prejudiced against him on account of the following lines in the +'Choice:'-- + + 'And as I near approached the verge of life, + Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) + Should take upon him all my worldly care, + Whilst I did for a better state prepare.' + +The words in the second line, coupled with a glowing description, in a +previous part of the poem, of his ideal of an 'obliging modest fair' +one, near whom he wished to live, led to the suspicion that he preferred +a mistress to a wife. In vain did he plead that he was actually a +married man. His suit for a better living made no progress, and while +dancing attendance on his patron in London he caught small-pox, and died +in 1703, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. + +His Pindaric odes, &c., are feeble spasms, and need not detain us. His +'Reason' shews considerable capacity and common sense. His 'Choice' +opens up a pleasing vista, down which our quiet ancestors delighted to +look, but by which few now can be attracted. We quote a portion of what +a biographer calls a 'modest' preface, which Pomfret prefixed to his +poems:--'To please every one would be a new thing, and to write so as to +please nobody would be as new; for even Quarles and Withers have their +admirers. It is not the multitude of applauses, but the good sense of +the applauders which establishes a valuable reputation; and if a Rymer +or a Congreve say it is well, he will not be at all solicitous how great +the majority be to the contrary.' How strangely are opinions now +altered! Rymer was some time ago characterised by Macaulay as the worst +critic that ever lived, and Quarles and Withers have now many admirers, +while 'The Choice' and its ill-fated author are nearly forgotten. + + +THE CHOICE. + +If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, +That I might choose my method how to live, +And all those hours propitious fate should lend, +In blissful ease and satisfaction spend, +Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, +Built uniform, not little, nor too great: +Better, if on a rising ground it stood, +On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. +It should within no other things contain, +But what are useful, necessary, plain: +Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, +The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. +A little garden, grateful to the eye; +And a cool rivulet run murmuring by, +On whose delicious banks, a stately row +Of shady limes or sycamores should grow. +At the end of which a silent study placed, +Should be with all the noblest authors graced: +Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines +Immortal wit and solid learning shines; +Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too, +Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew; +He that with judgment reads his charming lines, +In which strong art with stronger nature joins, +Must grant his fancy does the best excel; +His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well; +With all those moderns, men of steady sense, +Esteemed for learning and for eloquence. +In some of these, as fancy should advise, +I'd always take my morning exercise; +For sure no minutes bring us more content, +Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent. +I'd have a clear and competent estate, +That I might live genteelly, but not great; +As much as I could moderately spend, +A little more sometimes t' oblige a friend. +Nor should the sons of poverty repine +Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine; +And all that objects of true pity were, +Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; +For that our Maker has too largely given, +Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven. + + + + +THE EARL OF DORSET. + + +This noble earl was rather a patron of poets than a poet, and possessed +more wit than genius. Charles Sackville was born on the 24th January +1637. He was descended directly from the famous Thomas, Lord Buckhurst. +He was educated under a private tutor, travelled in Italy, and returned +in time to witness the Restoration. In the first parliament thereafter, +he sat for East Grinstead, in Surrey, and might have distinguished +himself, had he not determined, in common with almost all the wits of +the time, to run a preliminary career of dissipation. What a proof of +the licentiousness of these times is to be found in the fact, that young +Lord Buckhurst, Sir Charles Sedley, and Sir Thomas Ogle were fined for +exposing themselves, drunk and naked, in indecent postures on the public +street! In 1665, the erratic energies of Buckhurst found a more +legitimate vent in the Dutch war. He attended the Duke of York in the +great sea-fight of the 3d June, in which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was, +with all his crew, blown up. He is said to have composed the song, +quoted afterwards, 'To all you ladies now at land,' on the evening +before the battle, although Dr Johnson (who observes that seldom any +splendid story is wholly true) maintains that its composition cost him +a whole week, and that he only retouched it on that remarkable evening. +Buckhurst was soon after made a gentleman of the bed-chamber, and +despatched on short embassies to France. In 1674, his uncle, James +Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex, died, and left him his estate, and +the next year the title, too, was conferred on him. In 1677, he became, +by the death of his father, Earl of Dorset, and inherited the family +estate. In 1684, his wife, whose name was Bagot, and by whom he had no +children, died, and he soon after married a daughter of the Earl of +Northampton, who is said to have been celebrated both for understanding +and beauty. Dorset was courted by James, but found it impossible to +coincide with his violent measures, and when the bishops were tried +at Westminster Hall, he, along with some other lords, appeared to +countenance them. He concurred with the Revolution settlement, and, +after William's accession, was created lord chamberlain of the +household, and received the Order of the Garter. His attendance on the +king, however, eventually cost him his life, for having been tossed with +him in an open boat on the coast of Holland for sixteen hours, in very +rough weather, he caught an illness from which he never recovered. On +19th January 1705-6, he died at Bath. + +During his life, Dorset was munificent in his kindness to such men of +genius as Prior and Dryden, who repaid him in the current coin of the +poor Parnassus of their day--gross adulation. He is now remembered +mainly for his spirited war-song, and for such pointed lines in his +satire on Edward Howard, the notorious author of 'British Princes,' as +the following:-- + + 'They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren, + When deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion; + Thy stumbling, foundered jade can trot as high + As any other Pegasus can fly. + So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud + Than all the swift-finned racers of the flood. + As skilful divers to the bottom fall + Sooner than those who cannot swim at all, + So in this way of writing without thinking, + Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking.' + +This last line has not only become proverbial, but forms the distinct +germ of 'The Dunciad.' + + +SONG. + +WRITTEN AT SEA, IN THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, +THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. + +1 To all you ladies now at land, + We men at sea indite; + But first would have you understand + How hard it is to write; + The Muses now, and Neptune too, + We must implore to write to you, + With a fa, la, la, la, la. + +2 For though the Muses should prove kind, + And fill our empty brain; + Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, + To wave the azure main, + Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, + Roll up and down our ships at sea. + With a fa, &c. + +3 Then if we write not by each post, + Think not we are unkind; + Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, + By Dutchmen, or by wind; + Our tears we'll send a speedier way, + The tide shall bring them twice a-day. + With a fa, &c. + +4 The king, with wonder and surprise, + Will swear the seas grow bold; + Because the tides will higher rise + Than e'er they used of old: + But let him know, it is our tears + Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. + With a fa, &c. + +5 Should foggy Opdam chance to know + Our sad and dismal story, + The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, + And quit their fort at Goree: + For what resistance can they find + From men who've left their hearts behind? + With a fa, &c. + +6 Let wind and weather do its worst, + Be you to us but kind; + Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, + No sorrow we shall find: + 'Tis then no matter how things go, + Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. + With a fa, &c. + +7 To pass our tedious hours away, + We throw a merry main; + Or else at serious ombre play: + But why should we in vain + Each other's ruin thus pursue? + We were undone when we left you. + With a fa, &c. + +8 But now our fears tempestuous grow, + And cast our hopes away; + Whilst you, regardless of our woe, + Sit careless at a play: + Perhaps, permit some happier man + To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. + With a fa, &c. + +9 When any mournful tune you hear, + That dies in every note, + As if it sighed with each man's care, + For being so remote, + Think how often love we've made + To you, when all those tunes were played. + With a fa, &c. + +10 In justice you can not refuse + To think of our distress, + When we for hopes of honour lose + Our certain happiness; + All those designs are but to prove + Ourselves more worthy of your love. + With a fa, &c. + +11 And now we've told you all our loves, + And likewise all our fears, + In hopes this declaration moves + Some pity from your tears; + Let's hear of no inconstancy, + We have too much of that at sea. + With a fa, la, la, la, la. + + + + +JOHN PHILIPS. + + +Bampton in Oxfordshire was the birthplace of this poet. He was born +on the 30th of December 1676. His father, Dr Stephen Philips, was +archdeacon of Salop, as well as minister of Bampton. John, after some +preliminary training at home, was sent to Winchester, where he +distinguished himself by diligence and good-nature, and enjoyed two +great luxuries,--the reading of Milton, and the having his head combed +by some one while he sat still and in rapture for hours together. This +pleasure he shared with Vossius, and with humbler persons of our +acquaintance; the combing of whose hair, they tell us, + + 'Dissolves them into ecstasies, + And brings all heaven before their eyes.' + +In 1694, he entered Christ Church, Cambridge. His intention was to +prosecute the study of medicine, and he took great delight in the +cognate pursuits of natural history and botany. His chief friend was +Edmund Smith, (Rag Smith, as he was generally called,) a kind of minor +Savage, well known in these times as the author of 'Phaedra and +Hippolytus,' and for his cureless dissipation. In 1703, Philips produced +'The Splendid Shilling,' which proved a hit, and seems to have diverted +his aspirations from the domains of Aesculapius to those of Apollo. +Bolingbroke sought him out, and employed him, after the battle of +Blenheim, to sing it in opposition to Addison, the laureate of the +Whigs. At the house of the magnificent but unprincipled St John, Philips +wrote his 'Blenheim,' which was published in 1705. The year after, his +'Cider,' a poem in two books, appeared, and was received with great +applause. Encouraged by this, he projected a poem on the Last Day, +which all who are aware of the difficulties of the subject, and the +limitations of the author's genius, must rejoice that he never wrote. +Consumption and asthma removed him prematurely on the 15th of February +1708, ere he had completed his thirty-third year. He was buried in +Hereford Cathedral, and Sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards Lord Chancellor, +erected a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey. + +Bulwer somewhere records a story of John Martin in his early days. He +was, on one occasion, reduced to his last shilling. He had kept it, out +of a heap, from a partiality to its appearance. It was very bright. He +was compelled, at last, to part with it. He went out to a baker's shop +to purchase a loaf with his favourite shilling. He had got the loaf into +his hands, when the baker discovered that the shilling was a bad one, +and poor Martin had to resign the loaf, and take back his dear, bright, +bad shilling once more. Length of time and cold criticism in like manner +have reduced John Philips to his solitary 'Splendid Shilling.' But, +though bright, it is far from bad. It is one of the cleverest of +parodies, and is perpetrated against one of those colossal works which +the smiles of a thousand caricatures were unable to injure. No great or +good poem was ever hurt by its parody:--the 'Paradise Lost' was not by +'The Splendid Shilling'--'The Last Man' of Campbell was not by 'The Last +Man' of Hood--nor the 'Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore' by their +witty, well-known caricature; and if 'The Vision of Judgment' by Southey +was laughed into oblivion by Byron's poem with the same title, it was +because Southey's original was neither good nor great. Philip's poem, +too, is the first of the kind; and surely we should be thankful to the +author of the earliest effort in a style which has created so much +innocent amusement. Dr Johnson speaks as if the pleasure arising from +such productions implied a malignant 'momentary triumph over that +grandeur which had hitherto held its captives in admiration.' We think, +on the contrary, that it springs from our deep interest in the original +production, making us alive to the strange resemblance the caricature +bears to it. It is our love that provokes our laughter, and hence the +admirers of the parodied poem are more delighted than its enemies. At +all events, it is by 'The Splendid Shilling' alone--and that principally +from its connexion with Milton's great work--that Philips is memorable. +His 'Cider' has soured with age, and the loud echo of his Blenheim +battle-piece has long since died away. + + +THE SPLENDID SHILLING. + + "... Sing, heavenly Muse! +Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," +A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimeras dire. + +Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, +In silken or in leathern purse retains +A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain +New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; +But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, +To Juniper's Magpie or Town-Hall[1] repairs: +Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye +Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames, +Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass +Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. +Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, +Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. +But I, whom griping Penury surrounds, +And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, +With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, +(Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: +Then solitary walk, or doze at home +In garret vile, and with a warming puff +Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black +As winter-chimney, or well-polished jet, +Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent! +Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, +Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, +Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings +Full famous in romantic tale) when he +O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, +Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, +High over-shadowing rides, with a design +To vend his wares, or at the Arvonian mart, +Or Maridunum, or the ancient town +Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream +Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! +Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie +With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. + +Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, +With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, +Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, +To my aerial citadel ascends, +With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, +With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know +The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. +What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, +Confounded, to the dark recess I fly +Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect +Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews +My shuddering limbs, and, wonderful to tell! +My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; +So horrible he seems! His faded brow, +Entrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, +And spreading band, admired by modern saints, +Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand +Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, +With characters and figures dire inscribed, +Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods, avert +Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks +Another monster, not unlike himself, +Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called +A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, +With force incredible, and magic charms, +Erst have endued; if he his ample palm +Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay +Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch +Obsequious, as whilom knights were wont, +To some enchanted castle is conveyed, +Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, +In durance strict detain him, till, in form +Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. + +Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk, beware, +Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken +The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft +Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, +Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch +With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) +Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn +An everlasting foe, with watchful eye +Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, +Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice +Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web +Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads +Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands +Within her woven cell; the humming prey, +Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils +Inextricable, nor will aught avail +Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; +The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, +And butterfly, proud of expanded wings +Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, +Useless resistance make: with eager strides, +She towering flies to her expected spoils; +Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood +Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave +Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. + +So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades +This world envelop, and the inclement air +Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts +With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; +Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light +Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk +Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, +Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, +Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts +My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse +Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, +Or desperate lady near a purling stream, +Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. +Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, +And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat +Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: +But if a slumber haply does invade +My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, +Thoughtful of drink, and, eager, in a dream, +Tipples imaginary pots of ale, +In vain; awake I find the settled thirst +Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. + +Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, +Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays +Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, +Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, +Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; +Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: +My galligaskins, that have long withstood +The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, +By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) +An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice +Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds +Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force +Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, +Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, +Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, +Long sailed secure, or through the Aegean deep, +Or the Ionian, till cruising near +The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush +On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) +She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, +So fierce a shock unable to withstand, +Admits the sea; in at the gaping side +The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, +Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize +The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, +They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray; +Vain efforts! still the battering waves rush in, +Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, +The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. + +[1]'Magpie or Town-hall:' two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700. + + + + +We may here mention a name or two of poets from whose verses we can +afford no extracts,--such as Walsh, called by Pope 'knowing Walsh,' +a man of some critical discernment, if not of much genius; Gould, a +domestic of the Earl of Dorset, and afterwards a schoolmaster, from whom +Campbell quotes one or two tolerable songs; and Dr Walter Pope, a man of +wit and knowledge, who was junior proctor of Oxford, one of the first +chosen fellows of the Royal Society, and who succeeded Sir Christopher +Wren as professor of astronomy in Gresham College. He is the author of +a comico-serious song of some merit, entitled 'The Old Man's Wish.' + + + + +SIR SAMUEL GARTH. + + +Of Garth little is known, save that he was an eminent physician, a +scholar, a man of benevolence, a keen Whig, and yet an admirer of old +Dryden, and a patron of young Pope--a friend of Addison, and the author +of the 'Dispensary.' The College of Physicians had instituted a +dispensary, for the purpose of furnishing the poor with medicines +gratis. This measure was opposed by the apothecaries, who had an obvious +interest in the sale of drugs; and to ridicule their selfishness Garth +wrote his poem, which is mock-heroic, in six cantos, copied in form from +the 'Lutrin,' and which, though ingenious and elaborate, seems now +tedious, and on the whole uninteresting. It appeared in 1696, and the +author died in 1718. We extract some of the opening lines of the first +canto of the poem. + + +THE DISPENSARY. + +Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell +How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; +And why physicans were so cautious grown +Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; +How by a journey to the Elysian plain +Peace triumphed, and old Time returned again. +Not far from that most celebrated place, +Where angry Justice shows her awful face; +Where little villains must submit to fate, +That great ones may enjoy the world in state; +There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, +And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; +A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, +Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill: +This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, +Raised for a use as noble as its frame; +Nor did the learn'd society decline +The propagation of that great design; +In all her mazes, nature's face they viewed, +And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. +Wrapped in the shade of night the goddess lies, +Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, +But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. +Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife +Of infant atoms kindling into life; +How ductile matter new meanders takes, +And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; +And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, +By just degrees to harden into bone; +While the more loose flow from the vital urn, +And in full tides of purple streams return; +How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, +And dart in emanations through the eyes; +How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, +To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; +Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; +How great their force, how delicate their frame; +How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain +The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; +Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, +And floods of chyle in silver currents run; +How the dim speck of entity began +To extend its recent form, and stretch to man; +To how minute an origin we owe +Young Ammon, Caesar, and the great Nassau; +Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim, +And why chill virgins redden into flame; +Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise, +And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes; +All ice, why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire; +Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire; +When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown, +Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; +How matter, by the varied shape of pores, +Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. + +Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, +How body acts upon impassive mind; +How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, +Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; +Why our complexions oft our soul declare, +And how the passions in the features are; +How touch and harmony arise between +Corporeal figure, and a form unseen; +How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, +And act at every summons of the will. +With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, +Which in the womb of distant causes lie. + +But now no grand inquiries are descried, +Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside, +Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside. +Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, +And for important nothings show a zeal: +The drooping sciences neglected pine, +And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. +No readers here with hectic looks are found, +Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching, drowned; +The lonely edifice in sweats complains +That nothing there but sullen silence reigns. + +This place, so fit for undisturbed repose, +The god of sloth for his asylum chose; +Upon a couch of down in these abodes, +Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods; +Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, +With murmurs of soft rills and whispering trees: +The poppy and each numbing plant dispense +Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence; +No passions interrupt his easy reign, +No problems puzzle his lethargic brain; +But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed, +And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head. + + + + +SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE. + + +Our next name is that of one who, like the former, was a knight, a +physician, and (in a manner) a poet. Blackmore was the son of Robert +Blackmore of Corsham, in Wiltshire, who is styled by Wood _gentleman_, +and is believed to have been an attorney. He took his degree of M.A. at +Oxford, in June 1676. He afterwards travelled, was made Doctor of Physic +at Padua, and, when he returned home, began to practise in London with +great success. In 1695, he tried his hand at poetry, producing an epic +entitled 'King Arthur,' which was followed by a series on 'King Alfred,' +'Queen Elizabeth,' 'Redemption,' 'The Creation,' &c. Some of these +productions were popular; one, 'The Creation,' has been highly praised +by Dr Johnson; but most of them were heavy. Matthew Henry has preserved +portions in his valuable Commentary. Blackmore, a man of excellent +character and of extensive medical practice, was yet the laughingstock +of the wits, perhaps as much for his piety as for his prosiness. Old, +rich, and highly respected, he died on the 8th of October 1729, while +some of his poetic persecutors came to a disgraceful or an early end. + +We quote the satire of John Gay, as one of the cleverest and best +conditioned, although one of the coarsest of the attacks made on poor +Sir Richard:-- + + +VERSES TO BE PLACED UNDER THE PICTURE OF SIR R. BLACKMORE, +CONTAINING A COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF HIS WORKS. + +See who ne'er was, nor will be half read, +Who first sang Arthur, then sang Alfred; +Praised great Eliza in God's anger, +Till all true Englishmen cried, Hang her; +Mauled human wit in one thick satire, +Next in three books spoiled human nature; +Undid Creation at a jerk, +And of Redemption made ---- work; +Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her +Full in the middle of the Scripture; +What wonders there the man grown old did, +Sternhold himself he out Sternholded; +Made David seem so mad and freakish, +All thought him just what thought King Achish; +No mortal read his Solomon +But judged Reboam his own son; +Moses he served as Moses Pharaoh, +And Deborah as she Sisera; +Made Jeremy full sore to cry, +And Job himself curse God and die. + +What punishment all this must follow? +Shall Arthur use him like King Tollo? +Shall David as Uriah slay him? +Or dext'rous Deborah Sisera him? +Or shall Eliza lay a plot +To treat him like her sister Scot? +No, none of these; Heaven save his life, +But send him, honest Job, thy wife! + + +CREATION. + +No more of courts, of triumphs, or of arms, +No more of valour's force, or beauty's charms; +The themes of vulgar lays, with just disdain, +I leave unsung, the flocks, the amorous swain, +The pleasures of the land, and terrors of the main. +How abject, how inglorious 'tis to lie +Grovelling in dust and darkness, when on high +Empires immense and rolling worlds of light, +To range their heavenly scenes the muse invite; +I meditate to soar above the skies, +To heights unknown, through ways untried, to rise; +I would the Eternal from his works assert, +And sing the wonders of creating art. +While I this unexampled task essay, +Pass awful gulfs, and beat my painful way, +Celestial Dove! divine assistance bring, +Sustain me on thy strong extended wing, +That I may reach the Almighty's sacred throne, +And make his causeless power, the cause of all things, known. +Thou dost the full extent of nature see, +And the wide realms of vast immensity; +Eternal Wisdom thou dost comprehend, +Rise to her heights, and to her depths descend; +The Father's sacred counsels thou canst tell, +Who in his bosom didst for ever dwell; +Thou on the deep's dark face, immortal Dove! +Thou with Almighty energy didst move +On the wild waves, incumbent didst display +Thy genial wings, and hatch primeval day. +Order from thee, from thee distinction came, +And all the beauties of the wondrous frame. +Hence stamped on nature we perfection find, +Fair as the idea in the Eternal Mind. +See, through this vast extended theatre +Of skill divine, what shining marks appear! +Creating power is all around expressed, +The God discovered, and his care confessed. +Nature's high birth her heavenly beauties show; +By every feature we the parent know. +The expanded spheres, amazing to the sight! +Magnificent with stars and globes of light, +The glorious orbs which heaven's bright host compose, +The imprisoned sea, that restless ebbs and flows, +The fluctuating fields of liquid air, +With all the curious meteors hovering there, +And the wide regions of the land, proclaim +The Power Divine, that raised the mighty frame. +What things soe'er are to an end referred, +And in their motions still that end regard, +Always the fitness of the means respect, +These as conducive choose, and those reject, +Must by a judgment foreign and unknown +Be guided to their end, or by their own; +For to design an end, and to pursue +That end by means, and have it still in view, +Demands a conscious, wise, reflecting cause, +Which freely moves, and acts by reason's laws; +That can deliberate, means elect, and find +Their due connexion with the end designed. +And since the world's wide frame does not include +A cause with such capacities endued, +Some other cause o'er nature must preside, +Which gave her birth, and does her motions guide; +And here behold the cause, which God we name, +The source of beings, and the mind supreme; +Whose perfect wisdom, and whose prudent care, +With one confederate voice unnumbered worlds declare. + + + + +ELIJAH FENTON. + + +This author, who was very much respected by his contemporaries, and who +translated a portion of the Odyssey in conjunction with Pope, was born +May 20, 1683, at Newcastle, in Staffordshire; studied at Cambridge, +which, owing to his nonjuring principles, he had to leave without a +degree; and passed part of his life as a schoolmaster, and part of it +as secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery. By his tragedy of 'Mariamne' he +secured a moderate competence; and during his latter years, spent his +life comfortably as tutor in the house of Lady Trumbull. He died in +1730. His accomplishments were superior, and his character excellent. +Pope, who was indebted to him for the first, fourth, nineteenth, and +twentieth of the books of the Odyssey, mourns his loss in one of his +most sincere-seeming letters. Fenton edited Waller and Milton, wrote a +brief life of the latter poet,--with which most of our readers are +acquainted,--and indited some respectable verse. + + +AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER. + +WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716. + +1 O'er Winter's long inclement sway, + At length the lusty Spring prevails; + And swift to meet the smiling May, + Is wafted by the western gales. + Around him dance the rosy Hours, + And damasking the ground with flowers, + With ambient sweets perfume the morn; + With shadowy verdure flourished high, + A sudden youth the groves enjoy; + Where Philomel laments forlorn. + +2 By her awaked, the woodland choir + To hail the coming god prepares; + And tempts me to resume the lyre, + Soft warbling to the vernal airs. + Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign + For me, the meanest of your train, + Unblamed to approach your blest retreat: + Where Horace wantons at your spring, + And Pindar sweeps a bolder string; + Whose notes the Aonian hills repeat. + +3 Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, + Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; + Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, + Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; + Thither, indulgent to my prayer, + Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair, + To swell the notes I feebly raise: + So with aspiring ardours warmed + May Gower's propitious ear be charmed + To listen to my lays. + +4 Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, + Like Thracian Mars, the undaunted Swede[1] + To dint of sword defies the foe; + In fight unknowing to recede: + From Volga's banks, the imperious Czar + Leads forth his furry troops to war; + Fond of the softer southern sky: + The Soldan galls the Illyrian coast; + But soon, the miscreant Moony host + Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. + +5 But here, no clarion's shrilling note + The Muse's green retreat can pierce; + The grove, from noisy camps remote, + Is only vocal with my verse: + Here, winged with innocence and joy, + Let the soft hours that o'er me fly + Drop freedom, health, and gay desires: + While the bright Seine, to exalt the soul, + With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, + And wit and social mirth inspires. + +6 Enamoured of the Seine, celestial fair, + (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) + Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care, + Lashed his swift tigers to the Celtic plain: + There secret in her sapphire cell, + He with the Nais wont to dwell; + Leaving the nectared feasts of Jove: + And where her mazy waters flow + He gave the mantling vine to grow, + A trophy to his love. + +7 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, + With blind opinion for his guide; + And, rebel to her rightful sway, + Leave all her beauties unenjoyed? + Fool! Time no change of motion knows; + With equal speed the torrent flows, + To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: + The past is all by death possessed; + And frugal fate that guards the rest, + By giving, bids him live To-Day. + +8 O Gower! through all the destined space, + What breath the Powers allot to me + Shall sing the virtues of thy race, + United and complete in thee. + O flower of ancient English faith! + Pursue the unbeaten Patriot-path, + In which confirmed thy father shone: + The light his fair example gives, + Already from thy dawn receives + A lustre equal to its own. + +9 Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns reared, + Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume; + Loud Paeans echoing round the roof are heard + And clouds of incense all the void perfume. + There Phocion, Laelius, Capel, Hyde, + With Falkland seated near his side, + Fixed by the Muse, the temple grace; + Prophetic of thy happier fame, + She, to receive thy radiant name, + Selects a whiter space. + +[1] Charles XII. + + + +ROBERT CRAWFORD. + + +Robert Crawford, a Scotchman, is our next poet. Of him we know only that +he was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames; that he assisted +Allan Ramsay in the 'Tea-Table Miscellany;' and was drowned when coming +from France in 1733. Besides the popular song, 'The Bush aboon Traquair,' +which we quote, Crawford wrote also a lyric, called 'Tweedside,' and some +verses, mentioned by Burns, to the old tune of 'Cowdenknowes.' + + +THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. + +1 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, + I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; + Though thus I languish and complain, + Alas! she ne'er believes me. + My vows and sighs, like silent air, + Unheeded, never move her; + At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, + 'Twas there I first did love her. + +2 That day she smiled and made me glad, + No maid seemed ever kinder; + I thought myself the luckiest lad, + So sweetly there to find her; + I tried to soothe my amorous flame, + In words that I thought tender; + If more there passed, I'm not to blame-- + I meant not to offend her. + +3 Yet now she scornful flies the plain, + The fields we then frequented; + If e'er we meet she shows disdain, + She looks as ne'er acquainted. + The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, + Its sweets I'll aye remember; + But now her frowns make it decay-- + It fades as in December. + +4 Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, + Why thus should Peggy grieve me? + Oh, make her partner in my pains, + Then let her smiles relieve me! + If not, my love will turn despair, + My passion no more tender; + I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-- + To lonely wilds I'll wander. + + + + +THOMAS TICKELL. + + +Tickell is now chiefly remembered from his connexion with Addison. He +was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, near Carlisle. In April 1701, he became +a member of Queen's College in Oxford. In 1708, he was made M.A., and +two years after was chosen Fellow. He held his Fellowship till 1726, +when, marrying in Dublin, he necessarily vacated it. He attracted +Addison's attention first by some elegant lines in praise of Rosamond, +and then by the 'Prospect of Peace,' a poem in which Tickell, although +called by Swift Whiggissimus, for once took the Tory side. This poem +Addison, in spite of its politics, praised highly in the _Spectator_, +which led to a lifelong friendship between them. Tickell commenced +contributing to the _Spectator_, among other things publishing there a +poem entitled the 'Royal Progress.' Some time after, he produced a +translation of the first book of the Iliad, which Addison declared to be +superior to Pope's. This led the latter to imagine that it was Addison's +own, although it is now, we believe, certain, from the MS., which still +exists, that it was a veritable production of Tickell's. When Addison +went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied +him, and was employed in public business. When Addison became Secretary +of State, he made Tickell Under-Secretary; and when he died, he left him +the charge of publishing his works, with an earnest recommendation to +the care of Craggs. Tickell faithfully performed the task, prefixing to +them an elegy on his departed friend, which is now his own chief title +to fame. In 1725, he was made secretary to the Lords-Justices of +Ireland, a place of great trust and honour, and which he retained till +his death. This event happened at Bath, in the year 1740. + +His genius was not strong, but elegant and refined, and appears, as we +have just stated, to best advantage in his lines on Addison's death, +which are warm with genuine love, tremulous with sincere sorrow, and +shine with a sober splendour, such as Addison's own exquisite taste +would have approved. + + +TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR ADDISON. + +If, dumb too long, the drooping muse hath stayed, +And left her debt to Addison unpaid, +Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, +And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. +What mourner ever felt poetic fires! +Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: +Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, +Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. + +Can I forget the dismal night that gave +My soul's best part for ever to the grave? +How silent did his old companions tread, +By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, +Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, +Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! +What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; +The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; +The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid: +And the last words that dust to dust conveyed! +While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, +Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. +Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; +And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. +To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, +A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; +Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, +And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. +If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, +May shame afflict this alienated heart; +Of thee forgetful if I form a song, +My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, +My grief be doubled from thy image free, +And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee! + +Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, +Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, +Along the walls where speaking marbles show +What worthies form the hallowed mould belew; +Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; +In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; +Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; +Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; +Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; +And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven; +Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, +Since their foundation came a nobler guest; +Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed +A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. + +In what new region, to the just assigned, +What new employments please the embodied mind? +A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, +From world to world unwearied does he fly? +Or curious trace the long laborious maze +Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? +Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell +How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; +Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow +In hymns of love, not ill essayed below? +Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, +A task well suited to thy gentle mind? +Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, +To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! +When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, +When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, +In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, +And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; +Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, +Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. + +That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, +Must still be loved and still deplored by me, +In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, +Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. +If business calls, or crowded courts invite, +The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; +If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, +I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; +If pensive to the rural shades I rove, +His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; +'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, +Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: +There patient showed us the wise course to steer, +A candid censor, and a friend severe; +There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high +The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die. + +Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, +Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, +Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, +O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears? +How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, +Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! +How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, +Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze! +His image thy forsaken bowers restore; +Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; +No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, +Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. + +From other ills, however fortune frowned, +Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; +Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, +Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; +And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn, +Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. +Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, +And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,) +The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, +And weep a second in the unfinished song! + +These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, +To thee, O Craggs! the expiring sage conveyed, +Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, +Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. +Swift after him thy social spirit flies, +And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. +Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell +In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell! +Farewell! whom, joined in fame, in friendship tried, +No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. + + + + +JAMES HAMMOND. + + +This elegiast was the second son of Anthony Hammond, a brother-in-law of +Sir Robert Walpole, and a man of some note in his day. He was born in +1710; educated at Westminster school; became equerry to the Prince of +Wales; fell in love with a lady named Dashwood, who rejected him, and +drove him to temporary derangement, and then to elegy-writing; entered +parliament for Truro, in Cornwall, in 1741; and died the next year. His +elegies were published after his death, and, although abounding in +pedantic allusions and frigid conceits, became very popular. + + +ELEGY XIII. + +He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each other, +they are retired into the country. + +1 Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, + And view their fields, with waving plenty crowned, + Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, + And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound: + +2 While calmly poor I trifle life away, + Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, + No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, + But, cheaply blessed, I'll scorn each vain desire. + +3 With timely care I'll sow my little field, + And plant my orchard with its master's hand, + Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, + Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. + +4 If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, + I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, + Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, + And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. + +5 What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, + And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast! + Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain, + Secure and happy, sink at last to rest! + +6 Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride, + By shady rivers indolently stray, + And with my Delia, walking side by side, + Hear how they murmur as they glide away! + +7 What joy to wind along the cool retreat, + To stop and gaze on Delia as I go! + To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, + And teach my lovely scholar all I know! + +8 Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, + In silent happiness I rest unknown; + Content with what I am, not what I seem, + I live for Delia and myself alone. + + * * * * * + +9 Hers be the care of all my little train, + While I with tender indolence am blest, + The favourite subject of her gentle reign, + By love alone distinguished from the rest. + +10 For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough, + In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock; + For her, a goat-herd, climb the mountain's brow, + And sleep extended on the naked rock: + +11 Ah, what avails to press the stately bed, + And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, + By marble fountains lay the pensive head, + And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep! + +12 Delia alone can please, and never tire, + Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; + With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, + And equal rapture glows through every night: + +13 Beauty and worth in her alike contend, + To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; + In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, + I taste the joys of sense and reason joined. + +14 On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er, + And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-- + Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, + Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. + +15 Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, + Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, + Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, + Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still: + +16 Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed, + Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart; + Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, + These weeping friends will do thy mournful part: + +17 Let them, extended on the decent bier, + Convey the corse in melancholy state, + Through all the village spread the tender tear, + While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate. + + + + +We may here mention Dr George Sewell, author of a Life of Sir Walter +Haleigh, a few papers in the _Spectator_, and some rather affecting +verses written on consumption, where he says, in reference to his +garden-- + + 'Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, + (For vanity's in little seen,) + All must be left when death appears, + In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; + Not one of all thy plants that grow, + But rosemary, will with thee go;'-- + + +Sir John Vanbrugh, best known as an architect, but who also wrote +poetry;--Edward Ward (more commonly called Ned Ward), a poetical +publican, who wrote ten thick volumes, chiefly in Hudibrastic verse, +displaying a good deal of coarse cleverness;--Barton Booth, the famous +actor, author of a song which closes thus-- + + 'Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, + Twin-born, from heaven together came; + Love will the universe control, + When dying seasons lose their name. + Divine abodes shall own his power, + When time and death shall be no more;'-- + + +Oldmixon, one of the heroes of the 'Dunciad,' famous in his day as a +party historian;--Richard West, a youth of high promise, the friend of +Gray, and who died in his twenty-sixth year;--James Eyre Weekes, an +Irishman, author of a clever copy of love verses, called 'The Five +Traitors;'--Bramston, an Oxford man, who wrote a poem called 'The Man of +Taste;'--and William Meston, an Aberdonian, author of a set of burlesque +poems entitled 'Mother Grim's Tales.' + + + + +RICHARD SAVAGE. + + +The extreme excellence, fulness, and popularity of Johnson's Life of +Savage must excuse our doing more than mentioning the leading dates of +his history. He was the son of the Earl of Rivers and the Countess of +Macclesfield, and was born in London, 1698. His mother, who had begot +him in adultery after having openly avowed her criminality, in order to +obtain a divorce from her husband, placed the boy under the care of a +poor woman, who brought him up as her son. His maternal grandmother, +Lady Mason, however, took an interest him and placed him at a grammar +school at St Alban's. He was afterwards apprenticed to a shoemaker. On +the death of his nurse, he found some letters which led to the discovery +of his real parent. He applied to her, accordingly, to be acknowledged +as her son; but she repulsed his every advance, and persecuted him with +unrelenting barbarity. He found, however, some influential friends, such +as Steele, Fielding, Aaron Hill, Pope, and Lord Tyrconnell. He was, +however, his own worst enemy, and contracted habits of the most +irregular description. In a tavern brawl he killed one James Sinclair, +and was condemned to die; but, notwithstanding his mother's interference +to prevent the exercise of the royal clemency, he was pardoned by the +queen, who afterwards gave him a pension of L50 a-year. He supported +himself in a precarious way by writing poetical pieces. Lord Tyrconnell +took him for a while into his house, and allowed him L200 a-year, but he +soon quarrelled with him, and left. When the queen died he lost his +pension, but his friends made it up by an annuity to the same amount. He +went away to reside at Swansea, but on occasion of a visit he made to +Bristol he was arrested for a small debt, and in the prison he sickened, +and died on the 1st of August 1743. He was only forty-five years of age. + +After all, Savage, in Johnson's Life, is just a dung-fly preserved in +amber. His 'Bastard,' indeed, displays considerable powers, stung by a +consciousness of wrong into convulsive action; but his other works are +nearly worthless, and his life was that of a proud, passionate, selfish, +and infatuated fool, unredeemed by scarcely one trait of genuine +excellence in character. We love and admire, even while we deeply blame, +such men as Burns; but for Savage our feeling is a curious compost of +sympathy with his misfortunes, contempt for his folly, and abhorrence +for the ingratitude, licentiousness, and other coarse and savage sins +which characterised and prematurely destroyed him. + + +THE BASTARD. + +INSCRIBED, WITH ALL DUE REVERENCE, TO MRS BRETT, +ONCE COUNTESS OF MACCLESFIELD. + +In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, +The Muse exulting, thus her lay began: +'Blest be the Bastard's birth! through wondrous ways, +He shines eccentric like a comet's blaze! +No sickly fruit of faint compliance he! +He! stamped in nature's mint of ecstasy! +He lives to build, not boast a generous race: +No tenth transmitter of a foolish face: +His daring hope no sire's example bounds; +His first-born lights no prejudice confounds. +He, kindling from within, requires no flame; +He glories in a Bastard's glowing name. + +'Born to himself, by no possession led, +In freedom fostered, and by fortune fed; +Nor guides, nor rules his sovereign choice control, +His body independent as his soul; +Loosed to the world's wide range, enjoined no aim, +Prescribed no duty, and assigned no name: +Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone, +His heart unbiased, and his mind his own. + +'O mother, yet no mother! 'tis to you +My thanks for such distinguished claims are due; +You, unenslaved to Nature's narrow laws, +Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause, +From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, +From ties maternal, moral, and divine, +Discharged my grasping soul; pushed me from shore, +And launched me into life without an oar. + +'What had I lost, if, conjugally kind, +By nature hating, yet by vows confined, +Untaught the matrimonial bonds to slight, +And coldly conscious of a husband's right, +You had faint-drawn me with a form alone, +A lawful lump of life by force your own! +Then, while your backward will retrenched desire, +And unconcurring spirits lent no fire, +I had been born your dull, domestic heir, +Load of your life, and motive of your care; +Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great, +The slave of pomp, a cipher in the state; +Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, +And slumbering in a seat by chance my own. + +'Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; +Conceived in rapture, and with fire begot! +Strong as necessity, he starts away, +Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.' +Thus unprophetic, lately misinspired, +I sung: gay fluttering hope my fancy fired: +Inly secure, through conscious scorn of ill, +Nor taught by wisdom how to balance will, +Rashly deceived, I saw no pits to shun, +But thought to purpose and to act were one; +Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way, +Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray; +But now exposed, and shrinking from distress, +I fly to shelter while the tempests press; +My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone, +The raptures languish, and the numbers groan. + +O Memory! thou soul of joy and pain! +Thou actor of our passions o'er again! +Why didst thou aggravate the wretch's woe? +Why add continuous smart to every blow? +Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot! +On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not; +While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall, +Yet thou repeat'st and multipli'st them all. + +Is chance a guilt? that my disastrous heart, +For mischief never meant; must ever smart? +Can self-defence be sin?--Ah, plead no more! +What though no purposed malice stained thee o'er? +Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side, +Thou hadst not been provoked--or thou hadst died. + +Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all +On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall! +Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, +To me! through Pity's eye condemned to see. +Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; +Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. +Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, +What ripening virtues might have made their way? +He might have lived till folly died in shame, +Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. +He might perhaps his country's friend have proved; +Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved, +He might have saved some worth, now doomed to fall; +And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all. + +O fate of late repentance! always vain: +Thy remedies but lull undying pain. +Where shall my hope find rest?--No mother's care +Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: +No father's guardian hand my youth maintained, +Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained. +Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, +First to advance, then screen from future harm? +Am I returned from death to live in pain? +Or would imperial Pity save in vain? +Distrust it not--What blame can mercy find, +Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind? + +Mother, miscalled, farewell--of soul severe, +This sad reflection yet may force one tear: +All I was wretched by to you I owed, +Alone from strangers every comfort flowed! + +Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, +And now adopted, who was doomed before; +New-born, I may a nobler mother claim, +But dare not whisper her immortal name; +Supremely lovely, and serenely great! +Majestic mother of a kneeling state! +Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before +Agreed--yet now with one consent adore! +One contest yet remains in this desire, +Who most shall give applause, where all admire. + + + + +THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER. + + +The Wartons were a poetical race. The father of Thomas and Joseph, names +so intimately associated with English poetry, was himself a poet. He was +of Magdalene College in Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and +twice chosen poetry professor. He was born in 1687, and died in 1745. +Besides the little American ode quoted below, we are tempted to give the +following + + +VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE. + +From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, +Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls, +To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, +Pleased I return, unenvious of the great. +So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes +Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens; +Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, +Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill; +Now haunts old hollowed oaks, deserted cells, +Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells; +Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, +And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;-- +At length returning to the wonted comb, +Prefers to all his little straw-built home. + +This seems sweet and simple poetry. + + +AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE. + +FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS. + +Stay, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake, +Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake: +But let me oft thy charms review, +Thy glittering scales, and golden hue; +From these a chaplet shall be wove, +To grace the youth I dearest love. + +Then ages hence, when thou no more +Shalt creep along the sunny shore, +Thy copied beauties shall be seen; +Thy red and azure mixed with green, +In mimic folds thou shalt display;-- +Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay. + + + + +JONATHAN SWIFT. + + +In contemplating the lives and works of the preceding poets in this +third volume of 'Specimens,' we have been impressed with a sense, if not +of their absolute, yet of their comparative mediocrity. Beside such +neglected giants as Henry More, Joseph Beaumont, and Andrew Marvell, the +Pomfrets, Sedleys, Blackmores, and Savages sink into insignificance. But +when we come to the name of Swift, we feel ourselves again approaching +an Alpine region. The air of a stern mountain-summit breathes chill +around our temples, and we feel that if we have no amiability to melt, +we have altitude at least to measure, and strange profound secrets of +nature, like the ravines of lofty hills, to explore. The men of the +sixteenth and seventeenth centuries may be compared to Lebanon, or +Snowdown, or Benlomond towering grandly over fertile valleys, on which +they smile--Swift to the tremendous Romsdale Horn in Norway, shedding +abroad, from a brow of four thousand feet high, what seems a scowl of +settled indignation, as if resolved not to rejoice even over the wide- +stretching deserts which, and nothing but which, it everlastingly +beholds. Mountains all of them, but what a difference between such a +mountain as Shakspeare, and such a mountain as Swift! + +Instead of going minutely over a path so long since trodden to mire as +the life of Swift, let us expend a page or two in seeking to form some +estimate of his character and genius. It is refreshing to come upon a +new thing in the world, even though it be a strange or even a bad thing; +and certainly, in any age and country, such a being as Swift must have +appeared an anomaly, not for his transcendent goodness, not for his +utter badness, but because the elements of good and evil were mixed in +him into a medley so astounding, and in proportions respectively so +large, yet unequal, that the analysis of the two seemed to many +competent only to the Great Chymist, Death, and that a sense of the +disproportion seems to have moved the man himself to inextinguishable +laughter,--a laughter which, radiating out of his own singular heart as +a centre, swept over the circumference of all beings within his reach, +and returned crying, 'Give, give,' as if he were demanding a universal +sphere for the exercise of the savage scorn which dwelt within him, and +as if he laughed not more 'consumedly' at others than he did at himself. + +Ere speaking of Swift as a man, let us say something about his genius. +That, like his character, was intensely peculiar. It was a compound of +infinite ingenuity, with very little poetical imagination--of gigantic +strength, with a propensity to incessant trifling--of passionate +purpose, with the clearest and coldest expression, as though a furnace +were fuelled with snow. A Brobdignagian by size, he was for ever toying +with Lilliputian slings and small craft. One of the most violent of +party men, and often fierce as a demoniac in temper, his favourite motto +was _Vive la bagatelle_. The creator of entire new worlds, we doubt if +his works contain more than two or three lines of genuine poetry. He may +be compared to one of the locusts of the Apocalypse, in that he had a +tail like unto a scorpion, and a sting in his tail; but his 'face is not +as the face of man, his hair is not as the hair of women, and on his +head there is no crown like gold.' All Swift's creations are more or +less disgusting. Not one of them is beautiful. His Lilliputians are +amazingly life-like, but compare them to Shakspeare's fairies, such +as Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Mustardseed; his Brobdignagians are +excrescences like enormous warts; and his Yahoos might have been spawned +in the nightmare of a drunken butcher. The same coarseness characterises +his poems and his 'Tale of a Tub.' He might well, however, in his old +age, exclaim, in reference to the latter, 'Good God! what a genius I +had when I wrote that book!' It is the wildest, wittiest, wickedest, +wealthiest book of its size in the English language. Thoughts and +figures swarm in every corner of its pages, till you think of a +disturbed nest of angry ants, for all the figures and thoughts are black +and bitter. One would imagine the book to have issued from a mind that +had been gathering gall as well as sense in an antenatal state of being. + +Swift, in all his writings--sermons, political tracts, poems, and +fictions--is essentially a satirist. He consisted originally of three +principal parts,--sense, an intense feeling of the ludicrous, and +selfish passion; and these were sure, in certain circumstances, to +ferment into a spirit of satire, 'strong as death, and cruel as the +grave.' Born with not very much natural benevolence, with little purely +poetic feeling, with furious passions and unbounded ambition, he was +entirely dependent for his peace of mind upon success. Had he become, as +by his talents he was entitled to be, the prime minister of his day, he +would have figured as a greater tyrant in the cabinet than even Chatham. +But as he was prevented from being the first statesman, he became the +first satirist of his time. From vain efforts to grasp supremacy for +himself and his party, he retired growling to his Dublin den; and there, +as Haman thought scorn to lay his hand on Mordecai, but extended his +murderous purpose to all the people of the Jews,--and as Nero wished +that Rome had one neck, that he might destroy it at a blow,--so Swift +was stung by his personal disappointment to hurl out scorn at man and +suspicion at his Maker. It was not, it must be noticed, the evil which +was in man which excited his hatred and contempt; it was man himself. He +was not merely, as many are, disgusted with the selfish and malignant +elements which are mingled in man's nature and character, and disposed +to trace them to any cause save a Divine will, but he believed man to +be, as a whole, the work and child of the devil; and he told the +imaginary creator and creature to their face, what he thought the +truth,--'The devil is an ass.' His was the very madness of Manichaeism. +That heresy held that the devil was one of two aboriginal creative +powers, but Swift seemed to believe at times that he was the only God. +From a Yahoo man, it was difficult to avoid the inference of a demon +deity. It is very laughable to find writers in _Blackwood_ and elsewhere +striving to prove Swift a Christian, as if, whatever were his +professions, and however sincere he might be often in these, the whole +tendency of his writings, his perpetual and unlimited abuse of man's +body and soul, his denial of every human virtue, the filth he pours upon +every phase of human nature, and the doctrine he insinuates--that man +has fallen indeed, but fallen, not from the angel, but from the animal, +or, rather, is just a bungled brute,--were not enough to shew that +either his notions were grossly erroneous and perverted, or that he +himself deserved, like another Nebuchadnezzar, to be driven from men, +and to have a beast's heart given unto him. Sometimes he reminds us of +an impure angel, who has surprised man naked and asleep, looked at him +with microscopic eyes, ignored all his peculiar marks of fallen dignity +and incipient godhood, and in heartless rhymes reported accordingly. + +Swift belonged to the same school as Pope, although the feminine element +which was in the latter modified and mellowed his feelings. Pope was a +more successful and a happier man than Swift. He was much smaller, too, +in soul as well as in body, and his gall-organ was proportionably less. +Pope's feeling to humanity was a tiny malice; Swift's became, at length, +a black malignity. Pope always reminds us of an injured and pouting hero +of Lilliput, 'doing well to be angry' under the gourd of a pocket-flap, +or squealing out his griefs from the centre of an empty snuff-box; Swift +is a man, nay, monster of misanthropy. In minute and microscopic vision +of human infirmities, Pope excels even Swift; but then you always +conceive Swift leaning down a giant, though gnarled, stature to behold +them, while Pope is on their level, and has only to look straight before +him. Pope's wrath is always measured; Swift's, as in the 'Legion-Club' +is a whirlwind of 'black fire and horror,' in the breath of which no +flesh can live, and against which genius and virtue themselves furnish +no shield. + +After all, Swift might, perhaps, have put in the plea of Byron-- + + 'All my faults perchance thou knowest, + All my madness none can know.' + +There was a black spot of madness in his brain, and another black spot +in his heart; and the two at last met, and closed up his destiny in +night. Let human nature forgive its most determined and systematic +reviler, for the sake of the wretchedness in which he was involved all +his life long. He was born (in 1667) a posthumous child; he was brought +up an object of charity; he spent much of his youth in dependence; he +had to leave his Irish college without a degree; he was flattered with +hopes from King William and the Whigs, which were not fulfilled; he was +condemned to spend a great part of his life in Ireland, a country he +detested; he was involved--partly, no doubt, through his own blame--in +a succession of fruitless and miserable intrigues, alike of love and +politics; he was soured by want of success in England, and spoiled by +enormous popularity in Ireland; he was tried by a kind of religious +doubts, which would not go out to prayer or fasting; he was haunted by +the fear of the dreadful calamity which at last befell him; his senses +and his soul left him one by one; he became first giddy, then deaf, and +then mad; his madness was of the most terrible sort--it was a 'silent +rage;' for a year or two he lay dumb; and at last, on the 19th of +October 1745, + + 'Swift expired, a driveller and a show,' + +leaving his money to found a lunatic asylum, and his works as a many- +volumed legacy of curse to mankind. + +[Note: It has been asserted that there were circumstances in extenuation +of Swift's conduct, particularly in reference to the ladies whose names +were connected with his, which _cannot be publicly brought forward_.] + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. + +In ancient times, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + +It happened on a winter night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Disguised in tattered habits went +To a small village down in Kent, +Where, in the strollers' canting strain, +They begged from door to door in vain, +Tried every tone might pity win; +But not a soul would let them in. +Our wandering saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having through all the village passed, +To a small cottage came at last, +Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, +Called in the neighbourhood Philemon; +Who kindly did these saints invite +In his poor hut to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +While he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fried; +Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, +Filled a large jug up to the brink, +And saw it fairly twice go round; +Yet (what is wonderful!) they found +'Twas still replenished to the top, +As if they ne'er had touched a drop. +The good old couple were amazed, +And often on each other gazed; +For both were frightened to the heart, +And just began to cry,--'What art!' +Then softly turned aside to view +Whether the lights were burning blue. +The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't, +Told them their calling, and their errand: +'Good folks, you need not be afraid, +We are but saints,' the hermits said; +'No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their houses shall be drowned; +Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes.' + +They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose every beam and rafter; +The heavy wall climbed slowly after. + +The chimney widened, and grew higher, +Became a steeple with a spire. + +The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fastened to a joist; +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below; +In vain; for a superior force, +Applied at bottom, stops its course: +Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + +A wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increased by new intestine wheels; +And, what exalts the wonder more +The number made the motion slower; +The flier, though't had leaden feet, +Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't; +But, slackened by some secret power, +Now hardly moves an inch an hour. +The jack and chimney, near allied, +Had never left each other's side: +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But up against the steeple reared, +Became a clock, and still adhered; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon declares, +Warning the cook-maid not to burn +That roast meat which it cannot turn. + +The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like a huge snail, along the wall; +There stuck aloft in public view, +And with small change a pulpit grew. + +The porringers, that in a row +Hung high, and made a glittering show, +To a less noble substance changed, +Were now but leathern buckets ranged. + +The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Joan of France, and English Moll, +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Now seemed to look abundance better, +Improved in picture, size, and letter; +And, high in order placed, describe +The heraldry of every tribe. + +A bedstead, of the antique mode, +Compact of timber many a load, +Such as our ancestors did use, +Was metamorphosed into pews; +Which still their ancient nature keep, +By lodging folks disposed to sleep. + +The cottage, by such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees; +The hermits then desired their host +To ask for what he fancied most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Returned them thanks in homely style; +Then said, 'My house is grown so fine, +Methinks I still would call it mine; +I'm old, and fain would live at ease; +Make me the parson, if you please.' + +He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat fall down his heels: +He sees, yet hardly can believe, +About each arm a pudding-sleeve; +His waistcoat to a cassock grew, +And both assumed a sable hue; +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +His talk was now of tithes and dues; +He smoked his pipe, and read the news; +Knew how to preach old sermons next, +Vamped in the preface and the text; +At christenings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wished women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrowed last; +Against Dissenters would repine, +And stood up firm for right divine; +Found his head filled with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er missed 'em. + +Thus, having furbished up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they played their farce on; +Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edged with colberteen; +Her petticoat, transformed apace, +Became black satin flounced with lace. +Plain 'Goody' would no longer down; +'Twas 'Madam' in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes, +Amazed to see her look so prim; +And she admired as much at him. + +Thus happy in their change of life +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which proved their last, +Discoursing on old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +To the churchyard to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cried out, +'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!' +'Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true; +And, really, yours is budding too; +Nay, now I cannot stir my foot-- +It feels as if 'twere taking root.' + +Description would but tire my Muse; +In short, they both were turned to yews. + +Old Goodman Dobson of the green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folks to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening-prayer, +He gathers all the parish there, +Points out the place of either yew: +'Here Baucis, there Philemon grew; +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn cut Baucis down. +At which 'tis hard to be believed +How much the other tree was grieved, +Grew scrubby, died atop, was stunted; +So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.' + + +ON POETRY. + +All human race would fain be wits, +And millions miss for one that hits. +Young's Universal Passion, pride, +Was never known to spread so wide. +Say, Britain, could you ever boast +Three poets in an age at most? +Our chilling climate hardly bears +A sprig of bays in fifty years; +While every fool his claim alleges, +As if it grew in common hedges. +What reason can there be assigned +For this perverseness in the mind? +Brutes find out where their talents lie: +A bear will not attempt to fly; +A foundered horse will oft debate +Before he tries a five-barred gate; +A dog by instinct turns aside, +Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;-- +But man we find the only creature, +Who, led by folly, combats nature; +Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, +With obstinacy fixes there; +And, where his genius least inclines, +Absurdly bends his whole designs. + +Not empire to the rising sun +By valour, conduct, fortune won; +Not highest wisdom in debates +For framing laws to govern states; +Not skill in sciences profound +So large to grasp the circle round, +Such heavenly influence require, +As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + +Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; +Not bastard of a pedlar Scot; +Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, +The spawn of Bridewell or the stews; +Not infants dropped, the spurious pledges +Of gipsies littering under hedges, +Are so disqualified by fate +To rise in church, or law, or state, +As he whom Phoebus in his ire +Hath blasted with poetic fire. +What hope of custom in the fair, +While not a soul demands your ware? +Where you have nothing to produce +For private life or public use? +Court, city, country, want you not; +You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. +For poets, law makes no provision; +The wealthy have you in derision; +Of state affairs you cannot smatter, +Are awkward when you try to flatter; +Your portion, taking Britain round, +Was just one annual hundred pound; +Now not so much as in remainder, +Since Gibber brought in an attainder, +For ever fixed by right divine, +(A monarch's right,) on Grub Street line. + +Poor starveling bard, how small thy gains! +How unproportioned to thy pains! +And here a simile comes pat in: +Though chickens take a month to fatten, +The guests in less than half an hour +Will more than half a score devour. +So, after toiling twenty days +To earn a stock of pence and praise, +Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, +Are swallowed o'er a dish of tea; +Gone to be never heard of more, +Gone where the chickens went before. +How shall a new attempter learn +Of different spirits to discern, +And how distinguish which is which, +The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? +Then hear an old experienced sinner +Instructing thus a young beginner: +Consult yourself; and if you find +A powerful impulse urge your mind, +Impartial judge within your breast +What subject you can manage best; +Whether your genius most inclines +To satire, praise, or humorous lines, +To elegies in mournful tone, +Or prologues sent from hand unknown; +Then, rising with Aurora's light, +The Muse invoked, sit down to write; +Blot out, correct, insert, refine, +Enlarge, diminish, interline; +Be mindful, when invention fails, +To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + +Your poem finished, next your care +Is needful to transcribe it fair. +In modern wit, all printed trash is +Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + +To statesmen would you give a wipe, +You print it in italic type; +When letters are in vulgar shapes, +'Tis ten to one the wit escapes; +But when in capitals expressed, +The dullest reader smokes the jest; +Or else, perhaps, he may invent +A better than the poet meant; +As learned commentators view +In Homer, more than Homer knew. + +Your poem in its modish dress, +Correctly fitted for the press, +Convey by penny-post to Lintot; +But let no friend alive look into 't. +If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, +You need not fear your labour lost: +And how agreeably surprised +Are you to see it advertised! +The hawker shows you one in print, +As fresh as farthings from a mint: +The product of your toil and sweating, +A bastard of your own begetting. + +Be sure at Will's the following day, +Lie snug, and hear what critics say; +And if you find the general vogue +Pronounces you a stupid rogue, +Damns all your thoughts as low and little, +Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; +Be silent as a politician, +For talking may beget suspicion; +Or praise the judgment of the town, +And help yourself to run it down; +Give up your fond paternal pride, +Nor argue on the weaker side; +For poems read without a name +We justly praise, or justly blame; +And critics have no partial views, +Except they know whom they abuse; +And since you ne'er provoked their spite, +Depend upon 't, their judgment's right. +But if you blab, you are undone: +Consider what a risk you run: +You lose your credit all at once; +The town will mark you for a dunce; +The vilest doggrel Grub Street sends +Will pass for yours with foes and friends; +And you must bear the whole disgrace, +Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + +Your secret kept, your poem sunk, +And sent in quires to line a trunk, +If still you be disposed to rhyme, +Go try your hand a second time. +Again you fail: yet safe's the word; +Take courage, and attempt a third. +But just with care employ your thoughts, +Where critics marked your former faults; +The trivial turns, the borrowed wit, +The similes that nothing fit; +The cant which every fool repeats, +Town jests and coffee-house conceits; +Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, +And introduced the Lord knows why: +Or where we find your fury set +Against the harmless alphabet; +On A's and B's your malice vent, +While readers wonder what you meant: +A public or a private robber, +A statesman, or a South-Sea jobber; +A prelate who no God believes; +A parliament, or den of thieves; +A pick-purse at the bar or bench; +A duchess, or a suburb wench: +Or oft, when epithets you link +In gaping lines to fill a chink; +Like stepping-stones to save a stride, +In streets where kennels are too wide; +Or like a heel-piece, to support +A cripple with one foot too short; +Or like a bridge, that joins a marish +To moorland of a different parish; +So have I seen ill-coupled hounds +Drag different ways in miry grounds; +So geographers in Afric maps +With savage pictures fill their gaps, +And o'er unhabitable downs +Place elephants, for want of towns. + +But though you miss your third essay, +You need not throw your pen away. +Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, +To spring more profitable game. +From party-merit seek support-- +The vilest verse thrives best at court. +And may you ever have the luck, +To rhyme almost as ill as Duck; +And though you never learnt to scan verse, +Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. +A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence +Will never fail to bring in pence: +Nor be concerned about the sale-- +He pays his workmen on the nail. +Display the blessings of the nation, +And praise the whole administration: +Extol the bench of Bishops round; +Who at them rail, bid----confound: +To Bishop-haters answer thus, +(The only logic used by us,) +'What though they don't believe in----, +Deny them Protestants,--thou liest.' + +A prince, the moment he is crowned, +Inherits every virtue round, +As emblems of the sovereign power, +Like other baubles in the Tower; +Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, +And so continues till he dies: +His humble senate this professes +In all their speeches, votes, addresses. +But once you fix him in a tomb, +His virtues fade, his vices bloom, +And each perfection, wrong imputed, +Is fully at his death confuted. +The loads of poems in his praise +Ascending, make one funeral blaze. +As soon as you can hear his knell +This god on earth turns devil in hell; +And lo! his ministers of state, +Transformed to imps, his levee wait, +Where, in the scenes of endless woe, +They ply their former arts below; +And as they sail in Charon's boat, +Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; +To Cerberus they give a sop, +His triple-barking mouth to stop; +Or in the ivory gate of dreams +Project Excise and South-Sea schemes, +Or hire their party pamphleteers +To set Elysium by the ears. + +Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, +Employ your Muse on kings alive; +With prudence gather up a cluster +Of all the virtues you can muster, +Which, formed into a garland sweet, +Lay humbly at your monarch's feet, +Who, as the odours reach his throne, +Will smile and think them all his own; +For law and gospel both determine +All virtues lodge in royal ermine, +(I mean the oracles of both, +Who shall depose it upon oath.) +Your garland in the following reign, +Change but the names, will do again. + +But, if you think this trade too base, +(Which seldom is the dunce's case,) +Put on the critic's brow, and sit +At Will's the puny judge of wit. +A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, +With caution used, may serve a while. +Proceed on further in your part, +Before you learn the terms of art; +For you can never be too far gone +In all our modern critics' jargon; +Then talk with more authentic face +Of unities, in time, and place; +Get scraps of Horace from your friends, +And have them at your fingers' ends; +Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, +And at all hazards boldly quote; +Judicious Rymer oft review, +Wise Dennis, and profound Bossu; +Read all the prefaces of Dryden-- +For these our critics much confide in, +(Though merely writ at first for filling, +To raise the volume's price a shilling.) + +A forward critic often dupes us +With sham quotations _Peri Hupsous_. +And if we have not read Longinus, +Will magisterially outshine us. +Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, +Procure the book for love or money, +Translated from Boileau's translation, +And quote quotation on quotation. + +At Will's you hear a poem read, +Where Battus from the table-head, +Reclining on his elbow-chair, +Gives judgment with decisive air; +To whom the tribes of circling wits +As to an oracle submits. +He gives directions to the town, +To cry it up, or run it down; +Like courtiers, when they send a note, +Instructing members how to vote. +He sets the stamp of bad and good, +Though not a word he understood. +Your lesson learned, you'll be secure +To get the name of connoisseur: +And, when your merits once are known, +Procure disciples of your own. +For poets, (you can never want 'em,) +Spread through Augusta Trinobantum, +Computing by their pecks of coals, +Amount to just nine thousand souls. +These o'er their proper districts govern, +Of wit and humour judges sovereign. +In every street a city-bard +Rules, like an alderman, his ward; +His undisputed rights extend +Through all the lane, from end to end; +The neighbours round admire his shrewdness +For songs of loyalty and lewdness; +Outdone by none in rhyming well, +Although he never learned to spell. +Two bordering wits contend for glory; +And one is Whig, and one is Tory: +And this for epics claims the bays, +And that for elegiac lays: +Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, +By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; +And some as justly Fame extols +For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. +Bavius in Wapping gains renown, +And Mavius reigns o'er Kentish-town; +Tigellius, placed in Phoebus' car, +From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: +Harmonious Cibber entertains +The court with annual birth-day strains; +Whence Gay was banished in disgrace; +Where Pope will never show his face; +Where Young must torture his invention +To flatter knaves, or lose his pension. + +But these are not a thousandth part +Of jobbers in the poet's art; +Attending each his proper station, +And all in due subordination, +Through every alley to be found, +In garrets high, or under ground; +And when they join their pericranies, +Out skips a book of miscellanies. +Hobbes clearly proves that every creature +Lives in a state of war by nature; +The greater for the smallest watch, +But meddle seldom with their match. +A whale of moderate size will draw +A shoal of herrings down his maw; +A fox with geese his belly crams; +A wolf destroys a thousand lambs: +But search among the rhyming race, +The brave are worried by the base. +If on Parnassus' top you sit, +You rarely bite, are always bit. +Each poet of inferior size +On you shall rail and criticise, +And strive to tear you limb from limb; +While others do as much for him. + +The vermin only tease and pinch +Their foes superior by an inch: +So, naturalists observe, a flea +Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; +And these have smaller still to bite 'em, +And so proceed _ad infinitum_. +Thus every poet in his kind +Is bit by him that comes behind: +Who, though too little to be seen, +Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; +Call dunces fools and sons of whores, +Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; +Extol the Greek and Roman masters, +And curse our modern poetasters; +Complain, as many an ancient bard did, +How genius is no more rewarded; +How wrong a taste prevails among us; +How much our ancestors out-sung us; +Can personate an awkward scorn +For those who are not poets born; +And all their brother-dunces lash, +Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + +O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, +Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! +Their filial piety forgot, +Deny their country like a Scot; +Though by their idiom and grimace, +They soon betray their native place. +Yet thou hast greater cause to be +Ashamed of them, than they of thee, +Degenerate from their ancient brood +Since first the court allowed them food. + +Remains a difficulty still, +To purchase fame by writing ill. +From Flecknoe down to Howard's time, +How few have reached the low sublime! +For when our high-born Howard died, +Blackmore alone his place supplied; +And lest a chasm should intervene, +When death had finished Blackmore's reign, +The leaden crown devolved to thee, +Great poet of the Hollow Tree. +But ah! how unsecure thy throne! +A thousand bards thy right disown; +They plot to turn, in factious zeal, +Duncenia to a commonweal; +And with rebellious arms pretend +An equal privilege to defend. + +In bulk there are not more degrees +From elephants to mites in cheese, +Than what a curious eye may trace +In creatures of the rhyming race. +From bad to worse, and worse, they fall; +But who can reach the worst of all? +For though in nature, depth and height +Are equally held infinite; +In poetry, the height we know; +'Tis only infinite below. +For instance, when you rashly think +No rhymer can like Welsted sink, +His merits balanced, you shall find +The laureate leaves him far behind; +Concannen, more aspiring bard, +Soars downwards deeper by a yard; +Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops; +The rest pursue as thick as hops. +With heads to point, the gulf they enter, +Linked perpendicular to the centre; +And, as their heels elated rise, +Their heads attempt the nether skies. + +Oh, what indignity and shame, +To prostitute the Muse's name, +By flattering kings, whom Heaven designed +The plagues and scourges of mankind; +Bred up in ignorance and sloth, +And every vice that nurses both. + +Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, +Whose virtues bear the strictest test; +Whom never faction could bespatter, +Nor minister nor poet flatter; +What justice in rewarding merit! +What magnanimity of spirit! +What lineaments divine we trace +Through all his figure, mien, and face! +Though peace with olive bind his hands, +Confessed the conquering hero stands. +Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, +Dread from his hand impending changes; +From him the Tartar and the Chinese, +Short by the knees, entreat for peace. +The comfort of his throne and bed, +A perfect goddess born and bred; +Appointed sovereign judge to sit +On learning, eloquence and wit. +Our eldest hope, divine Iuelus, +(Late, very late, oh, may he rule us!) +What early manhood has he shown, +Before his downy beard was grown! +Then think what wonders will be done, +By going on as he begun, +An heir for Britain to secure +As long as sun and moon endure. + +The remnant of the royal blood +Comes pouring on me like a flood: +Bright goddesses, in number five; +Duke William, sweetest prince alive! + +Now sings the minister of state, +Who shines alone without a mate. +Observe with what majestic port +This Atlas stands to prop the court, +Intent the public debts to pay, +Like prudent Fabius, by delay. +Thou great vicegerent of the king, +Thy praises every Muse shall sing! +In all affairs thou sole director, +Of wit and learning chief protector; +Though small the time thou hast to spare, +The church is thy peculiar care. +Of pious prelates what a stock +You choose, to rule the sable flock! +You raise the honour of your peerage, +Proud to attend you at the steerage; +You dignify the noble race, +Content yourself with humbler place. +Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, +To titles give the sole pretence. +St George beheld thee with delight +Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, +When on thy breasts and sides herculean +He fixed the star and string cerulean. + +Say, poet, in what other nation, +Shone ever such a constellation! +Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, +And tune your harps, and strew your bays: +Your panegyrics here provide; +You cannot err on flattery's side. +Above the stars exalt your style, +You still are low ten thousand mile. +On Louis all his bards bestowed +Of incense many a thousand load; +But Europe mortified his pride, +And swore the fawning rascals lied. +Yet what the world refused to Louis, +Applied to George, exactly true is. +Exactly true! invidious poet! +'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + +Translate me now some lines, if you can, +From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. +They could all power in heaven divide, +And do no wrong on either side; +They teach you how to split a hair, +Give George and Jove an equal share. +Yet why should we be laced so strait? +I'll give my monarch butter weight; +And reason good, for many a year +Jove never intermeddled here: +Nor, though his priests be duly paid, +Did ever we desire his aid: +We now can better do without him, +Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR SWIFT. + + Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucault, 'Dans + l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque + chose qui ne nous deplait pas;'--'In the adversity of our best + friends, we always find something that doth not displease us.' + + As Rochefoucault his maxims drew + From nature, I believe them true: + +They argue no corrupted mind +In him; the fault is in mankind. + +This maxim more than all the rest +Is thought too base for human breast: +'In all distresses of our friends, +We first consult our private ends; +While nature, kindly bent to ease us, +Points out some circumstance to please us.' + +If this perhaps your patience move, +Let reason and experience prove. + +We all behold with envious eyes +Our equals raised above our size. +Who would not at a crowded show +Stand high himself, keep others low? +I love my friend as well as you: +But why should he obstruct my view? +Then let me have the higher post; +Suppose it but an inch at most. +If in a battle you should find +One, whom you love of all mankind, +Had some heroic action done, +A champion killed, or trophy won; +Rather than thus be over-topped, +Would you not wish his laurels cropped? +Dear honest Ned is in the gout, +Lies racked with pain, and you without: +How patiently you hear him groan! +How glad the case is not your own! + +What poet would not grieve to see +His brother write as well as he? +But, rather than they should excel, +Would wish his rivals all in hell? + +Her end when emulation misses, +She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: +The strongest friendship yields to pride, +Unless the odds be on our side. +Vain human-kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, +Their empire in our hearts divide. +Give others riches, power, and station, +'Tis all on me an usurpation. +I have no title to aspire; +Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. +In Pope I cannot read a line, +But, with a sigh, I wish it mine: +When he can in one couplet fix +More sense than I can do in six, +It gives me such a jealous fit, +I cry, 'Pox take him and his wit!' +I grieve to be outdone by Gay +In my own humorous, biting way. +Arbuthnot is no more my friend, +Who dares to irony pretend, +Which I was born to introduce, +Refined at first, and showed its use. +St John, as well as Pultney, knows +That I had some repute for prose; +And, till they drove me out of date, +Could maul a minister of state. +If they have mortified my pride, +And made me throw my pen aside; +If with such talents Heaven hath blest 'em, +Have I not reason to detest 'em? + +To all my foes, dear Fortune, send +Thy gifts; but never to my friend: +I tamely can endure the first; +But this with envy makes me burst. + +Thus much may serve by way of proem; +Proceed we therefore to our poem. + +The time is not remote when I +Must by the course of nature die; +When, I foresee, my special friends +Will try to find their private ends: +And, though 'tis hardly understood +Which way my death can do them good, +Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: +'See how the Dean begins to break! +Poor gentleman, he droops apace! +You plainly find it in his face. +That old vertigo in his head +Will never leave him, till he's dead. +Besides, his memory decays: +He recollects not what he says; +He cannot call his friends to mind; +Forgets the place where last he dined; +Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; +He told them fifty times before. +How does he fancy we can sit +To hear his out-of-fashion wit? +But he takes up with younger folks, +Who for his wine will bear his jokes. +Faith! he must make his stories shorter, +Or change his comrades once a quarter: +In half the time he talks them round, +There must another set be found. + +'For poetry, he's past his prime: +He takes an hour to find a rhyme; +His fire is out, his wit decayed, +His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. +I'd have him throw away his pen;-- +But there's no talking to some men!' + +And then their tenderness appears +By adding largely to my years: +'He's older than he would be reckoned, +And well remembers Charles the Second. +He hardly drinks a pint of wine; +And that, I doubt, is no good sign. +His stomach too begins to fail: +Last year we thought him strong and hale; +But now he's quite another thing: +I wish he may hold out till spring!' +They hug themselves, and reason thus: +'It is not yet so bad with us!' + +In such a case, they talk in tropes, +And by their fears express their hopes. +Some great misfortune to portend, +No enemy can match a friend. +With all the kindness they profess, +The merit of a lucky guess +(When daily how-d'ye's come of course, +And servants answer, 'Worse and worse!') +Would please them better, than to tell, +That, 'God be praised, the Dean is well.' +Then he who prophesied the best, +Approves his foresight to the rest: +'You know I always feared the worst, +And often told you so at first.' +He'd rather choose that I should die, +Than his predictions prove a lie. +Not one foretells I shall recover; +But all agree to give me over. + +Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain +Just in the parts where I complain; +How many a message would he send! +What hearty prayers that I should mend! +Inquire what regimen I kept; +What gave me ease, and how I slept; +And more lament when I was dead, +Than all the snivellers round my bed. + +My good companions, never fear; +For, though you may mistake a year, +Though your prognostics run too fast, +They must be verified at last. + +Behold the fatal day arrive! +'How is the Dean?'--'He's just alive.' +Now the departing prayer is read; +He hardly breathes--The Dean is dead. + +Before the passing-bell begun, +The news through half the town is run. +'Oh! may we all for death prepare! +What has he left? and who's his heir?' +'I know no more than what the news is; +'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.' +'To public uses! there's a whim! +What had the public done for him? +Mere envy, avarice, and pride: +He gave it all--but first he died. +And had the Dean, in all the nation, +No worthy friend, no poor relation? +So ready to do strangers good, +Forgetting his own flesh and blood!' + +Now Grub-Street wits are all employed; +With elegies the town is cloyed: +Some paragraph in every paper, +To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. +The doctors, tender of their fame, +Wisely on me lay all the blame. +'We must confess, his case was nice; +But he would never take advice. +Had he been ruled, for aught appears, +He might have lived these twenty years: +For, when we opened him, we found +That all his vital parts were sound.' + +From Dublin soon to London spread, +'Tis told at court, 'The Dean is dead.' +And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, +Runs laughing up to tell the queen. +The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, +Cries, 'Is he gone!'tis time he should. +He's dead, you say; then let him rot. +I'm glad the medals were forgot. +I promised him, I own; but when? +I only was the princess then; +But now, as consort of the king, +You know,'tis quite another thing.' + +Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, +Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: +'Why, if he died without his shoes,' +Cries Bob, 'I'm sorry for the news: +Oh, were the wretch but living still, +And in his place my good friend Will! +Or had a mitre on his head, +Provided Bolingbroke were dead!' + +Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: +Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! +And then, to make them pass the glibber, +Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. +He'll treat me as he does my betters, +Publish my will, my life, my letters; +Revive the libels born to die: +Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + +Here shift the scene, to represent +How those I love my death lament. +Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay +A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + +St John himself will scarce forbear +To bite his pen, and drop a tear. +The rest will give a shrug, and cry, +'I'm sorry--but we all must die!' + +Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, +All fortitude of mind supplies: +For how can stony bowels melt +In those who never pity felt! +When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, +Resigning to the will of God. + +The fools, my juniors by a year, +Are tortured with suspense and fear; +Who wisely thought my age a screen, +When death approached, to stand between: +The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; +They mourn for me without dissembling. + +My female friends, whose tender hearts +Have better learned to act their parts, +Receive the news in doleful dumps: +'The Dean is dead: (Pray, what is trumps?) +Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! +(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) +Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall: +(I wish I knew what king to call.) +Madam, your husband will attend +The funeral of so good a friend.' +'No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; +And he's engaged to-morrow night: +My Lady Club will take it ill, +If he should fail her at quadrille. +He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart)-- +But dearest friends, they say, must part. +His time was come; he ran his race; +We hope he's in a better place.' + +Why do we grieve that friends should die? +No loss more easy to supply. +One year is past; a different scene! +No further mention of the Dean, +Who now, alas! no more is missed, +Than if he never did exist. +Where's now the favourite of Apollo? +Departed:--and his works must follow; +Must undergo the common fate; +His kind of wit is out of date. + +Some country squire to Lintot goes, +Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. +Says Lintot, 'I have heard the name; +He died a year ago.'--'The same.' +He searches all the shop in vain. +'Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane: +I sent them, with a load of books, +Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. +To fancy they could live a year! +I find you're but a stranger here. +The Dean was famous in his time, +And had a kind of knack at rhyme. +His way of writing now is past: +The town has got a better taste. +I keep no antiquated stuff; +But spick and span I have enough. +Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: +Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. +This ode you never yet have seen, +By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. +Then here's a letter finely penned +Against the Craftsman and his friend: +It clearly shows that all reflection +On ministers is disaffection. +Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, +And Mr Henley's last oration. +The hawkers have not got them yet; +Your honour please to buy a set? + +'Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; +'Tis read by every politician: +The country-members, when in town, +To all their boroughs send them down: +You never met a thing so smart; +The courtiers have them all by heart: +Those maids of honour who can read, +Are taught to use them for their creed. +The reverend author's good intention +Hath been rewarded with a pension: +He doth an honour to his gown, +By bravely running priestcraft down: +He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, +That Moses was a grand impostor; +That all his miracles were cheats, +Performed as jugglers do their feats: +The church had never such a writer; +A shame he hath not got a mitre!' + +Suppose me dead; and then suppose +A club assembled at the Rose; +Where, from discourse of this and that, +I grow the subject of their chat. +And while they toss my name about, +With favour some, and some without; +One, quite indifferent in the cause, +My character impartial draws: + +'The Dean, if we believe report, +Was never ill received at court, +Although, ironically grave, +He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave; +To steal a hint was never known, +But what he writ was all his own.' + +'Sir, I have heard another story; +He was a most confounded Tory, +And grew, or he is much belied, +Extremely dull, before he died.' + +'Can we the Drapier then forget? +Is not our nation in his debt? +'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!'-- + +'He should have left them for his betters; +We had a hundred abler men, +Nor need depend upon his pen.-- +Say what you will about his reading, +You never can defend his breeding; +Who, in his satires running riot, +Could never leave the world in quiet; +Attacking, when he took the whim, +Court, city, camp,--all one to him.-- +But why would he, except he slobbered, +Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, +Whose counsels aid the sovereign power +To save the nation every hour! +What scenes of evil he unravels +In satires, libels, lying travels, +Not sparing his own clergy cloth, +But eats into it, like a moth!' + +'Perhaps I may allow the Dean +Had too much satire in his vein, +And seemed determined not to starve it, +Because no age could more deserve it. +Yet malice never was his aim; +He lashed the vice, but spared the name. + +No individual could resent, +Where thousands equally were meant: +His satire points at no defect, +But what all mortals may correct; +For he abhorred the senseless tribe +Who call it humour when they gibe: +He spared a hump or crooked nose, +Whose owners set not up for beaux. +True genuine dulness moved his pity, +Unless it offered to be witty. +Those who their ignorance confessed +He ne'er offended with a jest; +But laughed to hear an idiot quote +A verse from Horace learned by rote. +Vice, if it e'er can be abashed, +Must be or ridiculed, or lashed. +If you resent it, who's to blame? +He neither knows you, nor your name. +Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, +Because its owner is a dukel? +His friendships, still to few confined, +Were always of the middling kind; +No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, +Who fain would pass for lords indeed: +Where titles give no right or power, +And peerage is a withered flower; +He would have deemed it a disgrace, +If such a wretch had known his face. +On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, +He vented oft his wrath in vain: +* * * * * * * squires to market brought, +Who sell their souls and * * * * for nought. +The * * * * * * * * go joyful back, +To rob the church, their tenants rack; +Go snacks with * * * * * justices, +And keep the peace to pick up fees; +In every job to have a share, +A gaol or turnpike to repair; +And turn * * * * * * * to public roads +Commodious to their own abodes. + +'He never thought an honour done him, +Because a peer was proud to own him; +Would rather slip aside, and choose +To talk with wits in dirty shoes; +And scorn the tools with stars and garters, +So often seen caressing Chartres. +He never courted men in station, +Nor persons held in admiration; +Of no man's greatness was afraid, +Because he sought for no man's aid. +Though trusted long in great affairs, +He gave himself no haughty airs: +Without regarding private ends, +Spent all his credit for his friends; +And only chose the wise and good; +No flatterers; no allies in blood: +But succoured virtue in distress, +And seldom failed of good success; +As numbers in their hearts must own, +Who, but for him, had been unknown. + +'He kept with princes due decorum; +Yet never stood in awe before 'em. +He followed David's lesson just, +In princes never put his trust: +And, would you make him truly sour, +Provoke him with a slave in power. +The Irish senate if you named, +With what impatience he declaimed! +Fair LIBERTY was all his cry; +For her he stood prepared to die; +For her he boldly stood alone; +For her he oft exposed his own. +Two kingdoms, just as faction led, +Had set a price upon his head; +But not a traitor could be found, +To sell him for six hundred pound. + +'Had he but spared his tongue and pen, +He might have rose like other men: +But power was never in his thought, +And wealth he valued not a groat: +Ingratitude he often found, +And pitied those who meant to wound; +But kept the tenor of his mind, +To merit well of human-kind; +Nor made a sacrifice of those +Who still were true, to please his foes. +He laboured many a fruitless hour, +To reconcile his friends in power; +Saw mischief by a faction brewing, +While they pursued each other's ruin. +But, finding vain was all his care, +He left the court in mere despair. + +'And, oh! how short are human schemes! +Here ended all our golden dreams. +What St John's skill in state affairs, +What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, +To save their sinking country lent, +Was all destroyed by one event. +Too soon that precious life was ended, +On which alone our weal depended. +When up a dangerous faction starts, +With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; +By solemn league and covenant bound, +To ruin, slaughter, and confound; +To turn religion to a fable, +And make the government a Babel; +Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, +Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; +To sacrifice old England's glory, +And make her infamous in story: +When such a tempest shook the land, +How could unguarded virtue stand! + +'With horror, grief, despair, the Dean +Beheld the dire destructive scene: +His friends in exile, or the Tower, +Himself within the frown of power; +Pursued by base envenomed pens, +Far to the land of S---- and fens; +A servile race in folly nursed, +Who truckle most, when treated worst. + +'By innocence and resolution, +He bore continual persecution; +While numbers to preferment rose, +Whose merit was to be his foes; +When even his own familiar friends, +Intent upon their private ends, +Like renegadoes now he feels, +Against him lifting up their heels. + +'The Dean did, by his pen, defeat +An infamous destructive cheat; +Taught fools their interest how to know, +And gave them arms to ward the blow. +Envy hath owned it was his doing, +To save that hapless land from ruin; +While they who at the steerage stood, +And reaped the profit, sought his blood. + +'To save them from their evil fate, +In him was held a crime of state. +A wicked monster on the bench, +Whose fury blood could never quench; +As vile and profligate a villain, +As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; +Who long all justice had discarded, +Nor feared he God, nor man regarded; +Vowed on the Dean his rage to vent, +And make him of his zeal repent: +But Heaven his innocence defends, +The grateful people stand his friends; +Not strains of law, nor judges' frown, +Nor topics brought to please the crown, +Nor witness hired, nor jury picked, +Prevail to bring him in convict. + +'In exile, with a steady heart, +He spent his life's declining part; +Where folly, pride, and faction sway, +Remote from St John, Pope, and Gay.' + +'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope +Was to be held a misanthrope. +This into general odium drew him, +Which if he liked, much good may't do him. +His zeal was not to lash our crimes, +But discontent against the times: +For, had we made him timely offers +To raise his post, or fill his coffers, +Perhaps he might have truckled down, +Like other brethren of his gown; +For party he would scarce have bled:-- +I say no more--because he's dead.-- +What writings has he left behind?' + +'I hear they're of a different kind: +A few in verse; but most in prose--' + +'Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose:-- +All scribbled in the worst of times, +To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; +To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, +As never favouring the Pretender: +Or libels yet concealed from sight, +Against the court to show his spite: +Perhaps his travels, part the third; +A lie at every second word-- +Offensive to a loyal ear:-- +But--not one sermon, you may swear.' + +'He knew an hundred pleasing stories, +With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: +Was cheerful to his dying-day; +And friends would let him have his way. + +'As for his works in verse or prose, +I own myself no judge of those. +Nor can I tell what critics thought them; +But this I know, all people bought them, +As with a moral view designed, +To please and to reform mankind: +And, if he often missed his aim, +The world must own it to their shame, +The praise is his, and theirs the blame. +He gave the little wealth he had +To build a house for fools and mad; +To show, by one satiric touch, +No nation wanted it so much. +That kingdom he hath left his debtor, +I wish it soon may have a better. +And, since you dread no further lashes, +Methinks you may forgive his ashes.' + + +A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE +LEGION-CLUB. 1736. + +As I stroll the city, oft I +See a building large and lofty, +Not a bow-shot from the college; +Half the globe from sense and knowledge: +By the prudent architect, +Placed against the church direct, +Making good thy grandame's jest, +'Near the church'--you know the rest. + +Tell us what the pile contains? +Many a head that holds no brains. +These demoniacs let me dub +With the name of Legion-Club. +Such assemblies, you might swear, +Meet when butchers bait a bear; +Such a noise, and such haranguing, +When a brother thief is hanging: +Such a rout and such a rabble +Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble; +Such a crowd their ordure throws +On a far less villain's nose. + +Could I from the building's top +Hear the rattling thunder drop, +While the devil upon the roof +(If the devil be thunder-proof) +Should with poker fiery red +Crack the stones, and melt the lead; +Drive them down on every skull, +While the den of thieves is full; +Quite destroy the harpies' nest; +How might then our isle be blest! +For divines allow that God +Sometimes makes the devil his rod; +And the gospel will inform us, +He can punish sins enormous. + +Yet should Swift endow the schools, +For his lunatics and fools, +With a rood or two of land, +I allow the pile may stand. +You perhaps will ask me, Why so? +But it is with this proviso: +Since the house is like to last, +Let the royal grant be passed, +That the club have right to dwell +Each within his proper cell, +With a passage left to creep in, +And a hole above for peeping. +Let them when they once get in, +Sell the nation for a pin; +While they sit a-picking straws, +Let them rave at making laws; +While they never hold their tongue, +Let them dabble in their dung; +Let them form a grand committee, +How to plague and starve the city; +Let them stare, and storm, and frown, +When they see a clergy gown; +Let them, ere they crack a louse, +Call for the orders of the house; +Let them, with their gosling quills, +Scribble senseless heads of bills. +We may, while they strain their throats, +Wipe our a--s with their votes. +Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, +Stuff his guts with flax and grass; +But, before the priest he fleeces, +Tear the Bible all to pieces: +At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, +Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, +Footman, traitor, vile seducer, +Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, +Lay thy privilege aside, +Sprung from Papist regicide; +Fall a-working like a mole, +Raise the dirt about your hole. + +Come, assist me, muse obedient! +Let us try some new expedient; +Shift the scene for half an hour, +Time and place are in thy power. +Thither, gentle muse, conduct me; +I shall ask, and you instruct me. + +See the muse unbars the gate! +Hark, the monkeys, how they prate! + +All ye gods who rule the soul! +Styx, through hell whose waters roll! +Let me be allowed to tell +What I heard in yonder cell. + +Near the door an entrance gapes, +Crowded round with antic shapes, +Poverty, and Grief, and Care, +Causeless Joy, and true Despair; +Discord periwigged with snakes, +See the dreadful strides she takes! + +By this odious crew beset, +I began to rage and fret, +And resolved to break their pates, +Ere we entered at the gates; +Had not Clio in the nick +Whispered me, 'Lay down your stick.' +What, said I, is this the mad-house? +These, she answered, are but shadows, +Phantoms bodiless and vain, +Empty visions of the brain.' + +In the porch Briareus stands, +Shows a bribe in all his hands; +Briareus, the secretary, +But we mortals call him Carey. +When the rogues their country fleece, +They may hope for pence a-piece. + +Clio, who had been so wise +To put on a fool's disguise, +To bespeak some approbation, +And be thought a near relation, +When she saw three hundred brutes +All involved in wild disputes, +Roaring till their lungs were spent, +'Privilege of Parliament.' +Now a new misfortune feels, +Dreading to be laid by the heels. +Never durst the muse before +Enter that infernal door; +Clio, stifled with the smell, +Into spleen and vapours fell, +By the Stygian steams that flew +From the dire infectious crew. +Not the stench of Lake Avernus +Could have more offended her nose; +Had she flown but o'er the top, +She had felt her pinions drop, +And by exhalations dire, +Though a goddess, must expire. +In a fright she crept away; +Bravely I resolved to stay. + +When I saw the keeper frown, +Tipping him with half-a-crown, +Now, said I, we are alone, +Name your heroes one by one. + +Who is that hell-featured brawler? +Is it Satan? No,'tis Waller. +In what figure can a bard dress +Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? +Honest keeper, drive him further, +In his looks are hell and murther; +See the scowling visage drop, +Just as when he murdered T----p. +Keeper, show me where to fix +On the puppy pair of Dicks; +By their lantern jaws and leathern, +You might swear they both are brethren: +Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, +Old acquaintance, are you there? +Dear companions, hug and kiss, +Toast Old Glorious in your piss: +Tie them, keeper, in a tether, +Let them starve and stink together; +Both are apt to be unruly, +Lash them daily, lash them duly; +Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, +Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them. + +Keeper, yon old dotard smoke, +Sweetly snoring in his cloak; +Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne, +Half encompassed by his kin: +There observe the tribe of Bingham, +For he never fails to bring 'em; +While he sleeps the whole debate, +They submissive round him wait; +Yet would gladly see the hunks +In his grave, and search his trunks. +See, they gently twitch his coat, +Just to yawn and give his vote, +Always firm in his vocation, +For the court, against the nation. + +Those are A----s Jack and Bob, +First in every wicked job, +Son and brother to a queer +Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. +We must give them better quarter, +For their ancestor trod mortar, +And at H----th, to boast his fame, +On a chimney cut his name. + +There sit Clements, D----ks, and Harrison, +How they swagger from their garrison! +Such a triplet could you tell +Where to find on this side hell? +Harrison, D----ks, and Clements, +Keeper, see they have their payments; +Every mischief's in their hearts; +If they fail, 'tis want of parts. + +Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man! +Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman! +Chairman to yon damned committee! +Yet I look on thee with pity. +Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan +Metamorphosed to a Gorgon? +For thy horrid looks I own, +Half convert me to a stone, +Hast thou been so long at school, +Now to turn a factious tool? +Alma Mater was thy mother, +Every young divine thy brother. +Thou a disobedient varlet, +Treat thy mother like a harlot! +Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, +Who are all grown reverend preachers! +Morgan, would it not surprise one! +Turn thy nourishment to poison! +When you walk among your books, +They reproach you with your looks. +Bind them fast, or from their shelves +They will come and right themselves; +Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, +All in arms prepare to back us. +Soon repent, or put to slaughter +Every Greek and Roman author. +Will you, in your faction's phrase, +Send the clergy all to graze, +And, to make your project pass, +Leave them not a blade of grass? +How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! +Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art, +Were but you and I acquainted, +Every monster should be painted: +You should try your graving-tools +On this odious group of fools: +Draw the beasts as I describe them +From their features, while I gibe them; +Draw them like; for I assure you, +You will need no _car'catura;_ +Draw them so, that we may trace +All the soul in every face. +Keeper, I must now retire, +You have done what I desire: +But I feel my spirits spent +With the noise, the sight, the scent. + +'Pray be patient; you shall find +Half the best are still behind: +You have hardly seen a score; +I can show two hundred more.' +Keeper, I have seen enough.-- +Taking then a pinch of snuff, +I concluded, looking round them, +'May their god, the devil, confound them. +Take them, Satan, as your due, +All except the Fifty-two.' + +[1] 'Sir Tom:' Sir Thomas Prendergrast, a privy councillor. + + + + +ISAAC WATTS. + + +We feel relieved, and so doubtless do our readers, in passing from the +dark tragic story of Swift, and his dubious and unhappy character, to +contemplate the useful career of a much smaller, but a much better man, +Isaac Watts. This admirable person was born at Southampton on the 17th +of July 1674. His father, of the same name, kept a boarding-school for +young gentlemen, and was a man of intelligence and piety. Isaac was the +eldest of nine children, and began early to display precocity of genius. +At four he commenced to study Latin at home, and afterwards, under one +Pinhorn, a clergyman, who kept the free-school at Southampton, he +learned Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. A subscription was proposed for +sending him to one of the great universities, but he preferred casting +in his lot with the Dissenters. He repaired accordingly, in 1690, to +an academy kept by the Rev. Thomas Rowe, whose son, we believe, became +the husband of the celebrated Elizabeth Rowe, the once popular author +of 'Letters from the Dead to the Living.' The Rowes belonged to the +Independent body. At this academy Watts began to write poetry, chiefly +in the Latin language, and in the then popular Pindaric measure. At the +age of twenty, he returned to his father's house, and spent two quiet +years in devotion, meditation, and study. He became next a tutor in the +family of Sir John Hartopp for five years. He was afterwards chosen +assistant to Dr Chauncey, and, after the Doctor's death, became his +successor. His health, however, failed, and, after getting an assistant +for a while, he was compelled to resign. In 1712, Sir Thomas Abney, a +benevolent gentleman of the neighbourhood, received Watts into his +house, where he continued during the rest of his life--all his wants +attended to, and his feeble frame so tenderly cared for that he lived +to the age of seventy-five. Sir Thomas died eight years after Dr Watts +entered his establishment, but the widow and daughters continued +unwearied in their attentions. Abney House was a mansion surrounded by +fine gardens and pleasure-grounds, where the Doctor became thoroughly +at home, and was wont to refresh his body and mind in the intervals +of study. He preached regularly to a congregation, and in the pulpit, +although his stature was low, not exceeding five feet, the excellence +of his matter, the easy flow of his language, and the propriety of his +pronunciation, rendered him very popular. In private he was exceedingly +kind to the poor and to children, giving to the former a third part +of his small income of L100 a-year, and writing for the other his +inimitable hymns. Besides these, he published a well-known treatise +on Logic, another on 'The Improvement of the Mind,' besides various +theological productions, amongst which his 'World to Come' has been +preeminently popular. In 1728, he received from Edinburgh and Aberdeen +an unsolicited diploma of Doctor of Divinity. As age advanced, he found +himself unable to discharge his ministerial duties, and offered to remit +his salary, but his congregation refused to accept his demission. On the +25th November 1748, quite worn out, but without suffering, this able and +worthy man expired. + +If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, +it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other +treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, +and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of +millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he +shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and +so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his +detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this +epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious +foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of +supplication to God for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me! +O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and +containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever +heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only +a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the +little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be +those of simple, heartfelt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder +Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these +not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple +breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts +consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius. + + +FEW HAPPY MATCHES. + +1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song, + To whom thy sweetest joys belong, + And who the happy pairs, + Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, + Find blessings twisted with their bands, + To soften all their cares. + +2 Not the wild herds of nymphs and swains + That thoughtless fly into thy chains, + As custom leads the way: + If there be bliss without design, + Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, + And be as blest as they. + +3 Not sordid souls of earthly mould + Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, + To dull embraces move: + So two rich mountains of Peru + May rush to wealthy marriage too, + And make a world of love. + +4 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires + With wanton flames; those raging fires + The purer bliss destroy: + On Aetna's top let furies wed, + And sheets of lightning dress the bed, + To improve the burning joy. + +5 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms + None of the melting passions warms + Can mingle hearts and hands: + Logs of green wood that quench the coals + Are married just like stoic souls, + With osiers for their bands. + +6 Not minds of melancholy strain, + Still silent, or that still complain, + Can the dear bondage bless: + As well may heavenly concerts spring + From two old lutes with ne'er a string, + Or none besides the bass. + +7 Nor can the soft enchantments hold + Two jarring souls of angry mould, + The rugged and the keen: + Samson's young foxes might as well + In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, + With firebrands tied between. + +8 Nor let the cruel fetters bind + A gentle to a savage mind, + For love abhors the sight: + Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, + For native rage and native fear + Rise and forbid delight. + +9 Two kindest souls alone must meet; + 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, + And feeds their mutual loves: + Bright Venus on her rolling throne + Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, + And Cupids yoke the doves. + + +THE SLUGGARD. + +1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, + 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.' + As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, + Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. + +2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;' + Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; + And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, + Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. + +3 I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, + The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher; + The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, + And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs. + +4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find + He had took better care for improving his mind; + He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, + But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. + +5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me: + That man's but a picture of what I might be; + But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, + Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.' + + +THE ROSE. + +1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! + The glory of April and May! + But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, + And they wither and die in a day. + +2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, + Above all the flowers of the field: + When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, + Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! + +3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, + Though they bloom and look gay like the rose: + But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; + Time kills them as fast as he goes. + +4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, + Since both of them wither and fade: + But gain a good name by well doing my duty; + This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead. + + +A CRADLE HYMN. + +1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, + Holy angels guard thy bed! + Heavenly blessings without number + Gently falling on thy head. + +2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, + House and home, thy friends provide; + All without thy care or payment, + All thy wants are well supplied. + +3 How much better thou'rt attended + Than the Son of God could be, + When from heaven he descended, + And became a child like thee! + +4 Soft and easy in thy cradle: + Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, + When his birthplace was a stable, + And his softest bed was hay. + +5 Blessed babe! what glorious features, + Spotless fair, divinely bright! + Must he dwell with brutal creatures? + How could angels bear the sight? + +6 Was there nothing but a manger + Cursed sinners could afford, + To receive the heavenly Stranger! + Did they thus affront their Lord? + +7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, + Though my song might sound too hard; + This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee, + { nurse that } + And her arms shall be thy guard. + +8 Yet to read the shameful story, + How the Jews abused their King, + How they served the Lord of glory, + Makes me angry while I sing. + +9 See the kinder shepherds round him, + Telling wonders from the sky! + Where they sought him, where they found him, + With his virgin mother by. + +10 See the lovely babe a-dressing; + Lovely infant, how he smiled! + When he wept, the mother's blessing + Soothed and hushed the holy child. + +11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger, + Where the horned oxen fed: + Peace, my darling, here's no danger, + Here's no ox a-near thy bed. + +12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, + Save my dear from burning flame, + Bitter groans, and endless crying, + That thy blest Redeemer came. + +13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him, + Trust and love him, all thy days; + Then go dwell for ever near him, + See his face, and sing his praise! + +14 I could give thee thousand kisses, + Hoping what I most desire; + Not a mother's fondest wishes + Can to greater joys aspire. + +[1] Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend. + + +BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY. + + The beauty of my native land + Immortal love inspires; + I burn, I burn with strong desires, + And sigh and wait the high command. + There glides the moon her shining way, + And shoots my heart through with a silver ray. + Upward my heart aspires: + A thousand lamps of golden light, + Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, + And wink and beckon with their amorous fires. + O ye fair glories of my heavenly home, + Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court, + Where all the happy minds resort! + When will my Father's chariot come? + Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round, + For ever see the mourner lie + An exile of the sky, + A prisoner of the ground? + Descend, some shining servants from on high, + Build me a hasty tomb; + A grassy turf will raise my head; + The neighbouring lilies dress my bed, + And shed a sweet perfume. + Here I put off the chains of death, + My soul too long has worn: + Friends, I forbid one groaning breath, + Or tear to wet my urn. + Raphael, behold me all undressed; + Here gently lay this flesh to rest, + Then mount and lead the path unknown. +Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own. + + +TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE. + + Great man, permit the muse to climb, + And seat her at thy feet; + Bid her attempt a thought sublime, + And consecrate her wit. + I feel, I feel the attractive force + Of thy superior soul: + My chariot flies her upward course, + The wheels divinely roll. + Now let me chide the mean affairs + And mighty toil of men: + How they grow gray in trifling cares, + Or waste the motion of the spheres + Upon delights as vain! + A puff of honour fills the mind, + And yellow dust is solid good; + + Thus, like the ass of savage kind, + We snuff the breezes of the wind, + Or steal the serpent's food. + Could all the choirs + That charm the poles + But strike one doleful sound, + 'Twould be employed to mourn our souls, + Souls that were framed of sprightly fires, + In floods of folly drowned. +Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy; +How they disclaim their heavenly birth, +Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth, +And hate to be refined from that impure alloy. + + Oft has thy genius roused us hence + With elevated song, + Bid us renounce this world of sense, + Bid us divide the immortal prize + With the seraphic throng: + 'Knowledge and love make spirits blest, + Knowledge their food, and love their rest;' + But flesh, the unmanageable beast, + Resists the pity of thine eyes, + And music of thy tongue. + Then let the worms of grovelling mind + Round the short joys of earthly kind + In restless windings roam; + Howe hath an ample orb of soul, + Where shining worlds of knowledge roll, + Where love, the centre and the pole, + Completes the heaven at home. + + + + +AMBROSE PHILIPS. + + +This gentleman--remembered now chiefly as Pope's temporary rival--was +born in 1671, in Leicestershire; studied at Cambridge; and, being +a great Whig, was appointed by the government of George I. to be +Commissioner of the Collieries, and afterwards to some lucrative +appointments in Ireland. He was also made one of the Commissioners of +the Lottery. He was elected member for Armagh in the Irish House of +Commons. He returned home in 1748, and died the next year in his +lodgings at Vauxhall. + +His works are 'The Distressed Mother,' a tragedy translated from Racine, +and greatly praised in the _Spectator_; two deservedly forgotten plays, +'The Briton,' and 'Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester;' some miscellaneous +pieces, of which an epistle to the Earl of Dorset, dated Copenhagen, has +some very vivid lines; his Pastorals, which were commended by Tickell at +the expense of those of Pope, who took his revenge by damning them, not +with 'faint' but with fulsome and ironical praise, in the _Guardian_; +and the subjoined fragment from Sappho, which is, particularly in the +first stanza, melody itself. Some conjecture that it was touched up by +Addison. + + +A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. + +1 Blessed as the immortal gods is he, + The youth who fondly sits by thee, + And hears and sees thee all the while + Softly speak, and sweetly smile. + +2 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, + And raised such tumults in my breast; + For while I gazed, in transport tossed, + My breath was gone, my voice was lost. + +3 My bosom glowed: the subtle flame + Ran quickly through my vital frame; + O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, + My ears with hollow murmurs rung. + +4 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, + My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; + My feeble pulse forgot to play, + I fainted, sunk, and died away. + + + + +WILLIAM HAMILTON. + + +William Hamilton, of Bangour, was born in Ayrshire in 1704. He was of +an ancient family, and mingled from the first in the most fashionable +circles. Ere he was twenty he wrote verses in Ramsay's 'Tea-Table +Miscellany.' In 1745, to the surprise of many, he joined the standard +of Prince Charles, and wrote a poem on the battle of Gladsmuir, or +Prestonpans. When the reverse of his party came, after many wanderings +and hair's-breadth escapes in the Highlands, he found refuge in France. +As he was a general favourite, and as much allowance was made for his +poetical temperament, a pardon was soon procured for him by his friends, +and he returned to his native country. His health, however, originally +delicate, had suffered by his Highland privations, and he was compelled +to seek the milder clime of Lyons, where he died in 1754. + +Hamilton was what is called a ladies'-man, but his attachments were not +deep, and he rather flirted than loved. A Scotch lady, who was annoyed +at his addresses, asked John Home how she could get rid of them. He, +knowing Hamilton well, advised her to appear to favour him. She acted on +the advice, and he immediately withdrew his suit. And yet his best poem +is a tale of love, and a tale, too, told with great simplicity and +pathos. We refer to his 'Braes of Yarrow,' the beauty of which we never +felt fully till we saw some time ago that lovely region, with its 'dowie +dens,'--its clear living stream,--Newark Castle, with its woods and +memories,--and the green wildernesses of silent hills which stretch on +all sides around; saw it, too, in that aspect of which Wordsworth sung +in the words-- + + 'The grace of forest charms decayed + And pastoral melancholy.' + +It is the highest praise we can bestow upon Hamilton's ballad that it +ranks in merit near Wordsworth's fine trinity of poems, 'Yarrow +Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow Revisited.' + + +THE BRAES OF YARROW. + +1 A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, + Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! + Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, + And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. + +2 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? + Where gat ye that winsome marrow? + A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen, + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +3 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, + Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! + Nor let thy heart lament to leave + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +4 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? + Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? + And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? + +5 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, + Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, + And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +6 For she has tint her lover lover dear, + Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, + And I hae slain the comeliest swain + That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +7 Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? + Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? + And why yon melancholious weeds + Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? + +8 What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? + What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! + Tis he, the comely swain I slew + Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. + +9 Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears, + His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, + And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, + And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. + +10 Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, + Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, + And weep around in waeful wise, + His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. + +11 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, + My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, + The fatal spear that pierced his breast, + His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. + +12 Did I not warn thee not to lue, + And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; + O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm + Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. + +13 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, + Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, + Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, + Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. + +14 Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, + As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, + As sweet smells on its braes the birk, + The apple frae the rock as mellow. + +15 Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love + In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; + Though he was fair and weil beloved again, + Than me he never lued thee better. + +16 Busk ye then, busk, my bonny bonny bride, + Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, + Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, + And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. + +17 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, + How can I busk a winsome marrow, + How lue him on the banks of Tweed, + That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow? + +18 O Yarrow fields! may never never rain + Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, + For there was basely slain my love, + My love, as he had not been a lover. + +19 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, + His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin', + Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned + He was in these to meet his ruin. + +20 The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed, + Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, + But e'er the to-fall of the night + He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. + +21 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day; + I sang, my voice the woods returning, + But lang ere night the spear was flown + That slew my love, and left me mourning. + +22 What can my barbarous barbarous father do, + But with his cruel rage pursue me? + My lover's blood is on thy spear, + How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? + +23 My happy sisters may be may be proud; + With cruel and ungentle scoffin', + May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes + My lover nailed in his coffin. + +24 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, + And strive with threatening words to move me; + My lover's blood is on thy spear, + How canst thou ever bid me love thee? + +25 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, + With bridal sheets my body cover, + Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, + Let in the expected husband lover. + +26 But who the expected husband husband is? + His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. + Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, + Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after? + +27 Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, + Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow! + Take aff take aff these bridal weeds, + And crown my careful head with willow. + +28 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved; + Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee, + Ye'd lie all night between my breasts! + No youth lay ever there before thee. + +29 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth; + Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, + And lie all night between my breasts; + No youth shall ever lie there after. + +30 A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, + Return and dry thy useless sorrow: + Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs, + He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. + + + + +ALLAN RAMSAY. + + +Crawford Muir, in Lanarkshire, was the birthplace of this true poet. His +father was manager of the Earl of Hopetoun's lead-mines. Allan was born +in 1686. His mother was Alice Bower, the daughter of an Englishman who +had emigrated from Derbyshire. His father died while his son was yet in +infancy; his mother married again in the same district; and young Allan +was educated at the parish school of Leadhills. At the age of fifteen, +he was sent to Edinburgh, and bound apprentice to a wig-maker there. +This trade, however, he left after finishing his term. He displayed +rather early a passion for literature, and made a little reputation by +some pieces of verse,--such as 'An Address to the Easy Club,' a convivial +society with which he was connected,--and a considerable time after by +a capital continuation of King James' 'Christis Kirk on the Green.' +In 1712, he married a writer's daughter, Christiana Ross, who was his +affectionate companion for thirty years. Soon after, he set up a +bookseller's shop opposite Niddry's Wynd, and in this capacity edited +and published two collections,--the one of songs, some of them his own, +entitled 'The Tea-Table Miscellany,' and the other of early Scottish +poems, entitled 'The Evergreen.' In 1725, he published 'The Gentle +Shepherd.' It was the expansion of one or two pastoral scenes which he +ad shewn to his delighted friends. The poem became instantly popular, +and was republished in London and Dublin, and widely circulated in the +colonies. Pope admired it. Gay, then in Scotland with his patrons the +Queensberry family, used to lounge into Ramsay's shop to get explanations +of its Scotch phrases to transmit to Twickenham, and to watch from the +window the notable characters whom Allan pointed out to him in the +Edinburgh Exchange. He now removed to a better shop, and set up for his +sign the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond, who agreed better in figure +than they had done in reality at Hawthornden. He established the first +circulating library in Scotland. His shop became a centre of intelligence, +and Ramsay sat a Triton among the minnows of that rather mediocre day +--giving his little senate laws, and inditing verses, songs, and fables. +At forty-five--an age when Sir Walter Scott had scarcely commenced his +Waverley novels, and Dryden had by far his greatest works to produce +--honest Allan imagined his vein exhausted, and ceased to write, although +he lived and enjoyed life for nearly thirty years more. At last, after +having lost money and gained obloquy, in a vain attempt to found the +first theatre in Edinburgh, and after building for himself a curious +octagon-shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which, while +he called it Ramsay Lodge, his enemies nicknamed 'The Goose-pie,' and +which, though altered, still, we believe, stands, under the name of +Ramsay Garden, the author of 'The Gentle Shepherd' breathed his last on +the 7th of January 1758. He died of a scurvy in the gums. His son became +a distinguished painter, intimate with Johnson, Burke, and the rest of +that splendid set, although now chiefly remembered from his connexion +with them and with his father. + +Allan Ramsay was a poet with very few of the usual poetical faults. He +had an eye for nature, but he had also an eye for the main chance. He +'kept his shop, and his shop kept him.' He might sing of intrigues, and +revels, and houses of indifferent reputation; but he was himself a +quiet, _canny_, domestic man, seen regularly at kirk and market. He had +a great reverence for the gentry, with whom he fancied himself, and +perhaps was, through the Dalhousie family, connected. He had a vast +opinion of himself; and between pride of blood, pride of genius, and +plenty of means, he was tolerably happy. How different from poor maudlin +Fergusson, or from that dark-browed, dark-eyed, impetuous being who was, +within a year of Ramsay's death, to appear upon the banks of Doon, +coming into the world to sing divinely, to act insanely, and prematurely +to die! + +A bard, in the highest use of the word, in which it approaches the +meaning of prophet, Ramsay was not, else he would not have ceased so +soon to sing. Whatever lyrical impulse was in him speedily wore itself +out, and left him to his milder mission as a broad reflector of Scottish +life--in its humbler, gentler, and better aspects. His 'Gentle Shepherd' +is a chapter of Scottish still-life; and, since the pastoral is +essentially the poetry of peace, the 'Gentle Shepherd' is the finest +pastoral in the world. No thunders roll among these solitary crags; no +lightnings affright these lasses among their _claes_ at Habbie's Howe; +the air is still and soft; the plaintive bleating of the sheep upon the +hills, the echoes of the city are distant and faintly heard, so that the +very sounds seem in unison and in league with silence. One thinks of +Shelley's isle 'mid the Aegean deep:-- + + 'It is an isle under Ionian skies, + Beautiful as the wreck of Paradise; + And for the harbours are not safe and good, + The land would have remained a solitude, + But for some pastoral people, native there, + Who from the Elysian clear and sunny air + Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, + Simple and generous, innocent and bold. + + * * * * * + + The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm + To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm + Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, + From whence the fields and woods ever renew + Their green and golden immortality.' + +Yet in the little circle of calm carved out by the magician of 'The +Gentle Shepherd' there is no insipidity. Lust is sternly excluded, but +love of the purest and warmest kind there breathes. The parade of +learning is not there; but strong common sense thinks, and robust and +manly eloquence declaims. Humour too is there, and many have laughed at +Mause and Baldy, whom all the frigid wit of 'Love for Love' and the +'School for Scandal' could only move to contempt or pity. A _denouement_ +of great skill is not wanting to stir the calm surface of the story by +the wind of surprise; the curtain falls over a group of innocent, +guileless, and happy hearts, and as we gaze at them we breathe the +prayer, that Scotland's peerage and Scotland's peasantry may always thus +be blended into one bond of mutual esteem, endearment, and excellence. +Well might Campbell say--'Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of +the "Gentle Shepherd" is engraven on the memory of its native country. +Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delight +and solace of the peasantry whom it describes.' + +Ramsay has very slightly touched on the religion of his countrymen. This +is to be regretted; but if he had no sympathy with that, he, at least, +disdained to counterfeit it, and its poetical aspects have since been +adequately sung by other minstrels. + + +LOCHABER NO MORE. + +1 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, +Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; +For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, +We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. +These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, +And no for the dangers attending on weir; +Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, +Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. + +2 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, +They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; +Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, +That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. +To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; +By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; +And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, +And I must deserve it before I can crave. + +3 Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; +Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? +Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, +And without thy favour I'd better not be. +I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, +And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, +I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, +And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. + + +THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. + +1 The last time I came o'er the moor, + I left my love behind me; + Ye powers! what pain do I endure, + When soft ideas mind me! + Soon as the ruddy morn displayed + The beaming day ensuing, + I met betimes my lovely maid, + In fit retreats for wooing. + +2 Beneath the cooling shade we lay, + Gazing and chastely sporting; + We kissed and promised time away, + Till night spread her black curtain. + I pitied all beneath the skies, + E'en kings, when she was nigh me; + In raptures I beheld her eyes, + Which could but ill deny me. + +3 Should I be called where cannons roar, + Where mortal steel may wound me; + Or cast upon some foreign shore, + Where dangers may surround me; + Yet hopes again to see my love, + To feast on glowing kisses, + Shall make my cares at distance move, + In prospect of such blisses. + +4 In all my soul there's not one place + To let a rival enter; + Since she excels in every grace, + In her my love shall centre. + Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, + Their waves the Alps shall cover, + On Greenland ice shall roses grow, + Before I cease to love her. + +5 The next time I go o'er the moor, + She shall a lover find me; + And that my faith is firm and pure, + Though I left her behind me: + Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain + My heart to her fair bosom; + There, while my being does remain, + My love more fresh shall blossom. + + +FROM 'THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.' + +ACT I.--SCENE II. + +PROLOGUE. + +A flowrie howm[1] between twa verdant braes, +Where lasses used to wash and spread their claes,[2] +A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground, +Its channel peebles shining smooth and round: +Here view twa barefoot beauties clean and clear; +First please your eye, then gratify your ear; +While Jenny what she wishes discommends, +And Meg with better sense true love defends. + +PEGGY AND JENNY. + +_Jenny_. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green, +This shining day will bleach our linen clean; +The water's clear, the lift[3] unclouded blue, +Will mak them like a lily wet with dew. + +_Peggy_. Gae farrer up the burn to Habbie's How, +Where a' that's sweet in spring and simmer grow: +Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,[4] +The water fa's, and maks a singin' din: +A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, +Kisses with easy whirls the bordering grass. +We'll end our washing while the morning's cool, +And when the day grows het we'll to the pool, +There wash oursells; 'tis healthfu' now in May, +And sweetly caller on sae warm a day. + +_Jenny_. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say, +Giff our twa herds come brattling down the brae, +And see us sae?--that jeering fellow, Pate, +Wad taunting say, 'Haith, lasses, ye're no blate.'[5] + +_Peggy_. We're far frae ony road, and out of sight; +The lads they're feeding far beyont the height; +But tell me now, dear Jenny, we're our lane, +What gars ye plague your wooer with disdain? +The neighbours a' tent this as well as I; +That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by. +What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa, +He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw. + +_Jenny_. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; +A herd mair sheepish yet I never kenn'd. +He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, +With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; +Whilk pensylie[6] he wears a thought a-jee,[7] +And spreads his garters diced beneath his knee. +He falds his owrelay[8] down his breast with care, +And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair; +For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, +Except, 'How d'ye?--or, 'There's a bonny day.' + +_Peggy_. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride, +Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: +But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld;-- +What like's a dorty[9] maiden when she's auld? +Like dawted wean[10] that tarrows at its meat,[11] +That for some feckless[12] whim will orp[13] and greet: +The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past, +And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, +Or scart anither's leavings at the last. +Fy, Jenny! think, and dinna sit your time. + +_Jenny_. I never thought a single life a crime. + +_Peggy_. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken +That men were made for us, and we for men. + +_Jenny_. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, +For sic a tale I never heard him tell. +He glowers[14] and sighs, and I can guess the cause: +But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws? +Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, +I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. +They're fools that slavery like, and may be free; +The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me. + +_Peggy_. Be doing your ways: for me, I have a mind +To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. + +_Jenny_. Heh! lass, how can ye lo'e that rattleskull? +A very deil, that aye maun have his will! +We soon will hear what a poor fechtin' life +You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife. + +_Peggy_. I'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear, +But rather think ilk langsome day a year, +Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed, +Where on my Patie's breast I'll lay my head. +There he may kiss as lang as kissing's good, +And what we do there's nane dare call it rude. +He's get his will; why no? 'tis good my part +To give him that, and he'll give me his heart. + +_Jenny_. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days +Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise, +And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane: +But soon as your newfangleness is gane, +He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, +And think he's tint his freedom for your sake. +Instead then of lang days of sweet delight, +Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: +And maybe, in his barlichood's,[15] ne'er stick +To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. + +_Peggy_. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want pith to move +My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love. +Patie to me is dearer than my breath, +But want of him, I dread nae other skaith.[16] +There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green +Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een. +And then he speaks with sic a taking art, +His words they thirl like music through my heart. +How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, +And jest at little fears that fright the lave. +Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, +He reads feil[17] books that teach him meikle skill; +He is--but what need I say that or this, +I'd spend a month to tell you what he is! +In a' he says or does there's sic a gate, +The rest seem coofs compared with my dear Pate; +His better sense will lang his love secure: +Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor. + +_Jenny._ Hey, 'bonnylass of Branksome!' or't be lang, +Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. +Oh, 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride! +Syne whinging gets about your ingle-side, +Yelping for this or that with fasheous[18] din: +To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin. +Ae wean fa's sick, and scads itself wi' brue,[19] +Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe: +The 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:'[20] hame grows hell, +When Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell. + +_Peggy._ Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, +When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. +Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight +To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. +Wow, Jenny! can there greater pleasure be, +Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee; +When a' they ettle at, their greatest wish, +Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss? +Can there be toil in tenting day and night +The like of them, when loves makes care delight? + +_Jenny_. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a', +Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw: +There little love or canty cheer can come +Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.[21] +Your nowt may die; the speat[22] may bear away +Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay; +The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows, +May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ewes; +A dyvour[23] buys your butter, woo', and cheese, +But, or the day of payment, breaks and flees; +With gloomin' brow the laird seeks in his rent, +'Tis no to gie, your merchant's to the bent; +His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear; +Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?-- +Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; +Troth, it's nae mows[24] to be a married wife. + +_Peggy_. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she, +Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. +Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best; +Nae mair's required--let Heaven make out the rest. +I've heard my honest uncle aften say, +That lads should a' for wives that's vertuous pray; +For the maist thrifty man could never get +A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let: +Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part +To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart. +Whate'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, +And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, +For healsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. +A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo', +Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due; +Syne a' behind's our ain.--Thus without fear, +With love and rowth[25] we through the warld will steer; +And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, +He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. + +_Jenny_. But what if some young giglet on the green, +With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, +Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, +And her kenn'd kisses, hardly worth a feg? + +_Peggy_. Nae mair of that:--dear Jenny, to be free, +There's some men constanter in love than we: +Nor is the ferly great, when Nature kind +Has blest them with solidity of mind; +They'll reason calmly, and with kindness smile, +When our short passions wad our peace beguile: +Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks[26]at hame, +'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame. +Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art +To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. +At even, when he comes weary frae the hill, +I'll have a' things made ready to his will: +In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, +A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane: +And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, +The seething-pot's be ready to take aff; +Clean hag-abag[27] I'll spread upon his board, +And serve him with the best we can afford: +Good-humour and white bigonets[28] shall be +Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. + +_Jenny_. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld, +And dozins[29] down to nane, as fowk grow auld. + +_Peggy_. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er find +The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind. +Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tie, +Than aught in love the like of us can spy. +See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, +Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride; +Nearer and nearer ilka year they've pressed, +Till wide their spreading branches are increased, +And in their mixture now are fully blessed: +This shields the other frae the eastlin' blast; +That in return defends it frae the wast. +Sic as stand single, (a state sae liked by you,) +Beneath ilk storm frae every airt[30] maun bow. + +_Jenny_. I've done,--I yield, dear lassie; I maun yield, +Your better sense has fairly won the field. +With the assistance of a little fae +Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. + +_Peggy_. Alake, poor pris'ner!--Jenny, that's no fair, +That ye'll no let the wee thing take the air: +Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well's we can, +Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man. + +_Jenny_. Anither time's as good; for see the sun +Is right far up, and we're not yet begun +To freath the graith: if canker'd Madge, our aunt, +Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant; +But when we've done, I'll tell you a' my mind; +For this seems true--nae lass can be unkind. + +[_Exeunt_. + +[1] Howm: holm. +[2] Claes: clothes. +[3] 'Lift:' sky. +[4] 'Linn:' a waterfall. +[5] 'Blate:' bashful. +[6] 'Pensylie:' sprucely. +[7] 'A-jee:' to one side. +[8] 'Owrelay:' cravat. +[9] 'Dorty:' pettish. +[10] 'Dawted wean:' spoiled child. +[11] 'Tarrows at its meat:' refuses its food. +[12] 'Feckless:' silly. +[13] 'Orp:' fret. +[14] 'Glowers:' stares. +[15] 'Barlichoods:' cross-moods. +[16] 'Skaith:' harm. +[17] 'Feil:' many. +[18] 'Fasheous:' troublesome. +[19] 'Scads itself wi' brue:' scalds itself with broth. +[20] 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:' all goes wrong. +[21] 'Toom:' empty. +[22] 'Speat:' land-flood. +[23] 'A dyvour:' bankrupt. +[24] 'Mows:' jest. +[25] 'Rowth:' plenty. +[26] 'Maiks:' mates. +[27] 'Hag-abag:' huckaback. +[28] 'White bigonets:' linen caps or coifs. +[29] 'Dozins:' dwindles. +[30] 'Airt:' quarter. + + + + +We come now to another cluster of minor poets,--such as Robert Dodsley, +who rose, partly through Pope's influence, from a footman to be a +respectable bookseller, and who, by the verses entitled 'The Parting +Kiss,'-- + + 'One fond kiss before we part, + Drop a tear and bid adieu; + Though we sever, my fond heart, + Till we meet, shall pant for you,' &c.-- + +seems to have suggested to Burns his 'Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;' +--John Brown, author of certain tragedies and other works, including the +once famous 'Estimate of the Manners and Principles of Modern Times,' of +which Cowper says-- + + 'The inestimable Estimate of Brown + Rose like a paper kite and charmed the town; + But measures planned and executed well + Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell:' + +and who went mad and died by his own hands;--John Gilbert Cooper, author +of a fine song to his wife, one stanza of which has often been quoted:-- + + 'And when with envy Time transported + Shall think to rob us of our joys; + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing in my boys;'-- + +Cuthbert Shaw, an unfortunate author of the Savage type, who wrote an +affecting monody on the death of his wife;--Thomas Scott, author of +'Lyric Poems, Devotional and Moral: London, 1773;'--Edward Thompson, a +native of Hull, and author of some tolerable sea-songs;--Henry Headley, +a young man of uncommon talents, a pupil of Dr Parr in Norwich, who, +when only twenty-one, published 'Select Beauties of the Ancient English +Poets,' accompanied by critical remarks discovering rare ripeness of mind +for his years, who wrote poetry too, but was seized with consumption, and +died at twenty-two;--Nathaniel Cotton, the physician, under whose care, +at St Alban's, Cowper for a time was;--William Hayward Roberts, author of +'Judah Restored,' a poem of much ambition and considerable merit;--John +Bampfylde, who went mad, and died in that state, after having published, +when young, some sweet sonnets, of which the following is one:-- + + 'Cold is the senseless heart that never strove + With the mild tumult of a real flame; + Rugged the breast that music cannot tame, + Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love + The pathless vale, the long-forsaken grove, + The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, + With ivy mantled o'er. For empty fame + Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove + In search of plunder far to western clime. + Give me to waste the hours in amorous play + With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme, + Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, + And all that prodigality of charms, + Formed to enslave my heart, and grace my lay;'-- + +Lord Chesterfield, who wrote some lines on 'Beau Nash's Picture at full +length, between the Busts of Newton and Pope at Bath,' of which this is +the last stanza-- + + 'The picture placed the busts between, + Adds to the thought much strength; + Wisdom and Wit are little seen, + But Folly's at full length;'-- + +Thomas Penrose, who is more memorable as a warrior than as a poet, +having fought against Buenos Ayres, as well as having written some +elegant war-verses;--Edward Moore, a contributor to the _World_;--Sir +John Henry Moore, a youth of promise, who died in his twenty-fifth year, +leaving behind him such songs as the following:-- + + 'Cease to blame my melancholy, + Though with sighs and folded arms + I muse with silence on her charms; + Censure not--I know 'tis folly; + Yet these mournful thoughts possessing, + Such delights I find in grief + That, could heaven afford relief, + My fond heart would scorn the blessing;'-- + +the Rev. Richard Jago, a friend of Shenstone's, and author of a pleasing +fable entitled 'Labour and Genius;'--Henry Brooke, better known for a +novel, once much in vogue, called 'The Fool of Quality,' than for his +elaborate poem entitled 'Universal Beauty,' which formed a prototype of +Darwin's 'Botanic Garden,' but did not enjoy that poem's fame;--George +Alexander Stevens, a comic actor, lecturer on 'heads,' and writer of +some poems, novels, and Bacchanalian songs:--and, in fine, Mrs Greville, +whose 'Prayer for Indifference' displays considerable genius. We quote +some stanzas:-- + + 'I ask no kind return in love, + No tempting charm to please; + Far from the heart such gifts remove + That sighs for peace and ease. + + 'Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know + That, like the needle true, + Turns at the touch of joy and woe, + But, turning, trembles too. + + 'Far as distress the soul can wound, + 'Tis pain in each degree; + 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound-- + Beyond, is agony. + + 'Then take this treacherous sense of mine, + Which dooms me still to smart, + Which pleasure can to pain refine, + To pain new pangs impart. + + 'Oh, haste to shed the sovereign balm, + My shattered nerves new string, + And for my guest, serenely calm, + The nymph Indifference bring.' + + + + +ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE. + + +This writer was born at Burton-on-Trent, in 1705. He was educated at +Westminster and Cambridge, and studied law at Lincoln's Inn. He was a +man of fortune, and sat in two parliaments for Wenlock, in Shropshire. +He died in 1760. His imitations of authors are clever and amusing, and +seem to have got their hint from 'The Splendid Shilling,' and to have +given it to the 'Rejected Addresses.' + + +IMITATION OF THOMSON. + +----Prorumpit ad aethera nubem +Turbine, fumantem piceo. VIRG. + + +O thou, matured by glad Hesperian suns, +Tobacco, fountain pure of limpid truth, +That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought +Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care, +And at each puff imagination burns: +Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires +Touch the mysterious lip that chants thy praise +In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown. +Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines +Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue formed, +And glazed magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill. +From Paetotheke with pungent powers perfumed, +Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbibed +Each parent ray; then rudely rammed, illume +With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet, +Marked with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds +Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around, +And many-mining fires; I all the while, +Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm. +But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join, +In genial strife and orthodoxal ale, +Stream life and joy into the Muse's bowl. +Oh, be thou still my great inspirer, thou +My Muse; oh, fan me with thy zephyrs boon, +While I, in clouded tabernacle shrined, +Burst forth all oracle and mystic song. + + +IMITATION OF POPE. + + --Solis ad ortus +Vanescit fumus. LUCAN. + +Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense +To Templars modesty, to parsons sense: +So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine, +Drank inspiration from the steam divine. +Poison that cures, a vapour that affords +Content, more solid than the smile of lords: +Rest to the weary, to the hungry food, +The last kind refuge of the wise and good. +Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale +Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail. +By thee protected, and thy sister, beer, +Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. +Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid, +While supperless he plies the piddling trade. +What though to love and soft delights a foe, +By ladies hated, hated by the beau, +Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown, +Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. +Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, +And let me taste thee unexcised by kings. + + +IMITATION OF SWIFT. + +Ex fumo dare lucem.--HOR. + +Boy! bring an ounce of Freeman's best, +And bid the vicar be my guest: +Let all be placed in manner due, +A pot wherein to spit or spew, +And London Journal, and Free-Briton, +Of use to light a pipe or * * + + * * * * * + +This village, unmolested yet +By troopers, shall be my retreat: +Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray; +Who cannot write or vote for * * * +Far from the vermin of the town, +Here let me rather live, my own, +Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland +In sweet oblivion lulls the land; +Of all which at Vienna passes, +As ignorant as * * Brass is: +And scorning rascals to caress, +Extol the days of good Queen Bess, +When first tobacco blessed our isle, +Then think of other queens--and smile. + +Come, jovial pipe, and bring along +Midnight revelry and song; +The merry catch, the madrigal, +That echoes sweet in City Hall; +The parson's pun, the smutty tale +Of country justice o'er his ale. +I ask not what the French are doing, +Or Spain, to compass Britain's ruin: + Britons, if undone, can go + Where tobacco loves to grow. + + + + +WILLIAM OLDYS. + + +Oldys was born in 1696, and died in 1761. He was a very diligent +collector of antiquarian materials, and the author of a Life of Raleigh. +He was intimate with Captain Grose, Burns' friend, who used to rally him +on his inordinate thirst for ale, although, if we believe Burns, it was +paralleled by Grose's liking for port. The following Anacreontic is +characteristic:-- + + +SONG, OCCASIONED BY A FLY DRINKING OUT OF A CUP OF ALE. + +Busy, curious, thirsty fly, +Drink with me, and drink as I; +Freely welcome to my cup, +Couldst thou sip and sip it up. +Make the most of life you may-- +Life is short, and wears away. + +Both alike are, mine and thine, +Hastening quick to their decline: +Thine's a summer, mine no more, +Though repeated to threescore; +Threescore summers, when they're gone, +Will appear as short as one. + + + + +ROBERT LLOYD. + + +Robert Lloyd was born in London in 1733. He was the son of one of the +under-masters of Westminster School. He went to Cambridge, where he +became distinguished for his talents and notorious for his dissipation. +He became an usher under his father, but soon tired of the drudgery, and +commenced professional author. He published a poem called 'The Actor,' +which attracted attention, and was the precursor of 'The Rosciad.' He +wrote for periodicals, produced some theatrical pieces of no great +merit, and edited the _St James' Magazine_. This failed, and Lloyd, +involved in pecuniary distresses, was cast into the Fleet. Here he was +deserted by all his boon companions except Churchill, to whose sister he +was attached, and who allowed him a guinea a-week and a servant, besides +promoting a subscription for his benefit. When the news of Churchill's +death arrived, Lloyd was seated at dinner; he became instantly sick, +cried out 'Poor Charles! I shall follow him soon,' and died in a few +weeks. Churchill's sister, a woman of excellent abilities, waited on +Lloyd during his illness, and died soon after him of a broken heart. +This was in 1764. + +Lloyd was a minor Churchill. He had not his brawny force, but he had +more than his liveliness of wit, and was a much better-conditioned man, +and more temperate in his satire. Cowper knew, loved, admired, and in +some of his verses imitated, Robert Lloyd. + + +THE MISERIES OF A POET'S LIFE. + +The harlot Muse, so passing gay, +Bewitches only to betray. +Though for a while with easy air +She smooths the rugged brow of care, +And laps the mind in flowery dreams, +With Fancy's transitory gleams; +Fond of the nothings she bestows, +We wake at last to real woes. +Through every age, in every place, +Consider well the poet's case; +By turns protected and caressed, +Defamed, dependent, and distressed. +The joke of wits, the bane of slaves, +The curse of fools, the butt of knaves; +Too proud to stoop for servile ends, +To lacquey rogues or flatter friends; +With prodigality to give, +Too careless of the means to live; +The bubble fame intent to gain, +And yet too lazy to maintain; +He quits the world he never prized, +Pitied by few, by more despised, +And, lost to friends, oppressed by foes, +Sinks to the nothing whence he rose. + +O glorious trade! for wit's a trade, +Where men are ruined more than made! +Let crazy Lee, neglected Gay, +The shabby Otway, Dryden gray, +Those tuneful servants of the Nine, +(Not that I blend their names with mine,) +Repeat their lives, their works, their fame. +And teach the world some useful shame. + + + + +HENRY CAREY. + + +Of Carey, the author of the popular song, 'Sally in our Alley,' we know +only that he was a professional musician, composing the air as well as +the words of 'Sally,' and that in 1763 he died by his own hands. + + +SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. + +1 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. + +2 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. + +3 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 belly full, + I'll bear it all for Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +4 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 dressed all in my best, + To walk abroad with Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +5 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. + +6 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 pounds, + I'd give it all to Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +7 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. + + + + +DAVID MALLETT. + + +David Mallett was the son of a small innkeeper in Crieff, Perthshire, +where he was born in the year 1700. Crieff, as many of our readers know, +is situated on the western side of a hill, and commands a most varied and +beautiful prospect, including Drummond Castle, with its solemn shadowy +woods, and the Ochils, on the south,--Ochtertyre, one of the loveliest +spots in Scotland, and the gorge of Glenturrett, on the north,--and the +bold dark hills which surround the romantic village of Comrie, on the +west. Crieff is now a place of considerable note, and forms a centre +of summer attraction to multitudes; but at the commencement of the +eighteenth century it must have been a miserable hamlet. _Malloch_ was +originally the name of the poet, and the name is still common in that +part of Perthshire. David attended the college of Aberdeen, and became, +afterwards, an unsalaried tutor in the family of Mr Home of Dreghorn, +near Edinburgh. We find him next in the Duke of Montrose's family, with +a salary of L30 per annum. In 1723, he accompanied his pupils to London, +and changed his name to Mallett, as more euphonious. Next year, he +produced his pretty ballad of 'William and Margaret,' and published it +in Aaron Hill's 'Plain Dealer.' This served as an introduction to the +literary society of the metropolis, including such names as Young and +Pope. In 1733, he disgraced himself by a satire on the greatest man then +living, the venerable Richard Bentley. Mallett was one of those mean +creatures who always worship a rising, and turn their backs on a setting +sun. By his very considerable talents, his management, and his address, +he soon rose in the world. He was appointed under-secretary to the Prince +of Wales, with a salary of L200 a-year. In conjunction with Thomson, to +whom he was really kind, he wrote in 1740, 'The Masque of Alfred,' in +honour of the birthday of the Princess Augusta. His first wife, of whom +nothing is recorded, having died, he married the daughter of Lord +Carlisle's steward, who brought him a fortune of L10,000. Both she and +Mallett himself gave themselves out as Deists. This was partly owing to +his intimacy with Bolingbroke, to gratify whom, he heaped abuse upon Pope +in a preface to 'The Patriot-King,' and was rewarded by Bolingbroke +leaving him the whole of his works and MSS. These he afterwards +published, and exposed himself to the vengeful sarcasm of Johnson, who +said that Bolingbroke was a scoundrel and a coward;--a scoundrel, to +charge a blunderbuss against Christianity; and a coward, because he durst +not fire it himself, but left a shilling to a beggarly Scotsman to draw +the trigger after his death. Mallett ranked himself among the +calumniators and, as it proved, murderers of Admiral Byng. He wrote a +Life of Lord Bacon, in which, it was said, he forgot that Bacon was a +philosopher, and would probably, when he came to write the Life of +Marlborough, forget that he was a general. This Life of Bacon is now +utterly forgotten. We happened to read it in our early days, and thought +it a very contemptible performance. The Duchess of Marlborough left L1000 +in her will between Glover and Mallett to write a Life of her husband. +Glover threw up his share of the work, and Mallett engaged to perform the +whole, to which, besides, he was stimulated by a pension from the second +Duke of Marlborough. He got the money, but when he died it was found that +he had not written a line of the work. In his latter days he held the +lucrative office of Keeper of the Book of Entries for the port of London. +He died on the 2lst April 1765. + +Mallett is, on the whole, no credit to Scotland. He was a bad, mean, +insincere, and unprincipled man, whose success was procured by despicable +and dastardly arts. He had doubtless some genius, and his 'Birks of +Invermay,' and 'William and Margaret,' shall preserve his name after his +clumsy imitation of Thomson, called 'The Excursion,' and his long, +rambling 'Amyntor and Theodora;' have been forgotten. + + +WILLIAM AND MARGARET. + +1 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour + When night and morning meet; + In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, + And stood at William's feet. + +2 Her face was like an April-morn, + Clad in a wintry cloud; + And clay-cold was her lily hand, + That held her sable shroud. + +3 So shall the fairest face appear, + When youth and years are flown: + Such is the robe that kings must wear, + When death has reft their crown. + +4 Her bloom was like the springing flower, + That sips the silver dew; + The rose was budded in her cheek, + Just opening to the view. + +5 But love had, like the canker-worm, + Consumed her early prime: + The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; + She died before her time. + +6 'Awake!' she cried, 'thy true love calls, + Come from her midnight-grave; + Now let thy pity hear the maid, + Thy love refused to save. + +7 'This is the dumb and dreary hour, + When injured ghosts complain; + When yawning graves give up their dead, + To haunt the faithless swain. + +8 'Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, + Thy pledge and broken oath! + And give me back my maiden-vow, + And give me back my troth. + +9 'Why did you promise love to me, + And not that promise keep? + Why did you swear my eyes were bright, + Yet leave those eyes to weep? + +10 'How could you say my face was fair, + And yet that face forsake? + How could you win my virgin-heart, + Yet leave that heart to break? + +11 'Why did you say my lip was sweet, + And made the scarlet pale? + And why did I, young witless maid! + Believe the flattering tale? + +12 'That face, alas! no more is fair, + Those lips no longer red: + Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, + And every charm is fled. + +13 'The hungry worm my sister is; + This winding-sheet I wear: + And cold and weary lasts our night, + Till that last morn appear. + +14 'But, hark! the cock has warned me hence; + A long and late adieu! + Come, see, false man, how low she lies, + Who died for love of you.' + +15 The lark sung loud; the morning smiled, + With beams of rosy red: + Pale William quaked in every limb, + And raving left his bed. + +16 He hied him to the fatal place + Where Margaret's body lay; + And stretched him on the green-grass turf, + That wrapped her breathless clay. + +17 And thrice he called on Margaret's name. + And thrice he wept full sore; + Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, + And word spake never more! + + + +THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. + +The smiling morn, the breathing spring, +Invite the tunefu' birds to sing; +And, while they warble from the spray, +Love melts the universal lay. +Let us, Amanda, timely wise, +Like them, improve the hour that flies; +And in soft raptures waste the day, +Among the birks of Invermay. + +For soon the winter of the year, +And age, life's winter, will appear; +At this thy living bloom will fade, +As that will strip the verdant shade. +Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, +The feathered songsters are no more; +And when they drop and we decay, +Adieu the birks of Invermay! + + + + +JAMES MERRICK. + + +Merrick was a clergyman, as well as a writer of verse. He was born in +1720, and became a Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, where Lord North +was one of his pupils. He took orders, but owing to incessant pains in +the head, could not perform duty. He died in 1769. His works are a +translation of Tryphiodorus, done at twenty, a version of the Psalms, a +collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous pieces, one good specimen +of which we subjoin. + + +THE CHAMELEON. + +Oft has it been my lot to mark +A proud, conceited, talking spark, +With eyes that hardly served at most +To guard their master 'gainst a post; +Yet round the world the blade has been, +To see whatever could be seen. +Returning from his finished tour, +Grown ten times perter than before; +Whatever word you chance to drop, +The travelled fool your mouth will stop: +'Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-- +I've seen--and sure I ought to know.'-- +So begs you'd pay a due submission, +And acquiesce in his decision. + +Two travellers of such a cast, +As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, +And on their way, in friendly chat, +Now talked of this, and then of that; +Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter, +Of the chameleon's form and nature. +'A stranger animal,' cries one, +'Sure never lived beneath the sun: +A lizard's body lean and long, +A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, +Its foot with triple claw disjoined; +And what a length of tail behind! +How slow its pace! and then its hue-- +Who ever saw so fine a blue?' + +'Hold there,' the other quick replies, +''Tis green, I saw it with these eyes, +As late with open mouth it lay, +And warmed it in the sunny ray; +Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, +And saw it eat the air for food.' + +'I've seen it, sir, as well as you, +And must again affirm it blue; +At leisure I the beast surveyed +Extended in the cooling shade.' + +''Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye.' +'Green!' cries the other in a fury: +'Why, sir, d' ye think I've lost my eyes?' +''Twere no great loss,' the friend replies; +'For if they always serve you thus, +You'll find them but of little use.' + +So high at last the contest rose, +From words they almost came to blows: +When luckily came by a third; +To him the question they referred: +And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, +Whether the thing was green or blue. + +'Sirs,' cries the umpire, 'cease your pother; +The creature's neither one nor t' other. +I caught the animal last night, +And viewed it o'er by candle-light: +I marked it well, 'twas black as jet-- +You stare--but sirs, I've got it yet, +And can produce it.'--'Pray, sir, do; +I'll lay my life the thing is blue.' +'And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen +The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.' + +'Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,' +Replies the man, 'I'll turn him out: +And when before your eyes I've set him, +If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.' + +He said; and full before their sight +Produced the beast, and lo!--'twas white. +Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise-- +'My children,' the chameleon cries, +(Then first the creature found a tongue,) +'You all are right, and all are wrong: +When next you talk of what you view, +Think others see as well as you: +Nor wonder if you find that none +Prefers your eyesight to his own.' + + + + +DR JAMES GRAINGER. + + +This writer possessed some true imagination, although his claim to +immortality lies in the narrow compass of one poem--his 'Ode to +Solitude.' Little is known of his personal history. He was born in 1721 +--belonging to a gentleman's family in Cumberland. He studied medicine, +and was for some time a surgeon connected with the army. When the peace +came, he established himself in London as a medical practitioner. In +1755, he published his 'Solitude,' which found many admirers, including +Dr Johnson, who pronounced its opening lines 'very noble.' He afterwards +indited several other pieces, wrote a translation of Tibullus, and +became one of the critical staff of the _Monthly Review_. He was unable, +however, through all these labours to secure a competence, and, in 1759, +he sought the West Indies. In St Christopher's he commenced practising +as a physician, and married the Governor's daughter, who brought him a +fortune. He wrote a poem entitled 'The Sugar-cane.' This was sent over +to London in MS., and was read at Sir Joshua Reynold's table to a +literary coterie, who, according to Boswell, all burst out into a laugh +when, after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus-- + + 'Now, Muse, let's sing of _rats_! + +And what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company, slily +overlooking the reader, found that the word had been originally 'mice,' +but had been changed to rats as more dignified. + +Boswell goes on to record Johnson's opinion of Grainger. He said, 'He +was an agreeable man, a man that would do any good that was in his +power.' His translation of Tibullus was very well done, but 'The Sugar- +cane, a Poem,' did not please him. 'What could he make of a Sugar-cane? +one might as well write "The Parsley-bed, a Poem," or "The Cabbage +Garden, a Poem."' Boswell--'You must then _pickle_ your cabbage with the +_sal Atticum_.' Johnson--'One could say a great deal about cabbage. The +poem might begin with the advantages of civilised society over a rude +state, exemplified by the Scotch, who had no cabbages till Oliver +Cromwell's soldiers introduced them, and one might thus shew how arts +are propagated by conquest, as they were by the Roman arms.' Cabbage, by +the way, in a metaphorical sense, might furnish a very good subject for +a literary _satire_. + +Grainger died of the fever of the country in 1767. Bishop Percy +corroborates Johnson's character of him as a man. He says, 'He was not +only a man of genius and learning, but had many excellent virtues, being +one of the most generous, friendly, benevolent men I ever knew.' + +Grainger in some points reminds us of Dyer. Dyer staked his reputation +on 'The Fleece;' but it is his lesser poem, 'Grongar Hill,' which +preserves his name; that fine effusion has survived the laboured work. +And so Grainger's 'Solitude' has supplanted the stately 'Sugar-cane.' +The scenery of the West Indies had to wait till its real poet appeared +in the author of 'Paul and Virginia.' Grainger was hardly able to cope +with the strange and gorgeous contrasts it presents of cliffs and crags, +like those of Iceland, with vegetation rich as that of the fairest parts +of India, and of splendid sunshine, with tempests of such tremendous +fury that, but for their brief continuance, no property could be secure, +and no life could be safe. + +The commencement of the 'Ode to Solitude' is fine, but the closing part +becomes tedious. In the middle of the poem there is a tumult of +personifications, some of them felicitous and others forced. + + 'Sage Reflection, bent with years,' +may pass, but + 'Conscious Virtue, void of fears,' +is poor. + 'Halcyon Peace on moss reclined,' +is a picture; + 'Retrospect that scans the mind,' +is nothing; + 'Health that snuffs the morning air,' +is a living image; but what sense is there in + 'Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare?' +and how poor his + 'Laughter in loud peals that breaks,' +to Milton's + 'Laughter, holding both his sides!' +The paragraph, however, commencing + 'With you roses brighter bloom,' +and closing with + 'The bournless macrocosm's thine,' +is very spirited, and, along with the opening lines, proves +Grainger a poet. + + +ODE TO SOLITUDE. + +O solitude, romantic maid! +Whether by nodding towers you tread, +Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, +Or hover o'er the yawning tomb, +Or climb the Andes' clifted side, +Or by the Nile's coy source abide, +Or starting from your half-year's sleep +From Hecla view the thawing deep, +Or, at the purple dawn of day, +Tadmor's marble wastes survey, +You, recluse, again I woo, +And again your steps pursue. + +Plumed Conceit himself surveying, +Folly with her shadow playing, +Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, +Bloated empiric, puffed Pretence, +Noise that through a trumpet speaks, +Laughter in loud peals that breaks, +Intrusion with a fopling's face, +Ignorant of time and place, +Sparks of fire Dissension blowing, +Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing, +Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer, +Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer, +Ambition's buskins, steeped in blood, +Fly thy presence, Solitude. + +Sage Reflection, bent with years, +Conscious Virtue, void of fears, +Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy, +Meditation's piercing eye, +Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, +Retrospect that scans the mind, +Rapt, earth-gazing Reverie, +Blushing, artless Modesty, +Health that snuffs the morning air, +Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare, +Inspiration, Nature's child, +Seek the solitary wild. + +You, with the tragic muse retired, +The wise Euripides inspired, +You taught the sadly-pleasing air +That Athens saved from ruins bare. +You gave the Cean's tears to flow, +And unlocked the springs of woe; +You penned what exiled Naso thought, +And poured the melancholy note. +With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you strayed, +When death snatched his long-loved maid; +You taught the rocks her loss to mourn, +Ye strewed with flowers her virgin urn. +And late in Hagley you were seen, +With bloodshot eyes, and sombre mien, +Hymen his yellow vestment tore, +And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore. +But chief your own the solemn lay +That wept Narcissa young and gay, +Darkness clapped her sable wing, +While you touched the mournful string, +Anguish left the pathless wild, +Grim-faced Melancholy smiled, +Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn, +The starry host put back the dawn, +Aside their harps even seraphs flung +To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young! +When all nature's hushed asleep, +Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep, +Soft you leave your caverned den, +And wander o'er the works of men; +But when Phosphor brings the dawn +By her dappled coursers drawn, +Again you to the wild retreat +And the early huntsman meet, +Where as you pensive pace along, +You catch the distant shepherd's song, +Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, +Or the rising primrose view. +Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings, +You mount, and nature with you sings. +But when mid-day fervours glow, +To upland airy shades you go, +Where never sunburnt woodman came, +Nor sportsman chased the timid game; +And there beneath an oak reclined, +With drowsy waterfalls behind, +You sink to rest. +Till the tuneful bird of night +From the neighbouring poplar's height +Wake you with her solemn strain, +And teach pleased Echo to complain. + +With you roses brighter bloom, +Sweeter every sweet perfume, +Purer every fountain flows, +Stronger every wilding grows. +Let those toil for gold who please, +Or for fame renounce their ease. +What is fame? an empty bubble. +Gold? a transient shining trouble. +Let them for their country bleed, +What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed? +Man's not worth a moment's pain, +Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. +Then let me, sequestered fair, +To your sibyl grot repair; +On yon hanging cliff it stands, +Scooped by nature's salvage hands, +Bosomed in the gloomy shade +Of cypress not with age decayed. +Where the owl still-hooting sits, +Where the bat incessant flits, +There in loftier strains I'll sing +Whence the changing seasons spring, +Tell how storms deform the skies, +Whence the waves subside and rise, +Trace the comet's blazing tail, +Weigh the planets in a scale; +Bend, great God, before thy shrine, +The bournless macrocosm's thine. + * * * * * + + + + +MICHAEL BRUCE. + + +We refer our readers to Dr Mackelvie's well-known and very able Life of +poor Bruce, for his full story, and for the evidence on which his claim +to the 'Cuckoo' is rested. Apart from external evidence, we think that +poem more characteristic of Bruce's genius than of Logan's, and have +therefore ranked it under Bruce's name. + +Bruce was born on the 27th of March 1746, at Kinnesswood, parish of +Portmoak, county of Kinross. His father was a weaver, and Michael was +the fifth of a family of eight children. + +Poor as his parents were, they were intelligent, religious, and most +conscientious in the discharge of their duties to their children. In the +summer months Michael was sent out to herd cattle; and one loves to +imagine the young poet wrapt in his plaid, under a whin-bush, while the +storm was blowing,--or gazing at the rainbow from the summit of a +fence,--or admiring at Lochleven and its old ruined castle,--or weaving +around the form of some little maiden, herding in a neighbouring field +--some 'Jeanie Morrison'--one of those webs of romantic early love which +are beautiful and evanescent as the gossamer, but how exquisitely +relished while they last! Say not, with one of his biographers, that his +'education was retarded by this employment;' he was receiving in these +solitary fields a kind of education which no school and no college could +furnish; nay, who knows but, as he saw the cuckoo winging her way from +one deep woodland recess to another, or heard her dull, divine monotone +coming from the heart of the forest, the germ of that exquisite strain, +'least in the kingdom' of the heaven of poetry in size, but immortal in +its smallness, was sown in his mind? In winter he went to school, and +profited there so much, that at fifteen (not a very early period, after +all, for a Scotch student beginning his curriculum--in our day twelve +was not an uncommon age) he was judged fit for going to college. And +just in time a windfall came across the path of our poet, the mention of +which may make many of our readers smile. This was a legacy which was +left his father by a relative, amounting to 200 merks, or L11, 2s.6d. +With this munificent sum in his pocket, Bruce was sent to study at +Edinburgh College. Here he became distinguished by his attainments, and +particularly his taste and poetic powers; and here, too, he became +acquainted with John Logan, afterwards his biographer. After spending +three sessions at college, supported by his parents and other friends, +he returned to the country, and taught a school at Gairney Bridge (a +place famous for the first meeting of the first presbytery of the +Seceders) for L11 of salary. Thence he removed to Foresthill, near +Alloa, where a damp school-room, poverty, and hard labour in teaching, +united to injure his health and depress his spirits. At Foresthill he +wrote his poem 'Lochleven,' which discovers no small descriptive power. +Consumption began now to make its appearance, and he returned to the +cottage of his parents, where he wrote his 'Elegy on Spring,' in which +he refers with dignified pathos to his approaching dissolution. On the +5th of July 1767, this remarkable youth died, aged twenty-one years and +three months. His Bible was found on his pillow, marked at the words, +Jer. xxii. 10, 'Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but weep +sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his +native country.' + +Lord Craig wrote some time afterwards an affecting paper in the _Mirror_, +recording the fate, and commending the genius of Bruce. John Logan, in +1770, published his poems. In the year 1807, the kind-hearted Principal +Baird published an edition of the poems for the behoof of Bruce's mother, +then an aged widow. And in 1837, Dr William Mackelvie, Balgedie, Kinross- +shire, published what may be considered the standard Life of this poet, +along with a complete edition of his Works. + +It is impossible from so small a segment of a circle as Bruce's life +describes, to infer with any certainty the whole. So far as we can judge +from the fragments left, his power was rather in the beautiful, than in +the sublime or in the strong. The lines on Spring, from the words 'Now +spring returns' to the close, form a continuous stream of pensive +loveliness. How sweetly he sings in the shadow of death! Nor let us too +severely blame his allusion to the old Pagan mythology, in the words-- + + 'I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe, + I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore;' + +remembering that he was still a mere student, and not recovered from +that fine intoxication in which classical literature drenches a young +imaginative soul, and that at last we find him 'resting in the hopes of +an eternal day.' 'Lochleven' is the spent echo of the 'Seasons,' although, +as we said before, its descriptions possess considerable merit. His 'Last +Day' is more ambitious than successful. If we grant the 'Cuckoo' to be +his, as we are inclined decidedly to do, it is a sure title to fame, +being one of the sweetest little poems in any language. Shakspeare would +have been proud of the verse-- + + 'Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year.' + +Bruce has not, however, it has always appeared to us, caught so well as +Wordsworth the differentia of the cuckoo,--its invisible, shadowy, +shifting, supernatural character--heard, but seldom seen--its note so +limited and almost unearthly:-- + + 'O Cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, + Or but a _wandering voice_?' + +How fine this conception of a separated voice--'The viewless spirit of a +_lonely_ sound,' plaining in the woods as if seeking for some incarnation +it cannot find, and saddening the spring groves by a note so contradictory +to the genius of the season. In reference to the note of the cuckoo we +find the following remarks among the fragments from the commonplace-book +of Dr Thomas Brown, printed by Dr Welsh:--'The name of the cuckoo has +generally been considered as a very pure instance of imitative harmony. +But in giving that name, we have most unjustly defrauded the poor bird of +a portion of its very small variety of sound. The second syllable is not +a mere echo of the first; it is the sound reversed, like the reading of +a sotadic line; and to preserve the strictness of the imitation we should +give it the name of Ook-koo.' _This_ is the prose of the cuckoo after its +poetry. + + +TO THE CUCKOO. + +1 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! + The messenger of spring! + Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, + And woods thy welcome sing. + +2 Soon as the daisy decks the green, + Thy certain voice we hear; + Hast thou a star to guide thy path, + Or mark the rolling year? + +3 Delightful visitant! with thee + I hail the time of flowers, + And hear the sound of music sweet, + From birds among the bowers. + +4 The school-boy, wandering through the wood + To pull the primrose gay, + Starts thy curious voice to hear, + And imitates the lay. + +5 What time the pea puts on the bloom, + Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, + An annual guest in other lands, + Another spring to hail. + +6 Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year. + +7 Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! + We'd make with joyful wing + Our annual visit o'er the globe, + Attendants on the spring. + + +ELEGY, WRITTEN IN SPRING. + +1 'Tis past: the North has spent his rage; + Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day; + The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, + And warm o'er ether western breezes play. + +2 Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, + From southern climes, beneath another sky, + The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: + Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. + +3 Far to the North grim Winter draws his train, + To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; + Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign, + Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar. + +4 Loosed from the bonds of frost, the verdant ground + Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, + Again puts forth her flowers, and all around, + Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. + +5 Behold! the trees new-deck their withered boughs; + Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane, + The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose; + The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. + +6 The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, + Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun: + The birds on ground, or on the branches green, + Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. + +7 Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, + From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; + And cheerful singing, up the air she steers; + Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. + +8 On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms + That fill the air with fragrance all around, + The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, + While o'er the wild his broken notes resound. + +9 While the sun journeys down the western sky, + Along the green sward, marked with Roman mound, + Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye, + The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. + +10 Now is the time for those who wisdom love, + Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road, + Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove, + And follow Nature up to Nature's God. + +11 Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws; + Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; + Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty cause, + And left the wondering multitude behind. + +12 Thus Ashley gathered academic bays; + Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, + Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, + And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. + +13 Thus have I walked along the dewy lawn; + My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn: + Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, + And gathered health from all the gales of morn. + +14 And even when Winter chilled the aged year, + I wandered lonely o'er the hoary plain: + Though frosty Boreas warned me to forbear, + Boreas, with all his tempests, warned in vain. + +15 Then sleep my nights, and quiet blessed my days; + I feared no loss, my mind was all my store; + No anxious wishes e'er disturbed my ease; + Heaven gave content and health--I asked no more. + +16 Now Spring returns: but not to me returns + The vernal joy my better years have known; + Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, + And all the joys of life with health are flown. + +17 Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, + Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, + Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, + And count the silent moments as they pass: + +18 The winged moments, whose unstaying speed + No art can stop, or in their course arrest; + Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, + And lay me down at peace with them at rest. + +19 Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate; + And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true. + Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate, + And bid the realms of light and life adieu. + +20 I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; + I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, + The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, + Which mortals visit, and return no more. + +21 Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! + Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, + Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, + And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. + +22 There let me wander at the shut of eve, + When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes: + The world and all its busy follies leave, + And talk of wisdom where my Daphnis lies. + +23 There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, + When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes; + Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, + Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. + + + + +CHRISTOPHER SMART. + + +We hear of 'Single-speech Hamilton.' We have now to say something of +'Single-poem Smart,' the author of one of the grandest bursts of +devotional and poetical feeling in the English language--the 'Song to +David.' This poor unfortunate was born at Shipbourne, Kent, in 1722. +His father was steward to Lord Barnard, who, after his death, continued +his patronage to the son, who was then eleven years of age. The Duchess +of Cleveland, through Lord Barnard's influence, bestowed on Christopher +an allowance of L40 a-year. With this he went to Pembroke Hall, Cam- +bridge, in 1739; was in 1745 elected a Fellow of Pembroke, and in 1747 +took his degree of M.A. At college, Smart began to display that reckless +dissipation which led afterwards to such melancholy consequences. He +studied hard, however, at intervals; wrote poetry both in Latin and +English; produced a comedy called a 'Trip to Cambridge; or, The Grateful +Fair,' which was acted in the hall of Pembroke College; and, in spite of +his vices and follies, was popular on account of his agreeable manners +and amiable dispositions. Having become acquainted with Newberry, +the benevolent, red-nosed bookseller commemorated in 'The Vicar of +Wakefield,'--for whom he wrote some trifles,--he married his step- +daughter, Miss Carnan, in the year 1753. He now removed to London, and +became an author to trade. He wrote a clever satire, entitled 'The +Hilliad,' against Sir John Hill, who had attacked him in an underhand +manner. He translated the fables of Phaedrus into verse,--Horace into +prose ('Smart's Horace' used to be a great favourite, under the rose, +with schoolboys); made an indifferent version of the Psalms and +Paraphrases, and a good one, at a former period, of Pope's 'Ode on St +Cecilia's Day,' with which that poet professed himself highly pleased. +He was employed on a monthly publication called _The Universal Visitor_. +We find Johnson giving the following account of this matter in Boswell's +Life:--'Old Gardner, the bookseller, employed Rolt and Smart to write a +monthly miscellany called _The Universal Visitor_.' There was a formal +written contract. They were bound to write nothing else,--they were to +have, I think, a third of the profits of the sixpenny pamphlet, and the +contract was for ninety-nine years. I wrote for some months in _The +Universal Visitor_ for poor Smart, while he was mad, not then knowing +the terms on which he was engaged to write, and thinking I was doing him +good. I hoped his wits would soon return to him. Mine returned to me, and +I wrote in _The Universal Visitor_ no longer.' + +Smart at last was called to pay the penalty of his blended labour and +dissipation. In 1763 he was shut up in a madhouse. His derangement had +exhibited itself in a religious way: he insisted upon people kneeling +down along with him in the street and praying. During his confinement, +writing materials were denied him, and he used to write his poetical +pieces with a key on the wainscot. Thus, 'scrabbling,' like his own hero, +on the wall, he produced his immortal 'Song to David.' He became by and +by sane; but, returning to his old habits, got into debt, and died in the +King's Bench prison, after a short illness, in 1770. + +The 'Song to David' has been well called one of the greatest curiosities +of literature. It ranks in this point with the tragedies written by Lee, +and the sermons and prayers uttered by Hall in a similar melancholy state +of mind. In these cases, as well as in Smart's, the thin partition +between genius and madness was broken down in thunder,--the thunder of a +higher poetry than perhaps they were capable of even conceiving in their +saner moments. Lee produced in that state--which was, indeed, nearly his +normal one--some glorious extravagancies. Hall's sermons, monologised +and overheard in the madhouse, are said to have transcended all that he +preached in his healthier moods. And, assuredly, the other poems by Smart +scarcely furnish a point of comparison with the towering and sustained +loftiness of some parts of the 'Song to David.' Nor is it loftiness +alone,--although the last three stanzas are absolute inspiration, and +you see the waters of Castalia tossed by a heavenly wind to the very +summit of Parnassus,--but there are innumerable exquisite beauties and +subtleties, dropt as if by the hand of rich haste, in every corner of +the poem. Witness his description of David's muse, as a + + 'Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, + The more _than Michal of his bloom_, + The _Abishag of his age_! + +The account of David's object-- + + 'To further knowledge, silence vice, + And plant perpetual paradise, + When _God had calmed the world_.' + +Of David's Sabbath-- + + ''Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, + And heavenly melancholy tuned, + To bless and bear the rest.' + +One of David's themes-- + + 'The multitudinous abyss, + Where secrecy remains in bliss, + And wisdom hides her skill.' + +And, not to multiply instances to repletion, this stanza about gems-- + + 'Of gems--their virtue and their price, + Which, hid in earth from man's device, + Their _darts of lustre sheath_; + The jasper of the master's stamp, + The topaz blazing like a lamp, + Among the mines beneath.' + +Incoherence and extravagance we find here and there; but it is not the +flutter of weakness, it is the fury of power: from the very stumble of +the rushing steed, sparks are kindled. And, even as Baretti, when he +read the _Rambler_, in Italy, thought within himself, If such are the +lighter productions of the English mind, what must be the grander and +sterner efforts of its genius? and formed, consequently, a strong desire +to visit that country; so might he have reasoned, If such poems as +'David' issue from England's very madhouses, what must be the writings +of its saner and nobler poetic souls? and thus might he, from the +parallax of a Smart, have been able to rise toward the ideal altitudes +of a Shakspeare or a Milton. Indeed, there are portions of the 'Song to +David,' which a Milton or a Shakspeare has never surpassed. The blaze of +the meteor often eclipses the light of + + 'The loftiest star of unascended heaven, + Pinnacled dim in the intense inane.' + + +SONG TO DAVID. + +1 O thou, that sitt'st upon a throne, + With harp of high, majestic tone, + To praise the King of kings: + And voice of heaven, ascending, swell, + Which, while its deeper notes excel, + Clear as a clarion rings: + +2 To bless each valley, grove, and coast, + And charm the cherubs to the post + Of gratitude in throngs; + To keep the days on Zion's Mount, + And send the year to his account, + With dances and with songs: + +3 O servant of God's holiest charge, + The minister of praise at large, + Which thou mayst now receive; + From thy blest mansion hail and hear, + From topmost eminence appear + To this the wreath I weave. + +4 Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean, + Sublime, contemplative, serene, + Strong, constant, pleasant, wise! + Bright effluence of exceeding grace; + Best man! the swiftness and the race, + The peril and the prize! + +5 Great--from the lustre of his crown, + From Samuel's horn, and God's renown, + Which is the people's voice; + For all the host, from rear to van, + Applauded and embraced the man-- + The man of God's own choice. + +6 Valiant--the word, and up he rose; + The fight--he triumphed o'er the foes + Whom God's just laws abhor; + And, armed in gallant faith, he took + Against the boaster, from the brook, + The weapons of the war. + +7 Pious--magnificent and grand, + 'Twas he the famous temple planned, + (The seraph in his soul:) + Foremost to give the Lord his dues, + Foremost to bless the welcome news, + And foremost to condole. + +8 Good--from Jehudah's genuine vein, + From God's best nature, good in grain, + His aspect and his heart: + To pity, to forgive, to save, + Witness En-gedi's conscious cave, + And Shimei's blunted dart. + +9 Clean--if perpetual prayer be pure, + And love, which could itself inure + To fasting and to fear-- + Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet, + To smite the lyre, the dance complete, + To play the sword and spear. + +10 Sublime--invention ever young, + Of vast conception, towering tongue, + To God the eternal theme; + Notes from yon exaltations caught, + Unrivalled royalty of thought, + O'er meaner strains supreme. + +11 Contemplative--on God to fix + His musings, and above the six + The Sabbath-day he blessed; + 'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, + And heavenly melancholy tuned, + To bless and bear the rest. + +12 Serene--to sow the seeds of peace, + Remembering when he watched the fleece, + How sweetly Kidron purled-- + To further knowledge, silence vice, + And plant perpetual paradise, + When God had calmed the world. + +13 Strong--in the Lord, who could defy + Satan, and all his powers that lie + In sempiternal night; + And hell, and horror, and despair + Were as the lion and the bear + To his undaunted might. + +14 Constant--in love to God, the Truth, + Age, manhood, infancy, and youth; + To Jonathan his friend + Constant, beyond the verge of death; + And Ziba, and Mephibosheth, + His endless fame attend. + +15 Pleasant--and various as the year; + Man, soul, and angel without peer, + Priest, champion, sage, and boy; + In armour or in ephod clad, + His pomp, his piety was glad; + Majestic was his joy. + +16 Wise--in recovery from his fall, + Whence rose his eminence o'er all, + Of all the most reviled; + The light of Israel in his ways, + Wise are his precepts, prayer, and praise, + And counsel to his child. + +17 His muse, bright angel of his verse, + Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, + For all the pangs that rage; + Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, + The more than Michal of his bloom, + The Abishag of his age. + +18 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. + +19 Angels--their ministry and meed, + Which to and fro with blessings speed, + Or with their citterns wait; + Where Michael, with his millions, bows, + Where dwells the seraph and his spouse, + The cherub and her mate. + +20 Of man--the semblance and effect + Of God and love--the saint elect + For infinite applause-- + To rule the land, and briny broad, + To be laborious in his laud, + And heroes in his cause. + +21 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. + +22 Trees, plants, and flowers--of virtuous root; + Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit, + Choice gums and precious balm; + Bless ye the nosegay in the vale, + And with the sweetness of the gale + Enrich the thankful psalm. + +23 Of fowl--even every beak and wing + Which cheer the winter, hail the spring, + That live in peace, or prey; + They that make music, or that mock, + The quail, the brave domestic cock, + The raven, swan, and jay. + +24 Of fishes--every size and shape, + Which nature frames of light escape, + Devouring man to shun: + The shells are in the wealthy deep, + The shoals upon the surface leap, + And love the glancing sun. + +25 Of beasts--the beaver plods his task; + While the sleek tigers roll and bask, + Nor yet the shades arouse; + Her cave the mining coney scoops; + Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops, + The kids exult and browse. + +26 Of gems--their virtue and their price, + Which, hid in earth from man's device, + Their darts of lustre sheath; + The jasper of the master's stamp, + The topaz blazing like a lamp, + Among the mines beneath. + +27 Blest was the tenderness he felt, + When to his graceful harp he knelt, + And did for audience call; + When Satan with his hand he quelled, + And in serene suspense he held + The frantic throes of Saul. + +28 His furious foes no more maligned + As he such melody divined, + And sense and soul detained; + Now striking strong, now soothing soft, + He sent the godly sounds aloft, + Or in delight refrained. + +29 When up to heaven his thoughts he piled, + From fervent lips fair Michal smiled, + As blush to blush she stood; + And chose herself the queen, and gave + Her utmost from her heart--'so brave, + And plays his hymns so good.' + +30 The pillars of the Lord are seven, + Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; + His wisdom drew the plan; + His Word accomplished the design, + From brightest gem to deepest mine, + From Christ enthroned to man. + +31 Alpha, the cause of causes, first + In station, fountain, whence the burst + Of light and blaze of day; + Whence bold attempt, and brave advance, + Have motion, life, and ordinance, + And heaven itself its stay. + +32 Gamma supports the glorious arch + On which angelic legions march, + And is with sapphires paved; + Thence the fleet clouds are sent adrift, + And thence the painted folds that lift + The crimson veil, are waved. + +33 Eta with living sculpture breathes, + With verdant carvings, flowery wreathes + Of never-wasting bloom; + In strong relief his goodly base + All instruments of labour grace, + The trowel, spade, and loom. + +34 Next Theta stands to the supreme-- + Who formed in number, sign, and scheme, + The illustrious lights that are; + And one addressed his saffron robe, + And one, clad in a silver globe, + Held rule with every star. + +35 Iota's tuned to choral hymns + Of those that fly, while he that swims + In thankful safety lurks; + And foot, and chapiter, and niche, + The various histories enrich + Of God's recorded works. + +36 Sigma presents the social droves + With him that solitary roves, + And man of all the chief; + Fair on whose face, and stately frame, + Did God impress his hallowed name, + For ocular belief. + +37 Omega! greatest and the best, + Stands sacred to the day of rest, + For gratitude and thought; + Which blessed the world upon his pole, + And gave the universe his goal, + And closed the infernal draught. + +38 O David, scholar of the Lord! + Such is thy science, whence reward, + And infinite degree; + O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe! + God's harp thy symbol, and thy type + The lion and the bee! + +39 There is but One who ne'er rebelled, + But One by passion unimpelled, + By pleasures unenticed; + He from himself his semblance sent, + Grand object of his own content, + And saw the God in Christ. + +40 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. + +41 Thou art--to give and to confirm, + For each his talent and his term; + All flesh thy bounties share: + Thou shalt not call thy brother fool; + The porches of the Christian school + Are meekness, peace, and prayer. + +42 Open and naked of offence, + Man's made of mercy, soul, and sense: + God armed the snail and wilk; + Be good to him that pulls thy plough; + Due food and care, due rest allow + For her that yields thee milk. + +43 Rise up before the hoary head, + And God's benign commandment dread, + Which says thou shalt not die: + 'Not as I will, but as thou wilt,' + Prayed He, whose conscience knew no guilt; + With whose blessed pattern vie. + +44 Use all thy passions!--love is thine, + And joy and jealousy divine; + Thine hope's eternal fort, + And care thy leisure to disturb, + With fear concupiscence to curb, + And rapture to transport. + +45 Act simply, as occasion asks; + Put mellow wine in seasoned casks; + Till not with ass and bull: + Remember thy baptismal bond; + Keep from commixtures foul and fond, + Nor work thy flax with wool. + +46 Distribute; pay the Lord his tithe, + And make the widow's heart-strings blithe; + Resort with those that weep: + As you from all and each expect, + For all and each thy love direct, + And render as you reap. + +47 The slander and its bearer spurn, + And propagating praise sojourn + To make thy welcome last; + Turn from old Adam to the New: + By hope futurity pursue: + Look upwards to the past. + +48 Control thine eye, salute success, + Honour the wiser, happier bless, + And for thy neighbour feel; + Grutch not of mammon and his leaven, + Work emulation up to heaven + By knowledge and by zeal. + +49 O David, highest in the list + Of worthies, on God's ways insist, + The genuine word repeat! + Vain are the documents of men, + And vain the flourish of the pen + That keeps the fool's conceit. + +50 Praise above all--for praise prevails; + Heap up the measure, load the scales, + And good to goodness add: + The generous soul her Saviour aids, + But peevish obloquy degrades; + The Lord is great and glad. + +51 For Adoration all the ranks + Of angels yield eternal thanks, + And David in the midst; + With God's good poor, which, last and least + In man's esteem, thou to thy feast, + O blessed bridegroom, bidst. + +52 For Adoration seasons change, + And order, truth, and beauty range, + Adjust, attract, and fill: + The grass the polyanthus checks; + And polished porphyry reflects, + By the descending rill. + +53 Rich almonds colour to the prime + For Adoration; tendrils climb, + And fruit-trees pledge their gems; + And Ivis, with her gorgeous vest, + Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, + And bell-flowers bow their stems. + +54 With vinous syrup cedars spout; + From rocks pure honey gushing out, + For Adoration springs: + All scenes of painting crowd the map + Of nature; to the mermaid's pap + The scaled infant clings. + +55 The spotted ounce and playsome cubs + Run rustling 'mongst the flowering shrubs, + And lizards feed the moss; + For Adoration beasts embark, + While waves upholding halcyon's ark + No longer roar and toss. + +56 While Israel sits beneath his fig, + With coral root and amber sprig + The weaned adventurer sports; + Where to the palm the jasmine cleaves, + For Adoration 'mong the leaves + The gale his peace reports. + +57 Increasing days their reign exalt, + Nor in the pink and mottled vault + The opposing spirits tilt; + And by the coasting reader spied, + The silverlings and crusions glide + For Adoration gilt. + +58 For Adoration ripening canes, + And cocoa's purest milk detains + The western pilgrim's staff; + Where rain in clasping boughs enclosed, + And vines with oranges disposed, + Embower the social laugh. + +59 Now labour his reward receives, + For Adoration counts his sheaves + To peace, her bounteous prince; + The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes, + And apples of ten thousand tribes, + And quick peculiar quince. + +60 The wealthy crops of whitening rice + 'Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice, + For Adoration grow; + And, marshalled in the fenced land, + The peaches and pomegranates stand, + Where wild carnations blow. + +61 The laurels with the winter strive; + The crocus burnishes alive + Upon the snow-clad earth: + For Adoration myrtles stay + To keep the garden from dismay, + And bless the sight from dearth. + +62 The pheasant shows his pompous neck; + And ermine, jealous of a speck, + With fear eludes offence: + The sable, with his glossy pride, + For Adoration is descried, + Where frosts the waves condense. + +63 The cheerful holly, pensive yew, + And holy thorn, their trim renew; + The squirrel hoards his nuts: + All creatures batten o'er their stores, + And careful nature all her doors + For Adoration shuts. + +64 For Adoration, David's Psalms + Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; + And he, who kneels and chants, + Prevails his passions to control, + Finds meat and medicine to the soul, + Which for translation pants. + +65 For Adoration, beyond match, + The scholar bullfinch aims to catch + The soft flute's ivory touch; + And, careless, on the hazel spray + The daring redbreast keeps at bay + The damsel's greedy clutch. + +66 For Adoration, in the skies, + The Lord's philosopher espies + The dog, the ram, and rose; + The planets' ring, Orion's sword; + Nor is his greatness less adored + In the vile worm that glows. + +67 For Adoration, on the strings + The western breezes work their wings, + The captive ear to soothe-- + Hark! 'tis a voice--how still, and small-- + That makes the cataracts to fall, + Or bids the sea be smooth! + +68 For Adoration, incense comes + From bezoar, and Arabian gums, + And from the civet's fur: + But as for prayer, or e'er it faints, + Far better is the breath of saints + Than galbanum or myrrh. + +69 For Adoration, from the down + Of damsons to the anana's crown, + God sends to tempt the taste; + And while the luscious zest invites + The sense, that in the scene delights, + Commands desire be chaste. + +70 For Adoration, all the paths + Of grace are open, all the baths + Of purity refresh; + And all the rays of glory beam + To deck the man of God's esteem, + Who triumphs o'er the flesh. + +71 For Adoration, in the dome + Of Christ, the sparrows find a home; + And on his olives perch: + The swallow also dwells with thee, + O man of God's humility, + Within his Saviour's church. + +72 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, + And drops upon the leafy limes; + Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: + Sweet is the lily's silver bell, + And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell + That watch for early prayer. + +73 Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, + Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; + Sweet when the lost arrive: + Sweet the musician's ardour beats, + While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, + The choicest flowers to hive. + +74 Sweeter, in all the strains of love, + The language of thy turtle-dove, + Paired to thy swelling chord; + Sweeter, with every grace endued, + The glory of thy gratitude, + Respired unto the Lord. + +75 Strong is the horse upon his speed; + Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, + Which makes at once his game: + Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; + Strong through the turbulent profound + Shoots xiphias to his aim. + +76 Strong is the lion--like a coal + His eyeball--like a bastion's mole + His chest against the foes: + Strong the gier-eagle on his sail, + Strong against tide the enormous whale + Emerges as he goes. + +77 But stronger still in earth and air, + And in the sea the man of prayer, + And far beneath the tide: + And in the seat to faith assigned, + Where ask is have, where seek is find, + Where knock is open wide. + +78 Beauteous the fleet before the gale; + Beauteous the multitudes in mail, + Ranked arms, and crested heads; + Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild. + Walk, water, meditated wild, + And all the bloomy beds. + +79 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; + And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn, + The virgin to her spouse: + Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, + When to the heaven of heavens they build + Their heart-directed vows. + +80 Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, + The Shepherd King upon his knees, + For his momentous trust; + With wish of infinite conceit, + For man, beast, mute, the small and great, + And prostrate dust to dust. + +81 Precious the bounteous widow's mite; + And precious, for extreme delight, + The largess from the churl: + Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, + And alba's blest imperial rays, + And pure cerulean pearl. + +82 Precious the penitential tear; + And precious is the sigh sincere; + Acceptable to God: + And precious are the winning flowers, + In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers, + Bound on the hallowed sod. + +83 More precious that diviner part + Of David, even the Lord's own heart, + Great, beautiful, and new: + In all things where it was intent, + In all extremes, in each event, + Proof--answering true to true. + +84 Glorious the sun in mid career; + Glorious the assembled fires appear; + Glorious the comet's train: + Glorious the trumpet and alarm; + Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; + Glorious the enraptured main: + +85 Glorious the northern lights astream; + Glorious the song, when God's the theme; + Glorious the thunder's roar: + Glorious hosannah from the den; + Glorious the catholic amen; + Glorious the martyr's gore: + +86 Glorious--more glorious is the crown + Of Him that brought salvation down, + By meekness called thy Son; + Thou that stupendous truth believed, + And now the matchless deed's achieved, + Determined, Dared, and Done. + + + + +THOMAS CHATTERTON. + + +The history of this 'marvellous boy' is familiar to all the readers of +English poetry, and requires only a cursory treatment here. Thomas +Chatterton was born in Bristol, November 20, 1752. His father, a teacher +in the free-school there, had died before his birth, and he was sent to +be educated at a charity-school. He first learned to read from a black- +letter Bible. At the age of fourteen, he was put apprentice to an +attorney; a situation which, however uncongenial, left him ample leisure +for pursuing his private studies. In an unlucky hour, some evil genius +seemed to have whispered to this extra-ordinary youth,--'Do not find or +force, but forge thy way to renown; the other paths to the summit of the +hill are worn and common-place; try a new and dangerous course, the +rather as I forewarn thee that thy time is short.' When, accordingly, +the new bridge at Bristol was finished in October 1768, Chatterton sent +to a newspaper a fictitious account of the opening of the old bridge, +alleging in a note that he had found the principal part of the +description in an ancient MS. And having thus fairly begun to work the +mint of forgery, it was amazing what a number of false coins he threw +off, and with what perfect ease and mastery! Ancient poems, pretending +to have been written four hundred and fifty years before; fragments of +sermons on the Holy Spirit, dated from the fifteenth century; accounts +of all the churches of Bristol as they had appeared three hundred years +before; with drawings and descriptions of the castle--most of them +professing to be drawn from the writings of 'ane gode prieste, Thomas +Rowley'--issued in thick succession from this wonderful, and, to use +the Shakspearean word in a twofold sense, 'forgetive' brain. He next +ventured to send to Horace Walpole, who was employed on a History of +British Painters, an account of eminent 'Carvellers and Peyneters,' who, +according to him, once flourished in Bristol. These labours he plied in +secret, and with the utmost enthusiasm. He used to write by the light of +the moon, deeming that there was a special inspiration in the rays of +that planet, and reminding one of poor Nat Lee inditing his insane +tragedies in his asylum under the same weird lustre. On Sabbaths he was +wont to stroll away into the country around Bristol, which is very +beautiful, and to draw sketches of those objects which impressed his +imagination. He often lay down on the meadows near St Mary's Redcliffe +Church, admiring the ancient edifice; and some years ago we saw a +chamber near the summit of that edifice where he used to sit and write, +his 'eye in a fine frenzy rolling,' and where we could imagine him, when +a moonless night fell, composing his wild Runic lays by the light of a +candle burning in a human skull. It was actually in one of the rooms of +this church that some ancient chests had been deposited, including one +called the 'Coffre of Mr Canynge,' an eminent merchant in Bristol, who +had rebuilt the church in the reign of Edward IV. This coffer had been +broken up by public authority in 1727, and some valuable deeds had been +taken out. Besides these, they contained various MSS., some of which +Chatterton's father, whose uncle was sexton of the church, had carried +off and used as covers to the copy-books of his scholars. This furnished +a hint to Chatterton's inventive genius. He gave out that among these +parchments he had found many productions of Mr Canynge's, and of the +aforesaid Thomas Rowley's, a priest of the fifteenth century, and a +friend of Canynge's. Chatterton had become a contributor to a periodical +of the day called _The Town and Country Magazine_, and to it from time +to time he sent these poems. A keen controversy arose as to their +genuineness. Horace Walpole shewed some of them, which Chatterton had +sent him, to Gray and Mason, who were deemed, justly, first-rate +authorities on antiquarian matters, and who at once pronounced them +forgeries. It is deeply to be regretted that these men, perceiving, as +they must have done, the great merit of these productions, had not made +more particular inquiries about them, and tried to help and save the +poet. Walpole, to say the least of it, treated him coldly, telling him, +when he had discovered the forgery, to attend to his own business, and +keeping some of his MSS. in his hands, till an indignant letter from the +author compelled him to restore them. + +Chatterton now determined to go to London. His three years' apprenticeship +had expired, and there was in Bristol no further field for his aspiring +genius. He found instant employment among the booksellers, and procured +an introduction to Beckford, the patriot mayor, who tried to get him +engaged upon the Opposition side in politics. Our capricious and +unprincipled poet, however, declared that he was a poor author that could +not write on both sides; and although his leanings were to the popular +party, yet on the death of Beckford he addressed a letter to Lord North +in support of his administration. He had projected some large works, such +as a History of England and a History of London, and wrote flaming +letters to his mother and sisters about his prospects, enclosing them at +the same time small remittances of money. But his bright hopes were soon +overcast. Instead of a prominent political character, he found himself a +mere bookseller's hack. To this his poverty no more than his will would +consent, for though that was great it was equalled by his pride. His life +in the country had been regular, although his religious principles were +loose; but in town, misery drove him to intemperance, and intemperance, +in its reaction, to remorse and a desperate tampering with the thought, + + 'There is one remedy for all.' + +At last, after a vain attempt to obtain an appointment as a surgeon's +mate to Africa, he made up his mind to suicide. A guinea had been sent +him by a gentleman, which he declined. Mrs Angel, his landlady, knowing +him to be in want, the day before his death offered him his dinner, but +this also he spurned; and, on the 25th of August 1770, having first +destroyed all his papers, he swallowed arsenic, and was found dead in +his bed. + +He was buried in a shell in the burial-place of Shoe-Lane Workhouse. +He was aged seventeen years nine months and a few days. Alas for + + 'The sleepless soul that perished in his pride!' + +Chatterton, had he lived, would, perhaps, have become a powerful poet, +or a powerful character of some kind. But we must now view him chiefly +as a prodigy. Some have treated his power as unnatural--resembling a +huge hydrocephalic head, the magnitude of which implies disease, +ultimate weakness, and early death. Others maintain that, apart from the +extraordinary elements that undoubtedly characterised Chatterton, and +constituted him a premature and prodigious birth intellectually, there +was also in parts of his poems evidence of a healthy vigour which only +needed favourable circumstances to develop into transcendent excellence. +Hazlitt, holding with the one of these opinions, cries, 'If Chatterton +had had a great work to do by living, he would have lived!' Others +retort on the critic, 'On the same principle, why did Keats, whom you +rate so high, perish so early?' The question altogether is nugatory, +seeing it can never be settled. Suffice it that these songs and rhymes +of Chatterton have great beauties, apart from the age and position of +their author. There may at times be madness, but there is method in it. +The flight of the rhapsody is ever upheld by the strength of the wing, +and while the reading discovered is enormous for a boy, the depth of +feeling exhibited is equally extraordinary; and the clear, firm judgment +which did not characterise his conduct, forms the root and the trunk of +much of his poetry. It was said of his eyes that it seemed as if fire +rolled under them; and it rolls still, and shall ever roll, below many +of his verses. + + +BRISTOWE TRAGEDY. + +1 The feathered songster, chanticleer, + Hath wound his bugle-horn, + And told the early villager + The coming of the morn. + +2 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks + Of light eclipse the gray, + And heard the raven's croaking throat + Proclaim the fated day. + +3 'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God + That sits enthroned on high! + Charles Bawdin and his fellows twain + To-day shall surely die.' + +4 Then with a jug of nappy ale + His knights did on him wait; + 'Go tell the traitor that to-day + He leaves this mortal state.' + +5 Sir Canterlone then bended low, + With heart brimful of woe; + He journeyed to the castle-gate, + And to Sir Charles did go. + +6 But when he came, his children twain, + And eke his loving wife, + With briny tears did wet the floor, + For good Sir Charles' life. + +7 'O good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone, + 'Bad tidings I do bring.' + 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles; + 'What says the traitor king?' + +8 'I grieve to tell; before that sun + Doth from the heaven fly, + He hath upon his honour sworn, + That thou shalt surely die.' + +9 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; + 'Of that I'm not afeard; + What boots to live a little space? + Thank Jesus, I'm prepared: + +10 'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, + I'd sooner die to-day + Than live his slave, as many are, + Though I should live for aye.' + +11 Then Canterlone he did go out, + To tell the mayor straight + To get all things in readiness + For good Sir Charles' fate. + +12 Then Master Canynge sought the king, + And fell down on his knee; + 'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your Grace + To move your clemency.' + +13 'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out; + You have been much our friend; + Whatever your request may be, + We will to it attend.' + +14 'My noble liege! all my request + Is for a noble knight, + Who, though perhaps he has done wrong, + He thought it still was right: + +15 'He has a spouse and children twain-- + All ruined are for aye, + If that you are resolved to let + Charles Bawdin die to-day.' + +16 'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' + The king in fury said; + 'Before the evening star doth shine, + Bawdin shall lose his head: + +17 'Justice does loudly for him call, + And he shall have his meed; + Speak, Master Canynge! what thing else + At present do you need?' + +18 'My noble liege!' good Canynge said, + 'Leave justice to our God, + And lay the iron rule aside;-- + Be thine the olive rod. + +19 'Was God to search our hearts and reins, + The best were sinners great; + Christ's vicar only knows no sin, + In all this mortal state. + +20 'Let mercy rule thine infant reign; + 'Twill fix thy crown full sure; + From race to race thy family + All sovereigns shall endure: + +21 'But if with blood and slaughter thou + Begin thy infant reign, + Thy crown upon thy children's brow + Will never long remain.' + +22 'Canynge, away! this traitor vile + Has scorned my power and me; + How canst thou then for such a man + Entreat my clemency?' + +23 'My noble liege! the truly brave + Will valorous actions prize; + Respect a brave and noble mind, + Although in enemies.' + +24 'Canynge, away! By God in heaven, + That did me being give, + I will not taste a bit of bread + While this Sir Charles doth live. + +25 'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, + This sun shall be his last.'-- + Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, + And from the presence passed. + +26 With heart brimful of gnawing grief, + He to Sir Charles did go, + And sat him down upon a stool, + And tears began to flow. + +27 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; + 'What boots it how or when? + Death is the sure, the certain fate + Of all us mortal men. + +28 'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul + Runs over at thine eye? + Is it for my most welcome doom + That thou dost child-like cry?' + +29 Quoth godly Canynge, 'I do weep, + That thou so soon must die, + And leave thy sons and helpless wife; + 'Tis this that wets mine eye.' + +30 'Then dry the tears that out thine eye + From godly fountains spring; + Death I despise, and all the power + Of Edward, traitor king. + +31 'When through the tyrant's welcome means + I shall resign my life, + The God I serve will soon provide + For both my sons and wife. + +32 'Before I saw the lightsome sun, + This was appointed me;-- + Shall mortal man repine or grudge + What God ordains to be? + +33 'How oft in battle have I stood, + When thousands died around; + When smoking streams of crimson blood + Imbrued the fattened ground? + +34 'How did I know that every dart, + That cut the airy way, + Might not find passage to my heart, + And close mine eyes for aye? + +35 'And shall I now from fear of death + Look wan and be dismayed? + No! from my heart fly childish fear, + Be all the man displayed. + +36 'Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend + And guard thee and thy son, + If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, + Why, then his will be done. + +37 'My honest friend, my fault has been + To serve God and my prince; + And that I no timeserver am, + My death will soon convince. + +38 'In London city was I born, + Of parents of great note; + My father did a noble arms + Emblazon on his coat: + +39 'I make no doubt that he is gone + 'Where soon I hope to go; + Where we for ever shall be blest, + From out the reach of woe. + +40 'He taught me justice and the laws + With pity to unite; + And likewise taught me how to know + The wrong cause from the right: + +41 'He taught me with a prudent hand + To feed the hungry poor; + Nor let my servants drive away + The hungry from my door: + +42 'And none can say but all my life + I have his counsel kept, + And summed the actions of each day + Each night before I slept. + +43 'I have a spouse; go ask of her + If I denied her bed; + I have a king, and none can lay + Black treason on my head. + +44 'In Lent, and on the holy eve, + From flesh I did refrain; + Why should I then appear dismayed + To leave this world of pain? + +45 'No, hapless Henry! I rejoice + I shall not see thy death; + Most willingly in thy just cause + Do I resign my breath. + +46 'O fickle people, ruined land! + Thou wilt know peace no moe; + While Richard's sons exalt themselves, + Thy brooks with blood will flow. + +47 'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, + And godly Henry's reign, + That you did change your easy days + For those of blood and pain? + +48 'What though I on a sledge be drawn, + And mangled by a hind? + I do defy the traitor's power,-- + He cannot harm my mind! + +49 'What though uphoisted on a pole, + My limbs shall rot in air, + And no rich monument of brass + Charles Bawdin's name shall bear? + +50 'Yet in the holy book above, + Which time can't eat away, + There, with the servants of the Lord, + My name shall live for aye. + +51 'Then welcome death! for life eterne + I leave this mortal life: + Farewell, vain world! and all that's dear, + My sons and loving wife! + +52 'Now death as welcome to me comes + As e'er the month of May; + Nor would I even wish to live, + With my dear wife to stay.' + +53 Quoth Canynge, ''Tis a goodly thing + To be prepared to die; + And from this world of pain and grief + To God in heaven to fly.' + +54 And now the bell began to toll, + And clarions to sound; + Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet + A-prancing on the ground: + +55 And just before the officers + His loving wife came in, + Weeping unfeigned tears of woe, + With loud and dismal din. + +56 'Sweet Florence! now, I pray, forbear; + In quiet let me die; + Pray God that every Christian soul + May look on death as I. + +57 'Sweet Florence! why those briny tears? + They wash my soul away, + And almost make me wish for life, + With thee, sweet dame, to stay. + +58 ''Tis but a journey I shall go + Unto the land of bliss; + Now, as a proof of husband's love, + Receive this holy kiss.' + +59 Then Florence, faltering in her say, + Trembling these words she spoke,-- + 'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! + My heart is well-nigh broke. + +60 'Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go + Without thy loving wife? + The cruel axe that cuts thy neck + Shall also end my life.' + +61 And now the officers came in + To bring Sir Charles away, + Who turned to his loving wife, + And thus to her did say: + +62 'I go to life, and not to death; + Trust thou in God above, + And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, + And in their hearts him love: + +63 'Teach them to run the noble race + That I their father run; + Florence! should death thee take--adieu!-- + Ye officers, lead on.' + +64 Then Florence raved as any mad, + And did her tresses tear;-- + 'Oh, stay, my husband, lord, and life!'-- + Sir Charles then dropped a tear;-- + +65 Till tired out with raving loud, + She fell upon the floor: + Sir Charles exerted all his might, + And marched from out the door. + +66 Upon a sledge he mounted then, + With looks full brave and sweet; + Looks that did show no more concern + Than any in the street. + +67 Before him went the council-men, + In scarlet robes and gold, + And tassels spangling in the sun, + Much glorious to behold: + +68 The friars of St Augustine next + Appeared to the sight, + All clad in homely russet weeds + Of godly monkish plight: + +69 In different parts a godly psalm + Most sweetly they did chaunt; + Behind their backs six minstrels came, + Who tuned the strong bataunt. + +70 Then five-and-twenty archers came; + Each one the bow did bend, + From rescue of King Henry's friends + Sir Charles for to defend. + +71 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, + Drawn on a cloth-laid sled + By two black steeds, in trappings white, + With plumes upon their head. + +72 Behind him five-and-twenty more + Of archers strong and stout, + With bended bow each one in hand, + Marched in goodly rout: + +73 Saint James's friars marched next, + Each one his part did chaunt; + Behind their backs six minstrels came + Who tuned the strong bataunt: + +74 Then came the mayor and aldermen, + In cloth of scarlet decked; + And their attending men, each one + Like eastern princes tricked: + +75 And after them a multitude + Of citizens did throng; + The windows were all full of heads, + As he did pass along. + +76 And when he came to the high cross, + Sir Charles did turn and say,-- + 'O Thou that savest man from sin, + Wash my soul clean this day!' + +77 At the great minster window sat + The king in mickle state, + To see Charles Bawdin go along + To his most welcome fate. + +78 Soon as the sledge drew nigh enough + That Edward he might hear, + The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, + And thus his words declare: + +79 'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! + Exposed to infamy; + But be assured, disloyal man! + I'm greater now than thee. + +80 'By foul proceedings, murder, blood, + Thou wearest now a crown; + And hast appointed me to die, + By power not thine own. + +81 'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; + I have been dead till now, + And soon shall live to wear a crown + For ever on my brow: + +82 'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years + Shall rule this fickle land, + To let them know how wide the rule + 'Twixt king and tyrant hand: + +83 'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! + Shall fall on thy own head'---- + From out of hearing of the king + Departed then the sled. + +84 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, + He turned his head away, + And to his brother Gloucester + He thus did speak and say: + +85 'To him that so much dreaded death + No ghastly terrors bring, + Behold the man! he spake the truth, + He's greater than a king!' + +86 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; + 'And may each of our foes + Bend down their necks to bloody axe, + And feed the carrion crows!' + +87 And now the horses gently drew + Sir Charles up the high hill; + The axe did glisten in the sun, + His precious blood to spill. + +88 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, + As up a gilded car + Of victory, by valorous chiefs, + Gained in the bloody war: + +89 And to the people he did say,-- + 'Behold, you see me die, + For serving loyally my king, + My king most rightfully. + +90 'As long as Edward rules this land, + No quiet you will know; + Your sons and husbands shall be slain, + And brooks with blood shall flow. + +91 'You leave your good and lawful king + When in adversity; + Like me unto the true cause stick, + And for the true cause die.' + +92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, + A prayer to God did make, + Beseeching him unto himself + His parting soul to take. + +93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head + Most seemly on the block; + Which from his body fair at once + The able headsman stroke: + +94 And out the blood began to flow, + And round the scaffold twine; + And tears, enough to wash't away, + Did flow from each man's eyne. + +95 The bloody axe his body fair + Into four quarters cut; + And every part, likewise his head, + Upon a pole was put. + +96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, + One on the minster-tower, + And one from off the castle-gate + The crowen did devour: + +97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, + A dreary spectacle; + His head was placed on the high cross, + In high street most nobile. + +98 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;-- + God prosper long our king, + And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, + In heaven God's mercy sing! + + + +MINSTREL'S SONG. + +1 O! sing unto my roundelay, + O! drop the briny tear with me; + Dance no more at holy-day, + Like a running river be: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, + White his rode[2] as the summer snow, + Red his face as the morning light, + Cold he lies in the grave below: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, + Quick in dance as thought can be, + Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; + O! he lies by the willow-tree: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, + In the briared dell below; + Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing + To the night-mares as they go: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +5 See! the white moon shines on high; + Whiter is my true love's shroud, + Whiter than the morning sky, + Whiter than the evening cloud: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +6 Here upon my true love's grave, + Shall the barren flowers be laid, + Not one holy saint to save + All the celness of a maid: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars + Round his holy corse to gree;[4] + Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires-- + Here my body still shall be: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, + Drain my hearte's-blood away; + Life and all its goods I scorn, + Dance by night, or feast by day: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6] + Bear me to your lethal tide. + 'I die! I come! my true love waits!' + Thus the damsel spake, and died. + +[1] 'Cryne:' hair. +[2] 'Rode:' complexion. +[3] 'Dent:' fix. +[4] 'Gree:' grow. +[5] 'Ouphant:' elfish. +[6] 'Reytes:' water-flags. + + +THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE. + +1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined, + Listening to hear the water glide along, + Minding how thorough the green meads it twined, + Whilst the caves responsed its muttering song, + At distant rising Avon to he sped, + Amenged[1] with rising hills did show its head; + +2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds + And wraytes[2] of alders of a bercie scent, + And sticking out with cloud-agested reeds, + The hoary Avon showed dire semblament, + Whilst blatant Severn, from Sabrina cleped, + Boars flemie o'er the sandes that she heaped. + +3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought + Of hardy champions knowen to the flood, + How on the banks thereof brave Aelle fought, + Aelle descended from Merce kingly blood, + Warder of Bristol town and castle stede, + Who ever and anon made Danes to bleed. + +4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite + Dight in the armour brace that Michael bore, + When he with Satan, king of Hell, did fight, + And earth was drenched in a sea of gore; + Or, soon as they did see the worlde's light, + Fate had wrote down, 'This man is born to fight.' + +5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say, + Why is thy actions left so spare in story? + Were I to dispone, there should liven aye, + In earth and heaven's rolls thy tale of glory; + Thy acts so doughty should for aye abide, + And by their test all after acts be tried. + +6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind, + As fair a saint as any town can boast, + Or be the earth with light or mirk ywrynde,[4] + I see his image walking through the coast: + Fitz-Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twenty moe, + In vision 'fore my fantasy did go. + +7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed, + And each digne[6] builder dequaced on my mind, + When from the distant stream arose a maid, + Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind; + Like to the silver moon in frosty night, + The damoiselle did come so blithe and sweet. + +8 No broidered mantle of a scarlet hue, + No shoe-pikes plaited o'er with riband gear, + No costly robes of woaden blue, + Nought of a dress, but beauty did she wear; + Naked she was, and looked sweet of youth, + All did bewrayen that her name was Truth. + +9 The easy ringlets of her nut-brown hair + What ne a man should see did sweetly hide, + Which on her milk-white bodykin so fair + Did show like brown streams fouling the white tide, + Or veins of brown hue in a marble cuarr,[7] + Which by the traveller is kenned from far. + +10 Astounded mickle there I silent lay, + Still scauncing wondrous at the walking sight; + My senses forgard,[8] nor could run away, + But was not forstraught[9] when she did alight + Anigh to me, dressed up in naked view, + Which might in some lascivious thoughts abrew. + +11 But I did not once think of wanton thought; + For well I minded what by vow I hete, + And in my pocket had a crochee[10] brought; + Which in the blossom would such sins anete; + I looked with eyes as pure as angels do, + And did the every thought of foul eschew. + +12 With sweet semblate, and an angel's grace, + She 'gan to lecture from her gentle breast; + For Truth's own wordes is her minde's face, + False oratories she did aye detest: + Sweetness was in each word she did ywreene, + Though she strove not to make that sweetness seen. + +13 She said, 'My manner of appearing here + My name and slighted myndruch may thee tell; + I'm Truth, that did descend from heaven-were, + Goulers and courtiers do not know me well; + Thy inmost thoughts, thy labouring brain I saw, + And from thy gentle dream will thee adawe.[11] + +14 Full many champions, and men of lore, + Painters and carvellers[12] have gained good name, + But there's a Canynge to increase the store, + A Canynge who shall buy up all their fame. + Take thou my power, and see in child and man + What true nobility in Canynge ran.' + +15 As when a bordelier[13] on easy bed, + Tired with the labours maynt[14] of sultry day, + In sleepe's bosom lays his weary head, + So, senses sunk to rest, my body lay; + Eftsoons my sprite, from earthly bands untied, + Emerged in flanched air with Truth aside. + +16 Straight was I carried back to times of yore, + Whilst Canynge swathed yet in fleshly bed, + And saw all actions which had been before, + And all the scroll of fate unravelled; + And when the fate-marked babe had come to sight, + I saw him eager gasping after light. + +17 In all his shepen gambols and child's play, + In every merry-making, fair, or wake, + I knew a purple light of wisdom's ray; + He eat down learning with a wastle cake. + As wise as any of the aldermen, + He'd wit enough to make a mayor at ten. + +18 As the dulce[15] downy barbe began to gre, + So was the well thighte texture of his lore + Each day enheedynge mockler[16] for to be, + Great in his counsel for the days he bore. + All tongues, all carols did unto him sing, + Wond'ring at one so wise, and yet so ying.[17] + +19 Increasing in the years of mortal life, + And hasting to his journey unto heaven, + He thought it proper for to choose a wife, + And use the sexes for the purpose given. + He then was youth of comely semelikede, + And he had made a maiden's heart to bleed. + +20 He had a father (Jesus rest his soul!) + Who loved money, as his cherished joy; + He had a brother (happy man be's dole!) + In mind and body his own father's boy: + What then could Canynge wishen as a part + To give to her who had made exchange of heart? + +21 But lands and castle tenures, gold and bighes,[18] + And hoards of silver rusted in the ent,[19] + Canynge and his fair sweet did that despise, + To change of truly love was their content; + They lived together in a house adigne,[20] + Of good sendaument commily and fine. + +22 But soon his brother and his sire did die, + And left to William states and renting-rolls, + And at his will his brother John supply. + He gave a chauntry to redeem their souls; + And put his brother into such a trade, + That he Lord Mayor of London town was made. + +23 Eftsoons his morning turned to gloomy night; + His dame, his second self, gave up her breath, + Seeking for eterne life and endless light, + And slew good Canynge; sad mistake of Death! + So have I seen a flower in summer-time + Trod down and broke and wither in its prime. + +24 Near Redcliff Church (oh, work of hand of Heaven! + Where Canynge showeth as an instrument) + Was to my bismarde eyesight newly given; + 'Tis past to blazon it to good content. + You that would fain the festive building see + Repair to Redcliff, and contented be. + +25 I saw the myndbruch of his notte soul + When Edward menaced a second wife; + I saw what Pheryons in his mind did roll: + Now fixed from second dames, a priest for life, + This is the man of men, the vision spoke; + Then bell for even-song my senses woke. + +[1] 'Amenged:' mixed. +[2] 'Wraytes:' flags. +[3] 'Swithin:' quickly. +[4] 'Ywrynde:' covered. +[5] 'Faitour:' vagrant. +[6] 'Digne:' worthy. +[7] 'Cuarr:' quarry. +[8] 'Forgard:' lose. +[9] 'Forstraught:' distracted. +[10] 'A crochee:' a cross. +[11] 'Adawe:' awake. +[12] 'Carvellers:' sculptors. +[13] 'A bordelier:' a cottager. +[14] 'Maynt:' many. +[15] 'Dulce:' sweet. +[16] 'Mockler:' more. +[17] 'Ying:' young. +[18] 'Bighes:' jewels. +[19] 'Ent:' bag. +[20] 'Adigne:' worthy. + + +KENRICK. + +TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON. + +When winter yelled through the leafless grove; when the black waves +rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of +the sun; when the silver brook stood still, and snow environed the top +of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blasted +fields, and the boughs of the leafless trees bent with the loads of +ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering +light of the western sky; Kenrick, terrible as the tempest, young as +the snake of the valley, strong as the mountain of the slain; his +armour shining like the stars in the dark night, when the moon is +veiled in sable, and the blasting winds howl over the wide plain; his +shield like the black rock, prepared himself for war. + +Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the first rays of the +morning star, swift as the flying deer, strong as the young oak, +fierce as an evening wolf, drew his sword; glittering like the blue +vapours in the valley of Horso; terrible as the red lightning, +bursting from the dark-brown clouds; his swift bark rode over the +foaming waves, like the wind in the tempest; the arches fell at his +blow, and he wrapped the towers in flames: he followed Kenrick, like +a wolf roaming for prey. + +Centwin of the vale arose, he seized the massy spear; terrible was his +voice, great was his strength; he hurled the rocks into the sea, and +broke the strong oaks of the forest. Slow in the race as the minutes +of impatience. His spear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, swept down +whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the stones of hail +at the approach of the sun. + +Awake, O Eldulph! thou that sleepest on the white mountain, with the +fairest of women. No more pursue the dark-brown wolf: arise from the +mossy bank of the falling waters; let thy garments be stained in +blood, and the streams of life discolour thy girdle; let thy flowing +hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into +terror. + +Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: +pursue the black companies of the enemy. + +Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the stars, act like +yourselves. + +Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, swelled with rain, the Saxons +moved along; like a blazing star the sword of Kenrick shone among the +Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he +burnt up the ranks of his enemy. + +Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward sported in blood; armies +melted at his stroke. Eldulph was a flaming vapour; destruction sat +upon his sword. Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock +before the sword of Mervin. + +Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on +his hand. + +Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the +roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain. + +The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the +howling winds. + +Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursuers; deck their brows with +chaplets of jewels; spread the branches of the oak beneath their feet. +Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon +his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his +knees are red with the gore of the foe. + +Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance +around him. + +Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the +praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to +the foundation of the black rock. + +Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious. + + +FEBRUARY, AN ELEGY. + +1 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay, + Aeonian doxies, sound the thrumming string; + Attempt no number of the plaintive Gray; + Let me like midnight cats, or Collins, sing. + +2 If in the trammels of the doleful line, + The bounding hail or drilling rain descend; + Come, brooding Melancholy, power divine, + And every unformed mass of words amend. + +3 Now the rough Goat withdraws his curling horns, + And the cold Waterer twirls his circling mop: + Swift sudden anguish darts through altering corns, + And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop. + +4 Now infant authors, maddening for renown, + Extend the plume, and hum about the stage, + Procure a benefit, amuse the town, + And proudly glitter in a title-page. + +5 Now, wrapped in ninefold fur, his squeamish Grace + Defies the fury of the howling storm; + And whilst the tempest whistles round his face, + Exults to find his mantled carcase warm. + +6 Now rumbling coaches furious drive along, + Full of the majesty of city dames, + Whose jewels, sparkling in the gaudy throng, + Raise strange emotions and invidious flames. + +7 Now Merit, happy in the calm of place, + To mortals as a Highlander appears, + And conscious of the excellence of lace, + With spreading frogs and gleaming spangles glares: + +8 Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh, + In form a shoe-boy, daubs the valued fruit, + And darting lightnings from his vengeful eye, + Raves about Wilkes, and politics, and Bute. + +9 Now Barry, taller than a grenadier, + Dwindles into a stripling of eighteen; + Or sabled in Othello breaks the ear, + Exerts his voice, and totters to the scene. + +10 Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind, + Applies his wax to personal defects; + But leaves untouched the image of the mind;-- + His art no mental quality reflects. + +11 Now Drury's potent king extorts applause, + And pit, box, gallery, echo, 'How divine!' + Whilst, versed in all the drama's mystic laws, + His graceful action saves the wooden line. + +12 Now--but what further can the muses sing? + Now dropping particles of water fall; + Now vapours riding on the north wind's wing, + With transitory darkness shadows all. + +13 Alas! how joyless the descriptive theme, + When sorrow on the writer's quiet preys; + And like a mouse in Cheshire cheese supreme, + Devours the substance of the lessening bays. + +14 Come, February, lend thy darkest sky, + There teach the wintered muse with clouds to soar: + Come, February, lift the number high; + Let the sharp strain like wind through alleys roar. + +15 Ye channels, wandering through the spacious street, + In hollow murmurs roll the dirt along, + With inundations wet the sabled feet, + Whilst gouts, responsive, join the elegiac song. + +16 Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill + Sound through meandering folds of Echo's horn; + Let the sweet cry of liberty be still, + No more let smoking cakes awake the morn. + +17 O Winter! put away thy snowy pride; + O Spring! neglect the cowslip and the bell; + O Summer! throw thy pears and plums aside; + O Autumn! bid the grape with poison swell. + +18 The pensioned muse of Johnson is no more! + Drowned in a butt of wine his genius lies. + Earth! Ocean! Heaven! the wondrous loss deplore, + The dregs of nature with her glory dies. + +19 What iron Stoic can suppress the tear! + What sour reviewer read with vacant eye! + What bard but decks his literary bier!-- + Alas! I cannot sing--I howl--I cry! + + + + +LORD LYTTELTON. + + +Dr Johnson said once of Chesterfield, 'I thought him a lord among wits, +but I find him to be only a wit among lords.' And so we may say of Lord +Lyttelton, 'He is a poet among lords, if not a lord among poets.' He was +the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton, of Hagley in Worcestershire, and was +born in 1709. He went to Eton and Oxford, where he distinguished himself. +Having gone the usual grand tour, he entered Parliament, and became an +opponent of Sir Robert Walpole. He was made secretary to the Prince of +Wales, and was in this capacity useful to Mallett and Thomson. In 1741, +he married Lucy Fortescue, of Devonshire, who died five years afterwards. +Lyttelton grieved sincerely for her, and wrote his affecting 'Monody' on +the subject. When his party triumphed, he was created a Lord of the +Treasury, and afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequer, with a peerage. He +employed much of his leisure in literary composition, writing a good +little book on the Conversion of St Paul, a laboured History of Henry II., +and some verses, including the stanza in the 'Castle of Indolence' +describing Thomson-- + + 'A bard there dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,' &c.-- + +and a very spirited prologue to Thomson's 'Coriolanus,' which was written +after that author's death, and says of him, + + --'His chaste muse employed her heaven-taught lyre + None but the noblest passions to inspire: + Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, + _One line which, dying he could wish to blot_.' + +Lyttelton himself died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. His History is +now little read. It took him, it is said, thirty years to write it, and +he employed another man to point it--a fact recalling what is told of +Macaulay, that he sent the first volume of his 'History of England' to +Lord Jeffrey, who overlooked the punctuation and criticised the style. +Of a series of Dialogues issued by this writer, Dr Johnson remarked, +with his usual pointed severity, 'Here is a man telling the world what +the world had all his life been telling him.' His 'Monody' expresses +real grief in an artificial style, but has some stanzas as natural in +the expression as they are pathetic in the feeling. + + +FROM THE 'MONODY.' + +At length escaped from every human eye, + From every duty, every care, +That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, +Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; +Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, +This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, +I now may give my burdened heart relief, + And pour forth all my stores of grief; +Of grief surpassing every other woe, +Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love + Can on the ennobled mind bestow, + Exceeds the vulgar joys that move +Our gross desires, inelegant and low. + + * * * * * + + In vain I look around + O'er all the well-known ground, +My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; + Where oft we used to walk, + Where oft in tender talk +We saw the summer sun go down the sky; + Nor by yon fountain's side, + Nor where its waters glide +Along the valley, can she now be found: +In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound + No more my mournful eye + Can aught of her espy, +But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. + + * * * * * + +Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, +Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns + By your delighted mother's side: + Who now your infant steps shall guide? +Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care +To every virtue would have formed your youth, +And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? + O loss beyond repair! + O wretched father! left alone, +To weep their dire misfortune and thy own: +How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with woe, + And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, +Perform the duties that you doubly owe! + Now she, alas! is gone, +From folly and from vice their helpless age to save? + + * * * * * + + O best of wives! O dearer far to me + Than when thy virgin charms + Were yielded to my arms: + How can my soul endure the loss of thee? + How in the world, to me a desert grown, + Abandoned and alone, + Without my sweet companion can I live? + Without thy lovely smile, + The dear reward of every virtuous toil, + What pleasures now can palled ambition give? + Even the delightful sense of well-earned praise, +Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise. + + For my distracted mind + What succour can I find? + On whom for consolation shall I call? + Support me, every friend; + Your kind assistance lend, + To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. + Alas! each friend of mine, + My dear departed love, so much was thine, + That none has any comfort to bestow. + My books, the best relief + In every other grief, + Are now with your idea saddened all: + Each favourite author we together read +My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead. + + We were the happiest pair of human kind; + The rolling year its varying course performed, + And back returned again; + Another and another smiling came, + And saw our happiness unchanged remain: + Still in her golden chain + Harmonious concord did our wishes bind: + Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. + O fatal, fatal stroke, + That all this pleasing fabric love had raised + Of rare felicity, + On which even wanton vice with envy gazed, + And every scheme of bliss our hearts had formed, + With soothing hope, for many a future day, + In one sad moment broke!-- + Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay; + Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, + Or against his supreme decree + With impious grief complain; + That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, +Was his most righteous will--and be that will obeyed. + + + + +JOHN CUNNINGHAM. + + +We know very little of the history of this pleasing poet. He was born in +1729, the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. At the age of seventeen he +wrote a farce; entitled 'Love in a Mist,' and shortly after came to +Britain as an actor. He was for a long time a performer in Digges' +company in Edinburgh, and subsequently resided in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. +Here he seems to have fallen into distressed circumstances, and was +supported by a benevolent printer, at whose house he died in 1773. His +poetry is distinguished by a charming simplicity. This characterises +'Kate of Aberdeen,' given below, and also his 'Content: a Pastoral,' in +which he says allegorically-- + + 'Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, + So simple yet sweet were her charms! + I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek, + And locked the dear maid in my arms. + + 'Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, + And if, by yon prattler, the stream, + Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep, + Her image still softens my dream.' + + +MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. + +1 The silver moon's enamoured beam + Steals softly through the night, + To wanton with the winding stream, + And kiss reflected light. + To beds of state go, balmy sleep, + (Tis where you've seldom been,) + May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep + With Kate of Aberdeen. + +2 Upon the green the virgins wait, + In rosy chaplets gay, + Till Morn unbar her golden gate, + And give the promised May. + Methinks I hear the maids declare, + The promised May, when seen, + Not half so fragrant, half so fair, + As Kate of Aberdeen. + +3 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, + We'll rouse the nodding grove; + The nested birds shall raise their throats, + And hail the maid I love: + And see--the matin lark mistakes, + He quits the tufted green: + Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, + 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. + +4 Now lightsome o'er the level mead, + Where midnight fairies rove, + Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, + Or tune the reed to love: + For see the rosy May draws nigh; + She claims a virgin queen! + And hark, the happy shepherds cry, + 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. + + + + +ROBERT FERGUSSON. + + +This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some +say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to +the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four +children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and +Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having +obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven- +teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish +Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical +knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural +Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a +passion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject +of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of +studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful +preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named +John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor +Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in +his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings in his pocket +proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of +his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell +into a severe fit of illness. + +He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and +afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to +_Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_. We remember in boyhood reading some odd +volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably +poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His +evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated +youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.' +That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of +one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns, +doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse. +Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated +by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was +warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary +benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance, +his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum. +Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered +a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The +history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and +Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact +duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the +moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,' +roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the +light. 'Thou stupid god,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By +and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his +mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated, +but his constitution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor +Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New +Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his +death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a +fortune in the East Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and +enclosing a remittance of L100 to defray the expenses of the journey. + +Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried +in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to +his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers. + +Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He +was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather +than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to +sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,' +are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is +nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low +compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft +to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, +with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- +man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On +the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he +exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, +to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay. + + +THE FARMER'S INGLE. + +Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, +Ante locum, si frigus erit.--VIRG. + +1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1] + Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre; + Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4] + An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire; + What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld, + An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; + Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, + Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; + Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain. + +2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, + Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift, + Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill, + An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift. + The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, + Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een, + That ilka turn is handled to his mind; + That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean; + For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean. + +3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require + A heartsome meltith,[14] an' refreshin' synd[15] + O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire: + Sair wark an' poortith downa[16] weel be joined. + Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks; + I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams; + The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks, + An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, + Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems. + +4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: + Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, + They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, + Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. + Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; + At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; + Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23] + Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, + Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound. + +5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed + By Caledonia's ancestors been done; + By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed + In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun. + 'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang; + That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; + Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang; + Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays; + For near our crest their heads they dought na raise. + +6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre; + The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29] + O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour, + Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30] + 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; + How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; + An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, + Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; + The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. + +7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now; + For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: + Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, + Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32] + In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low, + Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear, + O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35] + O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear, + Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear! + +8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be + Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill; + That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee; + An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln. + O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, + Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; + Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return, + And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear; + The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near. + +9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, + Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; + Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; + Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43] + On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, + Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, + Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw + Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44] + Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45] + +10 In its auld lerroch[46] yet the deas[47] remains, + Where the gudeman aft streeks[48] him at his ease; + A warm and canny lean for weary banes + O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. + Round him will baudrins[49] an' the collie come, + To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee, + To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb + O' kebbuck[50] whang'd, an' dainty fadge[51] to prie;[52] + This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee. + +11 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: + What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; + How big a birn[53] maun lie on bassie's[54] back, + For meal an' mu'ter[55] to the thirlin' mill. + Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids + Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies[56] bound; + Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,[57] + An' ca' the laiglen's[58] treasure on the ground; + Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound. + + +12 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,[59] + Their joints to slack frae industry a while; + The leaden god fa's heavy on their een, + An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil: + The cruizy,[60] too, can only blink and bleer; + The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow; + Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, + Upo' the cod[61] to clear their drumly pow,[62] + Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow. + +13 Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, + Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! + Lang may his sock[63] and cou'ter turn the gleyb,[64] + An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear! + May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green; + Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed! + May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,[65] + Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed; + An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed! + +[1] 'Keeks:' peeps. +[2] 'Owsen:' oxen. +[3] 'Sair dung:' fatigued. +[4] 'Steeks:' shuts. +[5] 'Dightin':' winnowing. +[6] 'What bangs fu' leal:' what shuts out most comfortably. +[7] 'Gars:' makes. +[8] 'Fley'd:' frightened. +[9] 'Wi' divots theekit:' thatched with turf. +[10] 'Chimley:' chimney. +[11] 'Smeek:' smoke. +[12] 'Hallan:' the inner wall of a cottage. +[13] 'Cosh:' comfortable. +[14] 'Meltith:' meal. +[15] 'Synd:' drink. +[16] 'Downa:' should not. +[17] 'Girdle:' a flat iron for toasting cakes. +[18] 'Bowie:' beer-barrel. +[19] 'Kail:' broth with greens. +[20] 'Kitchen:' anything eaten with bread. +[21] 'Gabs:' palates. +[22] 'Eident:' assidious. +[23] 'Spae:' fortell. +[24] 'Brulzies:' contests. +[25] 'Gardies:' arms. +[26] 'Yird:' earth. +[27] 'Cracks:' pleasant talk. +[28] 'Bicker:' the cup. +[29] 'gash:' debat. +[30] 'Their mailins' produce hash:' destroy the produce of their farms. +[31] 'The fient a cheep:' not a whimper. +[32] 'Maen:' moan. +[33] 'Rangles:' circles. +[34] 'Gudame's:' grandame. +[35] 'Wirrikow:' scare-crow. +[36] 'Win:' abide. +[37] 'Fleetch:' entice. +[38] 'Tint:' lost. +[39] 'Scowder'd:' scorched. +[40] 'Eild:' age. +[41] 'Bairnly:' childish. +[42] 'Stent:' task. +[43] 'Lave:' the rest. +[44] 'Oy:' grand child. +[45] 'Her foy:' her farewell entertainment. +[46] 'Lerroch:'corner. +[47] 'Deas:' bench. +[48] 'Streeks:' stretches. +[49] 'Baudrins:' the cat. +[50] 'Kebbuck:' cheese. +[51] 'Fadge:' loaf. +[52] 'To prie:' to taste. +[53] 'Birn:' burden. +[54] 'Bassie:' the horse. +[55] 'Mu'ter:' the miller's perquisite. +[56] 'Hawkies:'cows. +[57] 'Tids:' fits. +[58] 'The laiglen: 'the milk-pail. +[59] 'To green:' to long. +[60] 'The cruizy:' the lamp. +[61] 'Cod:' pillow. +[62] 'Drumly pow:' thick heads. +[63] 'Sock:' ploughshare. +[64] 'Gleyb:' soil. +[65] 'Bien: 'comfortable. + + + + +DR WALTER HARTE. + + +Campbell, in his 'Specimens,' devotes a large portion of space to Dr +Walter Harte, and has quoted profusely from a poem of his entitled +'Eulogius.' We may give some of the best lines here:-- + + 'This spot for dwelling fit Eulogius chose, + And in a month a decent homestall rose, + Something between a cottage and a cell; + Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell. + + 'The site was neither granted him nor given; + 'Twas Nature's, and the ground-rent due to Heaven. + + Wife he had none, nor had he love to spare,-- + An aged mother wanted all his care. + They thanked their Maker for a pittance sent, + Supped on a turnip, slept upon content.' + +Again, of a neighbouring matron, who died leaving Eulogius money-- + + 'This matron, whitened with good works and age, + Approached the Sabbath of her pilgrimage; + Her spirit to himself the Almighty drew, + _Breathed on the alembic, and exhaled the dew_.' + +And once more-- + + 'Who but Eulogius now exults for joy? + New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind employ; + Pride pushed forth buds at every branching shoot, + And virtue shrank almost beneath the root. + High raised on fortune's hill, new Alps he spies, + O'ershoots the valley which beneath him lies, + Forgets the depths between, and travels with his eyes.' + + + + +EDWARD LOVIBOND. + + +Hampton in Middlesex was the birthplace of our next poet, Edward Lovibond. +He was a gentleman of fortune, who chiefly employed his time in rural +occupations. He became a director of the East India Company. He helped his +friend Moore in conducting the periodical called _The World_, to which he +contributed several papers, including the very pleasing poem entitled +'The Tears of Old May-Day.' He died in 1775. + + +THE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY. + +WRITTEN ON THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754. + +1 Led by the jocund train of vernal hours + And vernal airs, uprose the gentle May; + Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flowers + That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray. + +2 Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were bright, + And amorous zephyrs fluttered on her breast: + With every shifting gleam of morning light, + The colours shifted of her rainbow vest. + +3 Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form, + A golden key and golden wand she bore; + This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm, + And that unlocks the summer's copious store. + +4 Onward in conscious majesty she came, + The grateful honours of mankind to taste: + To gather fairest wreaths of future fame, + And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past. + +5 Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite + Her virgin votaries, and at early dawn, + Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite, + Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled lawn. + +6 To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride + Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine: + Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide, + A purer offering at her rustic shrine. + +7 No more the Maypole's verdant height around + To valour's games the ambitious youth advance; + No merry bells and tabor's sprightlier sound + Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance. + +8 Sudden in pensive sadness drooped her head, + Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson died-- + 'O chaste victorious triumphs! whither fled? + My maiden honours, whither gone?' she cried. + +9 Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born, + The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise, + With time coeval and the star of morn, + The first, the fairest daughter of the skies. + +10 Then, when at Heaven's prolific mandate sprung + The radiant beam of new-created day, + Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung, + Hailed the glad dawn, and angels called me May. + +11 Space in her empty regions heard the sound, + And hills, and dales, and rocks, and valleys rung; + The sun exulted in his glorious round, + And shouting planets in their courses sung. + +12 For ever then I led the constant year; + Saw youth, and joy, and love's enchanting wiles; + Saw the mild graces in my train appear, + And infant beauty brighten in my smiles. + +13 No winter frowned. In sweet embrace allied, + Three sister seasons danced the eternal green; + And Spring's retiring softness gently vied + With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty mien. + +14 Too soon, when man profaned the blessings given, + And vengeance armed to blot a guilty age, + With bright Astrea to my native heaven + I fled, and flying saw the deluge rage; + +15 Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, + While sounding billows from the mountains rolled, + With bitter waves polluting all my streams, + My nectared streams, that flowed on sands of gold. + +16 Then vanished many a sea-girt isle and grove, + Their forests floating on the watery plain: + Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove, + My Atalantis sunk beneath the main. + +17 No longer bloomed primeval Eden's bowers, + Nor guardian dragons watched the Hesperian steep: + With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flowers, + Torn from the continent to glut the deep. + +18 No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deigned, + Yet oft descending to the languid earth, + With quickening powers the fainting mass sustained, + And waked her slumbering atoms into birth. + +19 And every echo taught my raptured name, + And every virgin breathed her amorous vows, + And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame, + Showered by the Muses, crowned my lofty brows. + +20 But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride, + My Albion's favoured realms, I rose adored; + And poured my wealth, to other climes denied; + From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored. + +21 Ah me! for now a younger rival claims + My ravished honours, and to her belong + My choral dances, and victorious games, + To her my garlands and triumphal song. + +22 O say what yet untasted beauties flow, + What purer joys await her gentler reign? + Do lilies fairer, violets sweeter blow? + And warbles Philomel a softer strain? + +23 Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise? + Does evening fan her with serener gales? + Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies, + Or wantons plenty in her happier vales? + +24 Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light + Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day; + And Cynthia, riding on the car of night, + Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way. + +25 Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs, + Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flower; + Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings + When silence listens at the midnight hour. + +26 Nor wonder, man, that Nature's bashful face, + And opening charms, her rude embraces fear: + Is she not sprung from April's wayward race, + The sickly daughter of the unripened year? + +27 With showers and sunshine in her fickle eyes, + With hollow smiles proclaiming treacherous peace, + With blushes, harbouring, in their thin disguise, + The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase? + +28 Is this the fair invested with my spoil + By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command? + Ungenerous Europe! let me fly thy soil, + And waft my treasures to a grateful land; + +29 Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore, + My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain; + Again to Afric's sultry sands restore + Embowering shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane: + +30 Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast, + There hush to silence elemental strife; + Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost, + And swell her barren womb with heat and life. + +31 Then Britain--Here she ceased. Indignant grief, + And parting pangs, her faltering tongue suppressed: + Veiled in an amber cloud she sought relief, + And tears and silent anguish told the rest. + + + + +FRANCIS FAWKES. + + +This 'learned and jovial parson,' as Campbell calls him, was born in 1721, +in Yorkshire. He studied at Cambridge, and became curate at Croydon, in +Surrey. Here he obtained the friendship of Archbishop Herring, and was by +him appointed vicar of Orpington in Kent, a situation which he ultimately +exchanged for the rectory of Hayes, in the same county. He translated +various minor Greek poets, including Anacreon, Sappho, Bion and Moschus, +Theocritus, &c. He died in 1777. His 'Brown Jug' breathes some of the +spirit of the first of these writers, and two or three lines of it were +once quoted triumphantly in Parliament by Sheil, while charging Peel, we +think it was, with appropriating arguments from Bishop Philpotts--'Harry +of Exeter.' + + 'Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, + Was once Toby Philpotts,' &c. + + +THE BROWN JUG. + +1 Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, + (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale,) + Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul + As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl; + In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel, + And among jolly topers lie bore off the bell. + +2 It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease + In his flower-woven arbour as gay as you please, + With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away, + And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, + His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, + And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. + +3 His body, when long in the ground it had lain, + And time into clay had resolved it again, + A potter found out in its covert so snug, + And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug + Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale; + So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale. + + + + +JOHN LANGHORNE. + + +This poetical divine was born in 1735, at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland. +Left fatherless at four years old, his mother fulfilled her double charge +of duty with great tenderness and assiduity. He was educated at Appleby, +and subsequently became assistant at the free-school of Wakefield, took +deacon's orders, and gave promise, although very young, of becoming a +popular preacher. After various vicissitudes of life and fortune, and +publishing a number of works in prose and verse, Langhorne repaired to +London, and obtained, in 1764, the curacy and lectureship of St John's, +Clerkenwell. He soon afterwards became assistant-preacher in Lincoln's +Inn Chapel, where he had a very intellectual audience to address, and +bore a somewhat trying ordeal with complete success. He continued for a +number of years in London, maintaining his reputation both as a preacher +and writer. His most popular works were the 'Letters of Theodosius and +Constantia,' and a translation of Plutarch's Lives, which Wrangham +afterwards corrected and improved, and which is still standard. He was +twice married, and survived both his wives. He obtained the living of +Blagden in Somersetshire, and in addition to it, in 1777, a prebend in +the Cathedral of Wells. He died in 1779, aged only forty-four; his death, +it is supposed, being accelerated by intemperance, although it does not +seem to have been of a gross or aggravated description. Langhorne, an +amiable man, and highly popular as well as warmly beloved in his day, +survives now in memory chiefly through his Plutarch's Lives, and through +a few lines in his 'Country Justice,' which are immortalised by the well- +known story of Scott's interview with Burns. Campbell puts in a plea +besides for his 'Owen of Carron,' but the plea, being founded on early +reading, is partial, and has not been responded to by the public. + + +FROM 'THE COUNTRY JUSTICE.' + +The social laws from insult to protect, +To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; +The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, +To smooth the bed of penury and pain; +The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, +The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore; +The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art, +To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; +Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell, +Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, +Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, +For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm; +For this the rural magistrate, of yore, +Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore. + +Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, +On silver waves that flow through smiling vales; +In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, +Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; +With many a group of antique columns crowned, +In Gothic guise such, mansion have I found. + +Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, +Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face, +Of the more manly structures here ye view; +They rose for greatness that ye never knew! +Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my spleen +With Venus and the Graces on your green! +Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, +Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, +The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, +Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! +But spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, +Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face! + +Ye royal architects, whose antic taste +Would lay the realms of sense and nature waste; +Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, +That folly only points each other way; +Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees, +Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the trees; +Yet let not too severe a censure fall +On the plain precincts of the ancient hall. + +For though no sight your childish fancy meets, +Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets; +Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, +And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail; +Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, +The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone; +And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes, +Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting gods. + +Long have these mighty monsters known disgrace, +Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place; +Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase rears +The field-day triumphs of two hundred years. + +The enormous antlers here recall the day +That saw the forest monarch forced away; +Who, many a flood, and many a mountain passed, +Not finding those, nor deeming these the last, +O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly, +Long ere the death-drop filled his failing eye! + +Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown old, +Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. +Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer, +The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, +And tells his old, traditionary tale, +Though known to every tenant of the vale. + +Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, +Marked with his weight, the mighty horns are spread: +Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, +Where the vast master with the vast sirloin +Vied in round magnitude--Respect I bear +To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair. + +These, and such antique tokens that record +The manly spirit, and the bounteous board, +Me more delight than all the gewgaw train, +The whims and zigzags of a modern brain, +More than all Asia's marmosets to view, +Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew. + +Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast thou strayed, +By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, +And seen with lionest, antiquated air, +In the plain hall the magistratial chair? +There Herbert sat--The love of human kind, +Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind, +In the free eye the featured soul displayed, +Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting shade: +Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, +Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, +Bend o'er her urn with many a generous fear, +Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear; +Fair equity, and reason scorning art, +And all the sober virtues of the heart-- +These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail +Where statutes order, or where statutes fail. + +Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan: +Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. + +He whom the mighty master of this ball +We fondly deem, or farcically call, +To own the patriarch's truth, however loth, +Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth. + +Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, +Born but to err, and erring to bewail, +Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, +And give to life one human weakness more? + +Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; +Still mark the strong temptation and the need: +On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, +At least more lenient let thy justice fall. + +For him who, lost to every hope of life, +Has long with fortune held unequal strife, +Known to no human love, no human care, +The friendless, homeless object of despair; +For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, +Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. +Alike, if folly or misfortune brought +Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; +Believe with social mercy and with me, +Folly's misfortune in the first degree. + +Perhaps on some inhospitable shore +The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore; +Who then, no more by golden prospects led, +Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed. +Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, +Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain; +Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, +The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, +Gave the sad presage of his future years, +The child of misery, baptized in tears! + + +GIPSIES. + +FROM THE SAME. + +The gipsy-race my pity rarely move; +Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love: +Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, more; +Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore. + +For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves +The tawny father with his offspring roves; +When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, +In mossy caves, where welling waters play, +Fanned by each gale that cools the fervid sky, +With this in ragged luxury they lie. +Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain +The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again; +Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, +For their prophetic mother's mantle call. + +Far other cares that wandering mother wait, +The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! +From her to hear, in evening's friendly shade, +Of future fortune, flies the village-maid, +Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, +And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold. + +But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures! +She opens not the womb of time, but yours. +Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, +Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung! +The parson's maid--sore cause had she to rue +The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too. +Long had that anxious daughter sighed to know +What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau, +Meant by those glances which at church he stole, +Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl; +Long had she sighed; at length a prophet came, +By many a sure prediction known to fame, +To Marian known, and all she told, for true: +She knew the future, for the past she knew. + + +A CASE WHERE MERCY SHOULD HAVE MITIGATED JUSTICE. + +FROM THE SAME. + +Unnumbered objects ask thy honest care, +Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer: +Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless, +Unnumbered evils call for thy redress. + +Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn, +Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn? +While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye, +A few seem straggling in the evening sky! +Not many suns have hastened down the day, +Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way, +Since there, a scene that stained their sacred light, +With horror stopped a felon in his flight; +A babe just born that signs of life expressed, +Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast. +The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued, +He had no time to waste, yet stood and viewed; +To the next cot the trembling infant bore, +And gave a part of what he stole before; +Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear, +He felt as man, and dropped a human tear. + +Far other treatment she who breathless lay, +Found from a viler animal of prey. + +Worn with long toil on many a painful road, +That toil increased by nature's growing load, +When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, +And all the mother thronged about her breast, +The ruffian officer opposed her stay, +And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, +So far beyond the town's last limits drove, +That to return were hopeless, had she strove; +Abandoned there, with famine, pain, and cold, +And anguish, she expired,--The rest I've told. + +'Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh, +That thief shall live, that overseer shall die.' + +Too late!--his life the generous robber paid, +Lost by that pity which his steps delayed! +No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, +No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; +No liberal justice first assigned the gaol, +Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his tale. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. + + +This is not the place for writing the life of the great lawyer whose +awful wig has been singed by the sarcasm of Junius. He was born in +London in 1723, and died in 1780. He had early coquetted with poetry, +but on entering the Middle Temple he bade a 'Farewell to his Muse' in +the verses subjoined. So far as lucre was concerned, he chose the better +part, and rose gradually on the ladder of law to be a knight and a judge +in the Court of Common Pleas. It has been conjectured, from some notes +on Shakspeare published by Stevens, that Sir William continued till the +end of his days to hold occasional flirtations with his old flame. + + +THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. + +As, by some tyrant's stern command, +A wretch forsakes his native land, +In foreign climes condemned to roam +An endless exile from his home; +Pensive he treads the destined way, +And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; +Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow +He stops, and turns his eyes below; +There, melting at the well-known view, +Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: +So I, thus doomed from thee to part, +Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art, +Reluctant move, with doubtful mind +Oft stop, and often look behind. + +Companion of my tender age, +Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, +How blithesome were we wont to rove +By verdant hill, or shady grove, +Where fervent bees, with humming voice, +Around the honeyed oak rejoice, +And aged elms with awful bend +In long cathedral walks extend! +Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, +Cheered by the warbling of the woods, +How blessed my days, my thoughts how free, +In sweet society with thee! +Then all was joyous, all was young, +And years unheeded rolled along: +But now the pleasing dream is o'er, +These scenes must charm me now no more. +Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-- +Farewell!--a long, a last adieu. +Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, +To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: +There selfish faction rules the day, +And pride and avarice throng the way; +Diseases taint the murky air, +And midnight conflagrations glare; +Loose Revelry and Riot bold +In frighted streets their orgies hold; +Or, where in silence all is drowned, +Fell Murder walks his lonely round; +No room for peace, no room for you, +Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! + +Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, +Nor all the art of Addison, +Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, +Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: +Instead of these a formal band, +In furs and coifs, around me stand; +With sounds uncouth and accents dry, +That grate the soul of harmony, +Each pedant sage unlocks his store +Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; +And points with tottering hand the ways +That lead me to the thorny maze. + +There, in a winding close retreat, +Is Justice doomed to fix her seat; +There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, +She keeps the wondering world in awe; +And there, from vulgar sight retired, +Like eastern queens, is more admired. + +Oh, let me pierce the sacred shade +Where dwells the venerable maid! +There humbly mark, with reverent awe, +The guardian of Britannia's law; +Unfold with joy her sacred page, +The united boast of many an age; +Where mixed, yet uniform, appears +The wisdom of a thousand years. +In that pure spring the bottom view, +Clear, deep, and regularly true; +And other doctrines thence imbibe +Than lurk within the sordid scribe; +Observe how parts with parts unite +In one harmonious rule of right; +See countless wheels distinctly tend +By various laws to one great end: +While mighty Alfred's piercing soul +Pervades, and regulates the whole. + +Then welcome business, welcome strife, +Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, +The visage wan, the poreblind sight, +The toil by day, the lamp at night, +The tedious forms, the solemn prate, +The pert dispute, the dull debate, +The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall, +For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! +Thus though my noon of life be passed, +Yet let my setting sun, at last, +Find out the still, the rural cell, +Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! +There let me taste the homefelt bliss. +Of innocence and inward peace; +Untainted by the guilty bribe; +Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; +No orphan's cry to wound my ear; +My honour and my conscience clear; +Thus may I calmly meet my end, +Thus to the grave in peace descend. + + + + +JOHN SCOTT. + + +This poet is generally known as 'Scott of Amwell.' This arises from the +fact that his father, a draper in Southwark, where John was born in +1730, retired ten years afterwards to Amwell. He had never been +inoculated with the small-pox, and such was his dread of the disease, +and that of his family, that for twenty years, although within twenty +miles of London, he never visited it. His parents, who belonged to the +amiable sect of Quakers, sent him to a day-school at Ware, but that too +he left upon the first alarm of infection. At seventeen, although his +education was much neglected, he began to relish reading, and was +materially assisted in his studies by a neighbour of the name of +Frogley, a master bricklayer, who, though somewhat illiterate, admired +poetry. Scott sent his first essays to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and +in his thirtieth year published four elegies, which met with a kind +reception, although Dr Johnson said only of them, 'They are very well, +but such as twenty people might write.' He produced afterwards 'The +Garden,' 'Amwell,' and other poems, besides some rather narrow 'Critical +Essays on the English Poets.' When thirty-six years of age, he submitted +to inoculation, and henceforward visited London frequently, and became +acquainted with Dr Johnson, Sir William Jones, Mrs Montague, and other +eminent characters. He was a very active promoter of local improvements, +and diligent in cultivating his grounds and garden. He was twice +married, his first wife being a daughter of his friend Frogley. He died +in 1783, not of that disease which he so 'greatly feared,' but of a +putrid fever, at Radcliff. One note of his, entitled 'Ode on Hearing the +Drum,' still reverberates on the ear of poetic readers. Wordsworth has +imitated it in his 'Andrew Jones.' Sir Walter makes Rachel Geddes say, +in 'Redgauntlet,' alluding to books of verse, 'Some of our people do +indeed hold that every writer who is not with us is against us, but +brother Joshua is mitigated in his opinions, and correspondeth with our +friend John Scott of Amwell, who hath himself constructed verses well +approved of even in the world.' + + +ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM. + +1 I hate that drum's discordant sound, + Parading round, and round, and round: + To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, + And lures from cities and from fields, + To sell their liberty for charms + Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms; + And when ambition's voice commands, + To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. + +2 I hate that drum's discordant sound, + Parading round, and round, and round: + To me it talks of ravaged plains, + And burning towns, and ruined swains, + And mangled limbs, and dying groans, + And widows' tears, and orphans' moans; + And all that misery's hand bestows, + To fill the catalogue of human woes. + + +THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. + +AN ODE. + +1 There's grandeur in this sounding storm, + That drives the hurrying clouds along, + That on each other seem to throng, + And mix in many a varied form; + While, bursting now and then between, + The moon's dim misty orb is seen, + And casts faint glimpses on the green. + +2 Beneath the blast the forests bend, + And thick the branchy ruin lies, + And wide the shower of foliage flies; + The lake's black waves in tumult blend, + Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, + And foaming on the rocky shore, + Whose caverns echo to their roar. + +3 The sight sublime enrapts my thought, + And swift along the past it strays, + And much of strange event surveys, + What history's faithful tongue has taught, + Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill + The page with fabled change can fill + Of ill to good, or good to ill. + +4 But can my soul the scene enjoy, + That rends another's breast with pain? + O hapless he, who, near the main, + Now sees its billowy rage destroy! + Beholds the foundering bark descend, + Nor knows but what its fate may end + The moments of his dearest friend! + + + + +ALEXANDER ROSS. + + +Of this fine old Scottish poet we regret that we can tell our readers so +little. He was born in 1698, became parish schoolmaster at Lochlee in +Angusshire, and published, by the advice of Dr Beattie, in 1768, a +volume entitled 'Helenore; or, The Fortunate Shepherdess: a Pastoral Tale +in the Scottish Dialect; along with a few Songs.' Some of these latter, +such as 'Woo'd, and Married, and a',' became very popular. Beattie loved +the 'good-humoured, social, happy old man,' who was 'passing rich' on +twenty pounds a-year, and wrote in the _Aberdeen Journal_ a poetical +letter in the Scotch language to promote the sale of his poem. Ross died +in 1784, about eighty-six years old, and is buried in a churchyard at the +east end of the loch. + +Lochlee is a very solitary and romantic spot. The road to it from the +low country, or Howe of the Mearns, conducts us through a winding, +unequal, but very interesting glen, which, after bearing at its foot +many patches of corn, yellowing amidst thick green copsewood and birch +trees, fades and darkens gradually into a stern, woodless, and rocky +defile, which emerges on a solitary loch, lying 'dern and dreary' amidst +silent hills. It is one of those lakes which divide the distance between +the loch and the tarn, being two miles in length and one in breadth. The +hills, which are stony and savage, sink directly down upon its brink. +A house or two are all the dwellings in view. The celebrated Thomas +Guthrie dearly loves this lake, lives beside it for months at a time, +and is often seen rowing his lonely boat in the midst of it, by sunlight +and by moonlight too. On the west, one bold, sword-like summit, Craig +Macskeldie by name, cuts the air, and relieves the monotony of the other +mountains. Fit rest has Ross found in that calm, rural burying-place, +beside 'the rude forefathers of the hamlet,' with short, sweet, flower- +sprinkled grass covering his dust, the low voice of the lake sounding +a few yards from his cold ear, and a plain gravestone uniting with his +native mountains to form his memorial. 'Fortunate Shepherd,' (shall we +call him?) to have obtained a grave so intensely characteristic of a +Scottish poet! + + +WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'. + +1 The bride cam' out o' the byre, + And, O, as she dighted her cheeks! + 'Sirs, I'm to be married the night, + And have neither blankets nor sheets; + Have neither blankets nor sheets, + Nor scarce a coverlet too; + The bride that has a' thing to borrow, + Has e'en right muckle ado.' + Woo'd, and married, and a', + Married, and woo'd, and a'! + And was she nae very weel off, + That was woo'd, and married, and a'? + +2 Out spake the bride's father, + As he cam' in frae the pleugh: + 'O, haud your tongue my dochter, + And ye'se get gear eneugh; + The stirk stands i' the tether, + And our braw bawsint yade, + Will carry ye hame your corn-- + What wad ye be at, ye jade?' + +3 Out spake the bride's mither: + 'What deil needs a' this pride? + I had nae a plack in my pouch + That night I was a bride; + My gown was linsey-woolsey, + And ne'er a sark ava; + And ye hae ribbons and buskins, + Mae than ane or twa.' + * * * * * + +4 Out spake the bride's brither, + As he cam' in wi' the kye: + 'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, + Had he kent ye as weel as I; + For ye're baith proud and saucy, + And no for a poor man's wife; + Gin I canna get a better, + I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' + * * * * * + + +THE ROCK AN' THE WEE PICKLE TOW. + +1 There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow, + And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't; + But lootin' her doun, her rock took a-lowe, + And that was an ill beginnin' o't. + She spat on 't, she flat on 't, and tramped on its pate, + But a' she could do it wad ha'e its ain gate; + At last she sat down on't and bitterly grat, + For e'er ha'in' tried the spinnin' o't. + +2 Foul fa' them that ever advised me to spin, + It minds me o' the beginnin' o't; + I weel might ha'e ended as I had begun, + And never ha'e tried the spinnin' o't. + But she's a wise wife wha kens her ain weird, + I thought ance a day it wad never be spier'd, + How let ye the lowe tak' the rock by the beard, + When ye gaed to try the spinnin' o't? + +3 The spinnin', the spinnin', it gars my heart sab + To think on the ill beginnin' o't; + I took't in my head to mak' me a wab, + And that was the first beginnin' o't. + But had I nine daughters, as I ha'e but three, + The safest and soundest advice I wad gi'e, + That they wad frae spinnin' aye keep their heads free, + For fear o' an ill beginnin' o't. + +4 But if they, in spite o' my counsel, wad run + The dreary, sad task o' the spinnin' o't; + Let them find a lown seat by the light o' the sun, + And syne venture on the beginnin' o't. + For wha's done as I've done, alake and awowe! + To busk up a rock at the cheek o' a lowe; + They'll say that I had little wit in my pow-- + O the muckle black deil tak' the spinnin' o't. + + + + +RICHARD GLOVER. + + +Glover was a man so remarkable as to be thought capable of having written +the letters of Junius, although no one now almost names his name or reads +his poetry. He was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in London, and born +(1712) in St Martin's Lane, Cannon Street. He was educated at a private +school in Surrey, but being designed for trade, was never sent to a +university, yet by his own exertions he became an excellent classical +scholar. At sixteen he wrote a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, +and at twenty-five produced nine books of his 'Leonidas.' Partly through +its own merits, partly through its liberal political sentiments, and +partly through the influence of Lord Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, +and the praise of Fielding and Chatham, it became very popular. In 1739, +he produced a poem entitled 'London; or, The Progress of Commerce,' and a +spirited ballad entitled 'Admiral Hosier's Ghost,' which we have given, +both designed to rouse the national spirit against the Spaniards. + +Glover was a merchant, and very highly esteemed among his commercial +brethren, although at one time unfortunate in business. When forced by +his failure to seek retirement, he produced a tragedy on the subject of +Boadicea, which ran the usual nine nights, although it has long since +ceased to be acted or read. In his later years his affairs improved; he +returned again to public life, was elected to Parliament, and approved +himself a painstaking and popular M.P. In 1770, he enlarged his +'Leonidas' from nine books to twelve, and afterwards wrote a sequel to +it, entitled 'The Athenais.' Glover spent his closing years in opulent +retirement, enjoying the intimacy and respect of the most eminent men of +the day, and died in 1785. + +'Leonidas' may be called the epic of the eighteenth century, and betrays +the artificial genius of its age. The poet rises to his flight like a +heavy heron--not a hawk or eagle. Passages in it are good, but the effect +of the whole is dulness. It reminds you of Cowper's 'Homer,' in which all +is accurate, but all is cold, and where even the sound of battle lulls +to slumber--or of Edwin Atherstone's 'Fall of Nineveh,' where you are +fatigued with uniform pomp, and the story struggles and staggers under a +load of words. Thomson exclaimed when he heard of the work of Glover, 'He +write an epic, who never saw a mountain!' And there was justice in the +remark. The success of 'Leonidas' was probably one cause of the swarm of +epics which appeared in the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of +the nineteenth century.--Cottle himself being, according to De Quincey, +'the author of four epic poems, _and_ a new kind of blacking.' Their day +seems now for ever at an end. + + +FROM BOOK XII + + Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen band after their + return from the inroad into the Persian camp, on the night before + the Battle of Thermopylae. + +Back to the pass in gentle march he leads +The embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs, +Where Medon sent such numbers to the shades, +In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown. +Soft breezes only from the Malian wave +O'er each grim face, besmeared with smoke and gore, +Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale, +A crystal rill near Oeta's verdant feet, +Dispel the languor from their harassed nerves, +Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their heads +Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears +Melissa, bearing in her hand divine +The eternal guardian of illustrious deeds, +The sweet Phoebean lyre. Her graceful train +Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range +Half down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks, +All with concordant strings, and accents clear, +A torrent pour of melody, and swell +A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, +Anticipating fame. Of endless joys +In blessed Elysium was the song. Go, meet +Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage, +Let them salute the children of their laws. +Meet Homer, Orpheus, and the Ascraean bard, +Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food +Refined, and more exalted, shall contend +Your splendid fate to warble through the bowers +Of amaranth and myrtle ever young, +Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. +In yonder fane deposited, your urns, +Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire. +Whatever offerings, genius, science, art +Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours, +The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit +You on the enlivened canvas, marble, brass, +In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song, +In every tongue, through every age and clime, +You of this earth the brightest flowers, not cropt, +Transplanted only to immortal bloom +Of praise with men, of happiness with gods. + + + +ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. + +ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS +BY ADMIRAL VERNON--Nov. 22, 1739. + +1 As near Porto-Bello lying + On the gently swelling flood, + At midnight with streamers flying, + Our triumphant navy rode: + There while Vernon sat all-glorious + From the Spaniards' late defeat; + And his crews, with shouts victorious, + Drank success to England's fleet: + +2 On a sudden shrilly sounding, + Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; + Then each heart with fear confounding, + A sad troop of ghosts appeared, + All in dreary hammocks shrouded, + Which for winding-sheets they wore, + And with looks by sorrow clouded, + Frowning on that hostile shore. + +3 On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, + When the shade of Hosier brave + His pale bands was seen to muster, + Rising from their watery grave: + O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, + Where the Burford[1] reared her sail, + With three thousand ghosts beside him, + And in groans did Vernon hail: + +4 'Heed, O heed, our fatal story, + I am Hosier's injured ghost, + You, who now have purchased glory + At this place where I was lost; + Though in Porto-Bello's ruin + You now triumph free from fears, + When you think on our undoing, + You will mix your joy with tears. + +5 'See these mournful spectres, sweeping + Ghastly o'er this hated wave, + Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; + These were English captains brave: + Mark those numbers pale and horrid, + Those were once my sailors bold, + Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, + While his dismal tale is told. + +6 'I, by twenty sail attended, + Did this Spanish town affright: + Nothing then its wealth defended + But my orders not to fight: + Oh! that in this rolling ocean + I had cast them with disdain, + And obeyed my heart's warm motion, + To have quelled the pride of Spain. + +7 'For resistance I could fear none, + But with twenty ships had done + What thou, brave and happy Vernon, + Hast achieved with six alone. + Then the Bastimentos never + Had our foul dishonour seen, + Nor the sea the sad receiver + Of this gallant train had been. + +8 'Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, + And her galleons leading home, + Though condemned for disobeying, + I had met a traitor's doom; + To have fallen, my country crying, + He has played an English part, + Had been better far than dying + Of a grieved and broken heart. + +9 'Unrepining at thy glory, + Thy successful arms we hail; + But remember our sad story, + And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. + Sent in this foul clime to languish, + Think what thousands fell in vain, + Wasted with disease and anguish, + Not in glorious battle slain. + +10 'Hence, with all my train attending + From their oozy tombs below, + Through the hoary foam ascending, + Here I feed my constant woe: + Here the Bastimentos viewing, + We recall our shameful doom, + And our plaintive cries renewing, + Wander through the midnight gloom. + +11 'O'er these waves for ever mourning + Shall we roam deprived of rest, + If to Britain's shores returning, + You neglect my just request. + After this proud foe subduing, + When your patriot friends you see, + Think on vengeance for my ruin, + And for England shamed in me.' + +[1] 'The Burford:' Admiral Vernon's ship. + + + + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. + + +There was also a Paul Whitehead, who wrote a satire entitled 'Manners,' +which is highly praised by Boswell, and mentioned contemptuously by +Campbell, and who lives in the couplet of Churchill-- + + 'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) + Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul.' + +William Whitehead was the son of a baker in Cambridge, was born in 1715, +and studied first at Winchester, and then in Clare Hall, in his own +city. He became tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey, wrote one or two +poor plays, and in 1757, on the death of Colley Cibber, was appointed +Poet-Laureate--the office having previously been refused by Gray. This +roused against him a large class of those 'beings capable of envying +even a poet-laureate,' to use Gray's expression, and especially the +wrath of Churchill, then the man-mountain of satiric literature, who, in +his 'Ghost,' says-- + + 'But he who in the laureate chair, + By grace, not merit, planted there, + In awkward pomp is seen to sit, + And by his patent proves his wit,' &c. + +To these attacks Whitehead, who was a good-natured and modest man, made +no reply. In his latter years the Laureate resided in the family of Lord +Jersey, and died in 1785. His poem called 'Variety' is light and pleasant, +and deserves a niche in our 'Specimens.' + + +VARIETY. + +A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE. + +A gentle maid, of rural breeding, +By Nature first, and then by reading, +Was filled with all those soft sensations +Which we restrain in near relations, +Lest future husbands should be jealous, +And think their wives too fond of fellows. + +The morning sun beheld her rove +A nymph, or goddess of the grove! +At eve she paced the dewy lawn, +And called each clown she saw, a faun! +Then, scudding homeward, locked her door, +And turned some copious volume o'er. +For much she read; and chiefly those +Great authors, who in verse, or prose, +Or something betwixt both, unwind +The secret springs which move the mind. +These much she read; and thought she knew +The human heart's minutest clue; +Yet shrewd observers still declare, +(To show how shrewd observers are,) +Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, +And novels, in profusion, came, +Imported fresh-and-fresh from France, +She only read the heart's romance. + +The world, no doubt, was well enough +To smooth the manners of the rough; +Might please the giddy and the vain, +Those tinselled slaves of folly's train: +But, for her part, the truest taste +She found was in retirement placed, +Where, as in verse it sweetly flows, +'On every thorn instruction grows.' + +Not that she wished to 'be alone,' +As some affected prudes have done; +She knew it was decreed on high +We should 'increase and multiply;' +And therefore, if kind Fate would grant +Her fondest wish, her only want, +A cottage with the man she loved +Was what her gentle heart approved; +In some delightful solitude +Where step profane might ne'er intrude; +But Hymen guard the sacred ground, +And virtuous Cupids hover round. +Not such as flutter on a fan +Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, +(Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses, +And hold their fingers to their noses,) +But simpering, mild, and innocent, +As angels on a monument. + +Fate heard her prayer: a lover came, +Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame; +One who had trod, as well as she, +The flowery paths of poesy; +Had warmed himself with Milton's heat, +Could every line of Pope repeat, +Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains, +'The lover's hopes,' 'the lover's pains.' + +Attentive to the charmer's tongue, +With him she thought no evening long; +With him she sauntered half the day; +And sometimes, in a laughing way, +Ran o'er the catalogue by rote +Of who might marry, and who not; +'Consider, sir, we're near relations--' +'I hope so in our inclinations.'-- +In short, she looked, she blushed consent; +He grasped her hand, to church they went; +And every matron that was there, +With tongue so voluble and supple, +Said for her part, she must declare, +She never saw a finer couple. +halcyon days! 'Twas Nature's reign, +'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain, +The fields assumed unusual bloom, +And every zephyr breathed perfume, +The laughing sun with genial beams +Danced lightly on the exulting streams; +And the pale regent of the night +In dewy softness shed delight. +'Twas transport not to be expressed; +'Twas Paradise!--But mark the rest. + +Two smiling springs had waked the flowers +That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers, +(Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears, +Who count by months, and not by years,) +Two smiling springs had chaplets wove +To crown their solitude, and love: +When lo, they find, they can't tell how, +Their walks are not so pleasant now. +The seasons sure were changed; the place +Had, somehow, got a different face. +Some blast had struck the cheerful scene; +The lawns, the woods, were not so green. +The purling rill, which murmured by, +And once was liquid harmony, +Became a sluggish, reedy pool: +The days grew hot, the evenings cool. +The moon, with all the starry reign, +Were melancholy's silent train. +And then the tedious winter night-- +They could not read by candle-light. + +Full oft, unknowing why they did, +They called in adventitious aid. +A faithful, favourite dog ('twas thus +With Tobit and Telemachus) +Amused their steps; and for a while +They viewed his gambols with a smile. +The kitten too was comical, +She played so oddly with her tail, +Or in the glass was pleased to find +Another cat, and peeped behind. + +A courteous neighbour at the door +Was deemed intrusive noise no more. +For rural visits, now and then, +Are right, as men must live with men. +Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town, + +A new recruit, a dear delight! +Made many a heavy hour go down, +At morn, at noon, at eve, at night: +Sure they could hear her jokes for ever, +She was so sprightly, and so clever! + +Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; +What joy, alas! could converse bring +With awkward creatures bred at home?-- +The dog grew dull, or troublesome. +The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit, +And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. +And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, +Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. +--'And then, my dear, I can't abide +This always sauntering side by side.' +'Enough!' he cries, 'the reason's plain: +For causes never rack your brain. +Our neighbours are like other folks, +Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, +Are still delightful, still would please, +Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. +Look round, with an impartial eye, +On yonder fields, on yonder sky; +The azure cope, the flowers below, +With all their wonted colours glow. +The rill still murmurs; and the moon +Shines, as she did, a softer sun. +No change has made the seasons fail, +No comet brushed us with his tail. +The scene's the same, the same the weather-- +We live, my dear, too much together.' + +Agreed. A rich old uncle dies, +And added wealth the means supplies. +With eager haste to town they flew, +Where all must please, for all was new. + +But here, by strict poetic laws, +Description claims its proper pause. + +The rosy morn had raised her head +From old Tithonus' saffron bed; +And embryo sunbeams from the east, +Half-choked, were struggling through the mist, +When forth advanced the gilded chaise; +The village crowded round to gaze. +The pert postilion, now promoted +From driving plough, and neatly booted, +His jacket, cap, and baldric on, +(As greater folks than he have done,) +Looked round; and, with a coxcomb air, +Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair +Bowed graceful, from a separate door, +And Jenny, from the stool before. + +Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes +New objects every moment rise. +Each carriage passing on the road, +From the broad waggon's ponderous load +To the light car, where mounted high +The giddy driver seems to fly, +Were themes for harmless satire fit, +And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit. +Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful, +No noise was harsh, no danger frightful. +The dash and splash through thick and thin, +The hairbreadth 'scapes, the bustling inn, +(Where well-bred landlords were so ready +To welcome in the 'squire and lady,) +Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, +Determined to be pleased, and please. + +Now nearer town, and all agog, +They know dear London by its fog. +Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, +Leave Hounslow's dangerous heath behind, +Through Brentford win a passage free +By roaring, 'Wilkes and Liberty!' +At Knightsbridge bless the shortening way, +Where Bays's troops in ambush lay, +O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, +With palaces to grace its side, +Till Bond Street with its lamps a-blaze +Concludes the journey of three days. + +Why should we paint, in tedious song, +How every day, and all day long, +They drove at first with curious haste +Through Lud's vast town; or, as they passed +'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs +Of streets on streets, and squares on squares, +Describe how strong their wonder grew +At buildings--and at builders too? + +Scarce less astonishment arose +At architects more fair than those-- +Who built as high, as widely spread +The enormous loads that clothed their head. +For British dames new follies love, +And, if they can't invent, improve. +Some with erect pagodas vie, +Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry, +Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest, +Convolved, contorted, and compressed; +With intermingling trees, and flowers, +And corn, and grass, and shepherd's bowers, +Stage above stage the turrets run, +Like pendent groves of Babylon, +Till nodding from the topmost wall +Otranto's plumes envelop all! +Whilst the black ewes, who owned the hair, +Feed harmless on, in pastures fair, +Unconscious that their tails perfume, +In scented curls, the drawing-room. + +When Night her murky pinions spread, +And sober folks retire to bed, +To every public place they flew, +Where Jenny told them who was who. +Money was always at command, +And tripped with pleasure hand in hand. +Money was equipage, was show, +Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho; +The _passe-partout_ through every vein +Of dissipation's hydra reign. + +O London, thou prolific source, +Parent of vice, and folly's nurse! +Fruitful as Nile, thy copious springs +Spawn hourly births--and all with stings: +But happiest far the he, or she, + +I know not which, that livelier dunce +Who first contrived the coterie, + +To crush domestic bliss at once. +Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames, +As Nero fiddled to the flames. + +Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak +With reverence, though in numbers weak; +Thy beauties satire's frown beguile, +We spare the follies for the pile. +Flounced, furbelowed, and tricked for show, +With lamps above, and lamps below, +Thy charms even modern taste defied, +They could not spoil thee, though they tried. + +Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings +Must sweep thee off with vulgar things! +Let architects of humbler name +On frail materials build their fame, +Their noblest works the world might want, +Wyatt should build in adamant. + +But what are these to scenes which lie +Secreted from the vulgar eye, +And baffle all the powers of song?-- +A brazen throat, an iron tongue, +(Which poets wish for, when at length +Their subject soars above their strength,) +Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, +Who only reads the public news +And idly utters what she gleans +From chronicles and magazines, +Recoiling feels her feeble fires, +And blushing to her shades retires, +Alas! she knows not how to treat +The finer follies of the great, +Where even, Democritus, thy sneer +Were vain as Heraclitus' tear. + +Suffice it that by just degrees +They reached all heights, and rose with ease; +(For beauty wins its way, uncalled, +And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.) +Each gambling dame she knew, and he +Knew every shark of quality; +From the grave cautious few who live +On thoughtless youth, and living thrive, +To the light train who mimic France, +And the soft sons of _nonchalance_. +While Jenny, now no more of use, +Excuse succeeding to excuse, +Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew +To shilling whist, and chicken loo. + +Advanced to fashion's wavering head, +They now, where once they followed, led. +Devised new systems of delight, +A-bed all day, and up all night, +In different circles reigned supreme. +Wives copied her, and husbands him; +Till so divinely life ran on, +So separate, so quite _bon-ton_, +That meeting in a public place, +They scarcely knew each other's face. + +At last they met, by his desire, +A _tete-a-tete_ across the fire; +Looked in each other's face awhile, +With half a tear, and half a smile. +The ruddy health, which wont to grace +With manly glow his rural face, +Now scarce retained its faintest streak; +So sallow was his leathern cheek. +She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed, +With rouge had striven in vain to hide +What once was beauty, and repair +The rapine of the midnight air. + +Silence is eloquence, 'tis said. +Both wished to speak, both hung the head. +At length it burst.----''Tis time,' he cries, +'When tired of folly, to be wise. +Are you too tired?'--then checked a groan. +She wept consent, and he went on: + +'How delicate the married life! +You love your husband, I my wife! +Not even satiety could tame, +Nor dissipation quench the flame. + +'True to the bias of our kind, +'Tis happiness we wish to find. +In rural scenes retired we sought +In vain the dear, delicious draught, +Though blest with love's indulgent store, +We found we wanted something more. +'Twas company, 'twas friends to share +The bliss we languished to declare. +'Twas social converse, change of scene, +To soothe the sullen hour of spleen; +Short absences to wake desire, +And sweet regrets to fan the fire. + +'We left the lonesome place; and found, +In dissipation's giddy round, +A thousand novelties to wake +The springs of life and not to break. +As, from the nest not wandering far, +In light excursions through the air, +The feathered tenants of the grove +Around in mazy circles move, +Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, +Or taste the blossom on the bough. +We sported freely with the rest; +And still, returning to the nest, +In easy mirth we chatted o'er +The trifles of the day before. + +'Behold us now, dissolving quite +In the full ocean of delight; +In pleasures every hour employ, +Immersed in all the world calls joy; +Our affluence easing the expense +Of splendour and magnificence; +Our company, the exalted set +Of all that's gay, and all that's great: +Nor happy yet!--and where's the wonder!-- +We live, my dear, too much asunder.' + +The moral of my tale is this, +Variety's the soul of bless; +But such variety alone +As makes our home the more our own. +As from the heart's impelling power +The life-blood pours its genial store; +Though taking each a various way, +The active streams meandering play +Through every artery, every vein, +All to the heart return again; +From thence resume their new career, +But still return and centre there: +So real happiness below +Must from the heart sincerely flow; +Nor, listening to the syren's song, +Must stray too far, or rest too long. +All human pleasures thither tend; +Must there begin, and there must end; +Must there recruit their languid force, +And gain fresh vigour from their source. + + + + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. + + +This poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, in 1734. His father was +minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after +attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately +a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he +repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his +patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of +view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the +Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his 'Pollio,' his 'Concubine,' +--a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, +which became popular,--and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of +the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, +was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and +established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the +press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near +Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore +Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much +distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins' +daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at +Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788. + +His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, +and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to +Homer. 'Cumnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of +'Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful +locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a +song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, +as Burns says, of 'the first poet.' + + +CUMNOR HALL. + +1 The dews of summer night did fall, + The moon, sweet regent of the sky, + Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, + And many an oak that grew thereby. + +2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies, + The sounds of busy life were still, + Save an unhappy lady's sighs, + That issued from that lonely pile. + +3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love + That thou so oft hast sworn to me, + To leave me in this lonely grove, + Immured in shameful privity? + +4 'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, + Thy once beloved bride to see; + But be she alive, or be she dead, + I fear, stern Earl,'s the same to thee. + +5 'Not so the usage I received + When happy in my father's hall; + No faithless husband then me grieved, + No chilling fears did me appal. + +6 'I rose up with the cheerful morn, + No lark so blithe, no flower more gay; + And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, + So merrily sung the livelong day. + +7 'If that my beauty is but small, + Among court ladies all despised, + Why didst thou rend it from that hall, + Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? + +8 'And when you first to me made suit, + How fair I was, you oft would say! + And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, + Then left the blossom to decay. + +9 'Yes! now neglected and despised, + The rose is pale, the lily's dead; + But he that once their charms so prized, + Is sure the cause those charms are fled. + +10 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey, + And tender love's repaid with scorn, + The sweetest beauty will decay: + What floweret can endure the storm? + +11 'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, + Where every lady's passing rare, + That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, + Are not so glowing, not so fair. + +12 'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds + Where roses and where lilies vie, + To seek a primrose, whose pale shades + Must sicken when those gauds are by? + +13 ''Mong rural beauties I was one; + Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; + Some country swain might me have won, + And thought my passing beauty rare. + +14 'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, + It is not beauty lures thy vows; + Rather ambition's gilded crown + Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. + +15 'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, + The injured surely may repine, + Why didst thou wed a country maid, + When some fair princess might be thine? + +16 'Why didst thou praise my humble charms, + And, oh! then leave them to decay? + Why didst thou win me to thy arms, + Then leave me to mourn the livelong day? + +17 'The village maidens of the plain + Salute me lowly as they go: + Envious they mark my silken train, + Nor think a countess can have woe. + +18 'The simple nymphs! they little know + How far more happy's their estate; + To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; + To be content, than to be great. + +19 'How far less blessed am I than them, + Daily to pine and waste with care! + Like the poor plant, that, from its stem + Divided, feels the chilling air. + +20 'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy + The humble charms of solitude; + Your minions proud my peace destroy, + By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. + +21 'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, + The village death-bell smote my ear; + They winked aside, and seemed to say, + "Countess, prepare--thy end is near." + +22 'And now, while happy peasants sleep, + Here I sit lonely and forlorn; + No one to soothe me as I weep, + Save Philomel on yonder thorn. + +23 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay; + Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; + And many a body seems to say, + "Countess, prepare--thy end is near."' + +24 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; + And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, + And let fall many a bitter tear. + +25 And ere the dawn of day appeared, + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, + Full many a piercing scream was heard, + And many a cry of mortal fear. + +26 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, + An aerial voice was heard to call, + And thrice the raven flapped his wing + Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. + +27 The mastiff howled at village door, + The oaks were shattered on the green; + Woe was the hour, for never more + That hapless Countess e'er was seen. + +28 And in that manor, now no more + Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball; + For ever since that dreary hour + Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. + +29 The village maids, with fearful glance, + Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; + Nor never lead the merry dance + Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. + +30 Full many a traveller has sighed, + And pensive wept the Countess' fall, + As wandering onwards they've espied + The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. + + + +THE MARINER'S WIFE. + +1 But are ye sure the news is true? + And are ye sure he's weel? + Is this a time to think o' wark? + Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck at a', + There's nae luck about the house, + When our gudeman's awa. + +2 Is this a time to think o' wark, + When Colin's at the door? + Rax down my cloak--I'll to the quay, + And see him come ashore. + +3 Rise up and mak a clean fireside, + Put on the mickle pat; + Gie little Kate her cotton goun, + And Jock his Sunday's coat. + +4 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, + Their stocking white as snaw; + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-- + He likes to see them braw. + +5 There are twa hens into the crib, + Hae fed this month and mair; + Mak haste and thraw their necks about, + That Colin weel may fare. + +6 My Turkey slippers I'll put on, + My stocking pearl blue-- + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, + For he's baith leal and true. + +7 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; + His breath's like caller air; + His very fit has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + +8 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. + + + + +LORD NUGENT. + + +Robert Craggs, afterwards created Lord Nugent, was an Irishman, a younger +son of Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Robert, Lord Trimlestown, and +born in 1709. He was in 1741 elected M.P. for St Mawes, in Cornwall, and +became in 1747 comptroller to the Prince of Wales' household. He after- +wards made peace with the Court, and received various promotions and +marks of favour besides the peerage. In 1739, he published anonymously +a volume of poems possessing considerable merit. He was converted from +Popery, and wrote some vigorous verses on the occasion. Unfortunately, +however, he relapsed, and again celebrated the event in a very weak poem, +entitled 'Faith.' He died in 1788. Although a man of decided talent, as +his 'Ode to Mankind' proves, Nugent does not stand very high either in +the catalogue of Irish patriots or of 'royal and noble authors.' + + +ODE TO MANKIND. + +1 Is there, or do the schoolmen dream? + Is there on earth a power supreme, + The delegate of Heaven, + To whom an uncontrolled command, + In every realm o'er sea and land, + By special grace is given? + +2 Then say, what signs this god proclaim? + Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame, + A throne his hallowed shrine? + The borrowed pomp, the armed array, + Want, fear, and impotence, betray + Strange proofs of power divine! + +3 If service due from human kind, + To men in slothful ease reclined, + Can form a sovereign's claim: + Hail, monarchs! ye, whom Heaven ordains, + Our toils unshared, to share our gains, + Ye idiots, blind and lame! + +4 Superior virtue, wisdom, might, + Create and mark the ruler's right, + So reason must conclude: + Then thine it is, to whom belong + The wise, the virtuous, and the strong, + Thrice sacred multitude! + +5 In thee, vast All! are these contained, + For thee are those, thy parts ordained, + So nature's systems roll: + The sceptre's thine, if such there be; + If none there is, then thou art free, + Great monarch! mighty whole! + +6 Let the proud tyrant rest his cause + On faith, prescription, force, or laws, + An host's or senate's voice! + His voice affirms thy stronger due, + Who for the many made the few, + And gave the species choice. + +7 Unsanctified by thy command, + Unowned by thee, the sceptred hand + The trembling slave may bind; + But loose from nature's moral ties, + The oath by force imposed belies + The unassenting mind. + +8 Thy will's thy rule, thy good its end; + You punish only to defend + What parent nature gave: + And he who dares her gifts invade, + By nature's oldest law is made + Thy victim or thy slave. + +9 Thus reason founds the just degree + On universal liberty, + Not private rights resigned: + Through various nature's wide extent, + No private beings e'er were meant + To hurt the general kind. + +10 Thee justice guides, thee right maintains, + The oppressor's wrongs, the pilferer's gains, + Thy injured weal impair. + Thy warmest passions soon subside, + Nor partial envy, hate, nor pride, + Thy tempered counsels share. + +11 Each instance of thy vengeful rage, + Collected from each clime and age, + Though malice swell the sum, + Would seem a spotless scanty scroll, + Compared with Marius' bloody roll, + Or Sylla's hippodrome. + +12 But thine has been imputed blame, + The unworthy few assume thy name, + The rabble weak and loud; + Or those who on thy ruins feast, + The lord, the lawyer, and the priest; + A more ignoble crowd. + +13 Avails it thee, if one devours, + Or lesser spoilers share his powers, + While both thy claim oppose? + Monsters who wore thy sullied crown, + Tyrants who pulled those monsters down, + Alike to thee were foes. + +14 Far other shone fair Freedom's band, + Far other was the immortal stand, + When Hampden fought for thee: + They snatched from rapine's gripe thy spoils, + The fruits and prize of glorious toils, + Of arts and industry. + +15 On thee yet foams the preacher's rage, + On thee fierce frowns the historian's page, + A false apostate train: + Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb; + Unpitied in their harder doom, + Thy thousands strow the plain. + +16 These had no charms to please the sense, + No graceful port, no eloquence, + To win the Muse's throng: + Unknown, unsung, unmarked they lie; + But Caesar's fate o'ercasts the sky, + And Nature mourns his wrong. + +17 Thy foes, a frontless band, invade; + Thy friends afford a timid aid, + And yield up half the right. + Even Locke beams forth a mingled ray, + Afraid to pour the flood of day + On man's too feeble sight. + +18 Hence are the motley systems framed, + Of right transferred, of power reclaimed; + Distinctions weak and vain. + Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd; + For unreclaimed, and untransferred, + Her powers and rights remain. + +19 While law the royal agent moves, + The instrument thy choice approves, + We bow through him to you. + But change, or cease the inspiring choice, + The sovereign sinks a private voice, + Alike in one, or few! + +20 Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart + Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part, + And only dares betray; + With reptile wiles, alas! prevail, + Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail, + To pilfer power away? + +21 Oh! shall the bought, and buying tribe, + The slaves who take, and deal the bribe, + A people's claims enjoy! + So Indian murderers hope to gain + The powers and virtues of the slain, + Of wretches they destroy. + +22 'Avert it, Heaven! you love the brave, + You hate the treacherous, willing slave, + The self-devoted head; + Nor shall an hireling's voice convey + That sacred prize to lawless sway, + For which a nation bled.' + +23 Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource! + Directing reason, active force, + Propitious Heaven bestows. + But ne'er shall flame the thundering sky, + To aid the trembling herd that fly + Before their weaker foes. + +24 In names there dwell no magic charms, + The British virtues, British arms + Unloosed our fathers' band: + Say, Greece and Rome! if these should fail, + What names, what ancestors avail, + To save a sinking land? + +25 Far, far from us such ills shall be, + Mankind shall boast one nation free, + One monarch truly great: + Whose title speaks a people's choice, + Whose sovereign will a people's voice, + Whose strength a prosperous state. + + + + +JOHN LOGAN. + + +John Logan was born in the year 1748. He was the son of a farmer at +Soutra, in the parish of Fala, Mid-Lothian. He was educated for the +church at Edinburgh, where he became intimate with Robertson, afterwards +the historian. So, at least, Campbell asserts; but he strangely calls him +a student of the same standing, whereas, in fact, Robertson saw light in +1721, and had been a settled minister five years before Logan was born. +After finishing his studies, he became tutor in the family of Mr Sinclair +of Ulbster, and the late well-known Sir John Sinclair was one of his +pupils. When licensed to preach, Logan became popular, and was in his +twenty-fifth year appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. In 1781, +he read in Edinburgh a course of lectures on the Philosophy of History, +and in 1782, he printed one of them, on the Government of Asia. In the +same year he published a volume of poems, which were well received. In +1783, he wrote a tragedy called 'Runnymede,' which was, owing to some +imagined incendiary matter, prohibited from being acted on the London +boards, but which was produced on the Edinburgh stage, and afterwards +published. This, along with some alleged irregularities of conduct on the +part of Logan, tended to alienate his flock, and he was induced to retire +on a small annuity. He betook himself to London, where, in conjunction +with the Rev. Mr Thomson,--who had left the parish of Monzievaird, in +Perthshire, owing to a scandal,--he wrote for the _English Review_, and +was employed to defend Warren Hastings. This he did in an able manner, +although a well-known story describes him as listening to Sheridan, on +the Oude case, with intense interest, and exclaiming, after the first +hour, 'This is mere declamation without proof'--after the next two, 'This +is a man of extraordinary powers'--and ere the close of the matchless +oration, 'Of all the monsters in history, Warren Hastings is the vilest.' +Logan died in the year 1788, in his lodgings, Marlborough Street. His +sermons were published shortly after his death, and if parts of them are, +as is alleged, pilfered from a Swiss divine, (George Joachim Zollikofer,) +they have not remained exclusively with the thief, since no sermons have +been so often reproduced in Scottish pulpits as the elegant orations +issued under the name of Logan. + +We have already declined to enter on the controversy about 'The Cuckoo,' +intimating, however, our belief, founded partly upon Logan's unscrupulous +character and partly on internal evidence, that it was originally written +by Bruce, but probably polished to its present perfection by Logan, whose +other writings give us rather the impression of a man of varied +accomplishments and excellent taste, than of deep feeling or original +genius. If Logan were not the author of 'The Cuckoo,' there was a special +baseness connected with the fact, that when Burke sought him out in +Edinburgh, solely from his admiration of that poem, he owned the soft and +false impeachment, and rolled as a sweet morsel praise from the greatest +man of the age, which he knew was the rightful due of another. + + + +THE LOVERS. + +1 _Har_. 'Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, + My father's house is hushed in sleep; + In dreams the lover meets his bride, + She sees her lover at her side; + The mourner's voice is now suppressed, + A while the weary are at rest: + 'Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep; + I only wake, and wake to weep. + +2 The window's drawn, the ladder waits, + I spy no watchman at the gates; + No tread re-echoes through the hall, + No shadow moves along the wall. + I am alone. 'Tis dreary night, + Oh, come, thou partner of my flight! + Shield me from darkness, from alarms; + Oh, take me trembling to thine arms! + +3 The dog howls dismal in the heath, + The raven croaks the dirge of death; + Ah me! disaster's in the sound! + The terrors of the night are round; + A sad mischance my fears forebode, + The demon of the dark's abroad, + And lures, with apparition dire, + The night-struck man through flood and fire. + +4 The owlet screams ill-boding sounds, + The spirit walks unholy rounds; + The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls; + The shades of hell usurp the poles; + The moon retires; the heaven departs. + From opening earth a spectre starts: + My spirit dies--Away, my fears! + My love, my life, my lord, appears! + +5 _Hen_. I come, I come, my love! my life! + And, nature's dearest name, my wife! + Long have I loved thee; long have sought: + And dangers braved, and battles fought; + In this embrace our evils end; + From this our better days ascend; + The year of suffering now is o'er, + At last we meet to part no more! + +6 My lovely bride! my consort, come! + The rapid chariot rolls thee home. + _Har_. I fear to go----I dare not stay. + Look back.----I dare not look that way. + _Hen_. No evil ever shall betide + My love, while I am at her side. + Lo! thy protector and thy friend, + The arms that fold thee will defend. + +7 _Har_. Still beats my bosom with alarms: + I tremble while I'm in thy arms! + What will impassioned lovers do? + What have I done--to follow you? + I leave a father torn with fears; + I leave a mother bathed in tears; + A brother, girding on his sword, + Against my life, against my lord. + +8 Now, without father, mother, friend, + On thee my future days depend; + Wilt thou, for ever true to love, + A father, mother, brother, prove? + O Henry!----to thy arms I fall, + My friend! my husband! and my all! + Alas! what hazards may I run? + Shouldst thou forsake me--I'm undone. + +9 _Hen_. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, + And let a husband wipe thy tears; + For ever joined our fates combine, + And I am yours, and you are mine. + The fires the firmament that rend, + On this devoted head descend, + If e'er in thought from thee I rove, + Or love thee less than now I love! + +10 Although our fathers have been foes, + From hatred stronger love arose; + From adverse briars that threatening stood, + And threw a horror o'er the wood, + Two lovely roses met on high, + Transplanted to a better sky; + And, grafted in one stock, they grow. + In union spring, in beauty blow. + +11 _Har_. My heart believes my love; but still + My boding mind presages ill: + For luckless ever was our love, + Dark as the sky that hung above. + While we embraced, we shook with fears, + And with our kisses mingled tears; + We met with murmurs and with sighs, + And parted still with watery eyes. + +12 An unforeseen and fatal hand + Crossed all the measures love had planned; + Intrusion marred the tender hour, + A demon started in the bower; + If, like the past, the future run, + And my dark day is but begun, + What clouds may hang above my head? + What tears may I have yet to shed? + +13 _Hen_. Oh, do not wound that gentle breast, + Nor sink, with fancied ills oppressed; + For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, + And love is virtue in thy heart. + That bosom ne'er shall heave again + But to the poet's tender strain; + And never more these eyes o'erflow + But for a hapless lover's woe. + +14 Long on the ocean tempest-tossed, + At last we gain the happy coast; + And safe recount upon the shore + Our sufferings past, and dangers o'er: + Past scenes, the woes we wept erewhile, + Will make our future minutes smile: + When sudden joy from sorrow springs, + How the heart thrills through all its strings! + +15 _Har_. My father's castle springs to sight; + Ye towers that gave me to the light! + O hills! O vales! where I have played; + Ye woods, that wrap me in your shade! + O scenes I've often wandered o'er! + O scenes I shall behold no more! + I take a long, last, lingering view: + Adieu! my native land, adieu! + +16 O father, mother, brother dear! + O names still uttered with a tear! + Upon whose knees I've sat and smiled, + Whose griefs my blandishments beguiled; + Whom I forsake in sorrows old, + Whom I shall never more behold! + Farewell, my friends, a long farewell, + Till time shall toll the funeral knell. + +17 _Hen_. Thy friends, thy father's house resign; + My friends, my house, my all is thine: + Awake, arise, my wedded wife, + To higher thoughts, and happier life! + For thee the marriage feast is spread, + For thee the virgins deck the bed; + The star of Venus shines above, + And all thy future life is love. + +18 They rise, the dear domestic hours! + The May of love unfolds her flowers; + Youth, beauty, pleasure spread the feast, + And friendship sits a constant guest; + In cheerful peace the morn ascends, + In wine and love the evening ends; + At distance grandeur sheds a ray, + To gild the evening of our day. + +19 Connubial love has dearer names, + And finer ties, and sweeter claims, + Than e'er unwedded hearts can feel, + Than wedded hearts can e'er reveal; + Pure as the charities above, + Rise the sweet sympathies of love; + And closer cords than those of life + Unite the husband to the wife. + +20 Like cherubs new come from the skies, + Henries and Harriets round us rise; + And playing wanton in the hall, + With accent sweet their parents call; + To your fair images I run, + You clasp the husband in the son; + Oh, how the mother's heart will bound! + Oh, how the father's joy be crowned! + + +WRITTEN IN A VISIT TO THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN. + +1 'Tis past! no more the Summer blooms! + Ascending in the rear, + Behold congenial Autumn comes, + The Sabbath of the year! + What time thy holy whispers breathe, + The pensive evening shade beneath, + And twilight consecrates the floods; + While nature strips her garment gay, + And wears the vesture of decay, + Oh, let me wander through the sounding woods! + +2 Ah! well-known streams!--ah! wonted groves, + Still pictured in my mind! + Oh! sacred scene of youthful loves, + Whose image lives behind! + While sad I ponder on the past, + The joys that must no longer last; + The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier + The dying music of the grove, + And the last elegies of love, + Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear! + +3 Alas! the hospitable hall, + Where youth and friendship played, + Wide to the winds a ruined wall + Projects a death-like shade! + The charm is vanished from the vales; + No voice with virgin-whisper hails + A stranger to his native bowers: + No more Arcadian mountains bloom, + Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume; + The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers! + +4 Companions of the youthful scene, + Endeared from earliest days! + With whom I sported on the green, + Or roved the woodland maze! + Long exiled from your native clime, + Or by the thunder-stroke of time + Snatched to the shadows of despair; + I hear your voices in the wind, + Your forms in every walk I find; + I stretch my arms: ye vanish into air! + +5 My steps, when innocent and young, + These fairy paths pursued; + And wandering o'er the wild, I sung + My fancies to the wood. + I mourned the linnet-lover's fate, + Or turtle from her murdered mate, + Condemned the widowed hours to wail: + Or while the mournful vision rose, + I sought to weep for imaged woes, + Nor real life believed a tragic tale! + +6 Alas! misfortune's cloud unkind + May summer soon o'ercast! + And cruel fate's untimely wind + All human beauty blast! + The wrath of nature smites our bowers, + And promised fruits and cherished flowers, + The hopes of life in embryo sweeps; + Pale o'er the ruins of his prime, + And desolate before his time, + In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps! + +7 Relentless power! whose fated stroke + O'er wretched man prevails! + Ha! love's eternal chain is broke, + And friendship's covenant fails! + Upbraiding forms! a moment's ease-- + O memory! how shall I appease + The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost? + What charm can bind the gushing eye, + What voice console the incessant sigh, + And everlasting longings for the lost? + +8 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood + That hides me in its gloom, + While lost in melancholy mood + I muse upon the tomb. + Their chequered leaves the branches shed; + Whirling in eddies o'er my head, + They sadly sigh that Winter's near: + The warning voice I hear behind, + That shakes the wood without a wind, + And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. + +9 Nor will I court Lethean streams, + The sorrowing sense to steep; + Nor drink oblivion of the themes + On which I love to weep. + Belated oft by fabled rill, + While nightly o'er the hallowed hill + Aerial music seems to mourn; + I'll listen Autumn's closing strain; + Then woo the walks of youth again, + And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely urn! + + +COMPLAINT OF NATURE. + +1 Few are thy days and full of woe, + O man of woman born! + Thy doom is written, dust thou art, + And shalt to dust return. + +2 Determined are the days that fly + Successive o'er thy head; + The numbered hour is on the wing + That lays thee with the dead. + +3 Alas! the little day of life + Is shorter than a span; + Yet black with thousand hidden ills + To miserable man. + +4 Gay is thy morning, flattering hope + Thy sprightly step attends; + But soon the tempest howls behind, + And the dark night descends. + +5 Before its splendid hour the cloud + Comes o'er the beam of light; + A pilgrim in a weary land, + Man tarries but a night. + +6 Behold, sad emblem of thy state! + The flowers that paint the field; + Or trees that crown the mountain's brow, + And boughs and blossoms yield. + +7 When chill the blast of Winter blows, + Away the Summer flies, + The flowers resign their sunny robes, + And all their beauty dies. + +8 Nipt by the year the forest fades; + And shaking to the wind, + The leaves toss to and fro, and streak + The wilderness behind. + +9 The Winter past, reviving flowers + Anew shall paint the plain, + The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, + And flourish green again. + +10 But man departs this earthly scene, + Ah! never to return! + No second Spring shall e'er revive + The ashes of the urn. + +11 The inexorable doors of death + What hand can e'er unfold? + Who from the cerements of the tomb + Can raise the human mould? + +12 The mighty flood that rolls along + Its torrents to the main, + The waters lost can ne'er recall + From that abyss again. + +13 The days, the years, the ages, dark + Descending down to night, + Can never, never be redeemed + Back to the gates of light. + +14 So man departs the living scene, + To night's perpetual gloom; + The voice of morning ne'er shall break + The slumbers of the tomb. + +15 Where are our fathers? Whither gone + The mighty men of old? + The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, + In sacred books enrolled? + +16 Gone to the resting-place of man, + The everlasting home, + Where ages past have gone before, + Where future ages come, + +17 Thus nature poured the wail of woe, + And urged her earnest cry; + Her voice, in agony extreme, + Ascended to the sky. + +18 The Almighty heard: then from his throne + In majesty he rose; + And from the heaven, that opened wide, + His voice in mercy flows: + +19 'When mortal man resigns his breath, + And falls a clod of clay, + The soul immortal wings its flight + To never-setting day. + +20 'Prepared of old for wicked men + The bed of torment lies; + The just shall enter into bliss + Immortal in the skies.' + + + + +THOMAS BLACKLOCK. + + +The amiable Dr Blacklock deserves praise for his character and for his +conduct under very peculiar circumstances, much more than for his +poetry. He was born at Annan, where his father was a bricklayer, in +1721. When about six months old, he lost his eyesight by small-pox. His +father used to read to him, especially poetry, and through the kindness +of friends he acquired some knowledge of the Latin tongue. His father +having been accidentally killed when Thomas was nineteen, it might +have fared hard with him, but Dr Stevenson, an eminent medical man +in Edinburgh, who had seen some verses composed by the blind youth, +took him to the capital, sent him to college to study divinity, and +encouraged him to write and to publish poetry. His volume, to which +was prefixed an account of the author, by Professor Spence of Oxford, +attracted much attention. Blacklock was licensed to preach in 1759, and +three years afterwards was married to a Miss Johnstone of Dumfries, an +exemplary but plain-looking lady, whose beauty her husband was wont to +praise so warmly that his friends were thankful that his infirmity was +never removed, and thought how justly Cupid had been painted blind. He +was even, through the influence of the Earl of Selkirk, appointed to the +parish of Kirkcudbright, but the parishioners opposed his induction on +the plea of his want of sight, and, in consideration of a small annuity, +he withdrew his claims. He finally settled down in Edinburgh, where he +supported himself chiefly by keeping young gentlemen as boarders in his +house. His chief amusements were poetry and music. His conduct to (1786) +and correspondence with Burns are too well known to require to be +noticed at length here. He published a paper of no small merit in the +'Encyclopaedia Britannica' on Blindness, and is the author of a work +entitled 'Paraclesis; or, Consolations of Religion,'--which surely none +require more than the blind. He died of a nervous fever on the 7th of +July 1791, so far fortunate that he did not live to see the ruin of his +immortal _protege_. + +Blacklock was a most amiable, genial, and benevolent being. He was +sometimes subject to melancholy--_un_like many of the blind, and one +especially, whom we name not, but who, still living, bears a striking +resemblance to Blacklock in fineness of mind, warmth of heart, and high- +toned piety, but who is cheerful as the day. As to his poetry, it is +undoubtedly wonderful, considering the circumstances of its production, +if not _per se_. Dr Johnson says to Boswell,--'As Blacklock had the +misfortune to be blind, we may be absolutely sure that the passages in +his poems descriptive of visible objects are combinations of what he +remembered of the works of other writers who could see. That foolish +fellow Spence has laboured to explain philosophically how Blacklock may +have done, by his own faculties, what it is impossible he should do. The +solution, as I have given it, is plain. Suppose I know a man to be so +lame that he is absolutely incapable to move himself, and I find him in a +different room from that in which I left him, shall I puzzle myself with +idle conjectures that perhaps his nerves have, by some unknown change, +all at once become effective? No, sir; it is clear how he got into a +different room--he was CARRIED.' + +Perhaps there is a fallacy in this somewhat dogmatic statement. Perhaps +the blind are not so utterly dark but they may have certain dim +_simulacra_ of external objects before their eyes and minds. Apart from +this, however, Blacklock's poetry endures only from its connexion with +the author's misfortune, and from the fact that through the gloom he +groped greatly to find and give the burning hand of the peasant poet the +squeeze of a kindred spirit,--kindred, we mean, in feeling and heart, +although very far removed in strength of intellect and genius. + + +THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE. + +While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, +And touch each feature with a trembling hand; +Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride, +To mix the colours, and the pencil guide. + +Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind; +How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind! +By self the fop in magic colours shown, +Though, scorned by every eye, delights his own: +When age and wrinkles seize the conquering maid, +Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade. +Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay; +Thy charms to others as to me display. + +Straight is my person, but of little size; +Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes; +My youthful down is, like my talents, rare; +Politely distant stands each single hair. +My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear; +So smooth, a child may listen without fear; +Not formed in cadence soft and warbling lays, +To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways. +My form so fine, so regular, so new, +My port so manly, and so fresh my hue; +Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say, +'See, see _Memento Mori_ cross the way.' +The ravished Proserpine at last, we know, +Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau; +But, thanks to nature! none from me need fly; +One heart the devil could wound--so cannot I. + +Yet, though my person fearless may be seen, +There is some danger in my graceful mien: +For, as some vessel tossed by wind and tide, +Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to side; +In just vibration thus I always move: +This who can view and not be forced to love? + +Hail! charming self! by whose propitious aid +My form in all its glory stands displayed: +Be present still; with inspiration kind, +Let the same faithful colours paint the mind. + +Like all mankind, with vanity I'm blessed, +Conscious of wit I never yet possessed. +To strong desires my heart an easy prey, +Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway. +This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe; +The next, I wonder why I should do so. +Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye; +Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie. +I ne'er for satire torture common sense; +Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense. +Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown; +Wish well to all, and yet do good to none. +Unmerited contempt I hate to bear; +Yet on my faults, like others, am severe. +Dishonest flames my bosom never fire; +The bad I pity, and the good admire; +Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days, +And scribble--not for pudding, but for praise. + +These careless lines, if any virgin hears, +Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years, +She may consent a generous flame to own, +And I no longer sigh the nights alone. +But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice, +Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice; +Cry, 'Save us, Heaven! a spectre, not a man!' +Her hartshorn snatch or interpose her fan: +If I my tender overture repeat; +Oh! may my vows her kind reception meet! +May she new graces on my form bestow, +And with tall honours dignify my brow! + + +ODE TO AURORA, ON MELISSA'S BIRTHDAY. + +Of time and nature eldest born, +Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn, +Emerge, in purest dress arrayed, +And chase from heaven night's envious shade, +That I once more may, pleased, survey, +And hail Melissa's natal day. +Of time and nature eldest born, +Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn; +In order at the eastern gate +The hours to draw thy chariot wait; +Whilst zephyr, on his balmy wings +Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, +With odours sweet to strew thy way, +And grace the bland revolving day. + +But as thou leadst the radiant sphere, +That gilds its birth, and marks the year, +And as his stronger glories rise, +Diffused around the expanded skies, +Till clothed with beams serenely bright, +All heaven's vast concave flames with light; +So, when, through life's protracted day, +Melissa still pursues her way, +Her virtues with thy splendour vie, +Increasing to the mental eye: +Though less conspicuous, not less dear, +Long may they Bion's prospect cheer; +So shall his heart no more repine, +Blessed with her rays, though robbed of thine. + + + + +MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN. + + +Here we find two ladies amicably united in the composition of one of +Scotland's finest songs, the 'Flowers of the Forest.' Miss Jane Elliot of +Minto, sister of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, wrote the first and the +finest of the two versions. Mrs Cockburn, the author of the second, was a +remarkable person. Her maiden name was Alicia Rutherford, and she was the +daughter of Mr Rutherford of Fernilee, in Selkirkshire. She married Mr +Patrick Cockburn, a younger son of Adam Cockburn of Ormiston, Lord +Justice-Clerk of Scotland. She became prominent in the literary circles +of Edinburgh, and an intimate friend of David Hume, with whom she carried +on a long and serious correspondence on religious subjects, in which it +is understood the philosopher opened up his whole heart, but which is +unfortunately lost. Mrs Cockburn, who was born in 1714, lived to 1794, +and saw and proclaimed the wonderful promise of Walter Scott. She wrote +a great deal, but the 'Flowers of the Forest' is the only one of her +effusions that has been published. A ludicrous story is told of her son, +who was a dissipated youth, returning one night drunk, while a large +party of _savans_ was assembled in the house, and locking himself up in +the room in which their coats and hats were deposited. Nothing would +rouse him; and the company had to depart in the best substitutes they +could find for their ordinary habiliments,--Hume (characteristically) in +a dreadnought, Monboddo in an old shabby hat, &c.--the echoes of the +midnight Potterrow resounding to their laughter at their own odd figures. +It is believed that Mrs Cockburn's song was really occasioned by the +bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, although she chose +to throw the new matter of lamentation into the old mould of song. + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. + +BY MISS JANE ELLIOT. + +1 I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, + Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; + But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- + The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + +2 At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, + The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; + Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, + Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. + +3 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, + The 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. + +4 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies 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 a' wede away. + +5 Dule 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 foucht aye the foremost, + The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. + +6 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, + Women and bairns are heartless and wae; + Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- + The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. + +BY MRS COCKBURN. + +1 I've seen the smiling + Of Fortune beguiling; +I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: + Sweet was its blessing, + Kind its caressing; +But now 'tis fled--fled far away. + +2 I've seen the forest + Adorned the foremost +With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; + Sae bonnie was their blooming! + Their scent the air perfuming! +But now they are withered and weeded away. + +3 I've seen the morning + With gold the hills adorning, +And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. + I've seen Tweed's silver streams, + Shining in the sunny beams, +Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. + +4 Oh, fickle Fortune, + Why this cruel sporting? +Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? + Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, + Nae mair your frowns can fear me; +For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM JONES. + + +This extraordinary person, the 'Justinian of India,' the master of +twenty-eight languages, who into the short space of forty-eight years +(he was born in 1746, and died 27th of April 1794) compressed such a +vast quantity of study and labour, is also the author of two volumes +of poetry, of unequal merit. We quote the best thing in the book. + + +A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. + +1 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, + And bid these arms thy neck enfold; + That rosy cheek, that lily hand, + Would give thy poet more delight + Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold, + Than all the gems of Samarcand. + +2 Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, + And bid thy pensive heart be glad, + Whate'er the frowning zealots say: + Tell them, their Eden cannot show + A stream so clear as Rocnabad, + A bower so sweet as Mosellay. + +3 Oh! when these fair perfidious maids, + Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, + Their dear destructive charms display, + Each glance my tender breast invades, + And robs my wounded soul of rest, + As Tartars seize their destined prey. + +4 In vain with love our bosoms glow: + Can all our tears, can all our sighs, + New lustre to those charms impart? + Can cheeks, where living roses blow, + Where nature spreads her richest dyes, + Require the borrowed gloss of art? + +5 Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme, + And talk of odours, talk of wine, + Talk of the flowers that round us bloom: + 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream; + To love and joy thy thoughts confine, + Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. + +6 Beauty has such resistless power, + That even the chaste Egyptian dame + Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy: + For her how fatal was the hour, + When to the banks of Nilus came + A youth so lovely and so coy! + +7 But, ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear, + (Youth should attend when those advise + Whom long experience renders sage): + While music charms the ravished ear, + While sparkling cups delight our eyes, + Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age. + +8 What cruel answer have I heard? + And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still: + Can aught be cruel from thy lip? + Yet say, how fell that bitter word + From lips which streams of sweetness fill, + Which nought but drops of honey sip? + +9 Go boldly forth, my simple lay, + Whose accents flow with artless ease, + Like orient pearls at random strung: + Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; + But, oh! far sweeter, if they please + The nymph for whom these notes are sung. + + + + +SAMUEL BISHOP. + + +This gentleman was born in 1731, and died in 1795. He was an English +clergyman, master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, and author of a +volume of Latin pieces, entitled 'Feriae Poeticae,' and of various other +poetical pieces. We give some verses to his wife, from which it appears +that he remained an ardent lover long after having become a husband. + + +TO MRS BISHOP, + +WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE. + +'A knife,' dear girl, 'cuts love,' they say! +Mere modish love, perhaps it may-- +For any tool, of any kind, +Can separate--what was never joined. + +The knife, that cuts our love in two, +Will have much tougher work to do; +Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit, +Down to the vulgar size of merit; +To level yours, with modern taste, +Must cut a world of sense to waste; +And from your single beauty's store, +Clip what would dizen out a score. + +That self-same blade from me must sever +Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever: +All memory of endearments past, +All hope of comforts long to last; +All that makes fourteen years with you, +A summer, and a short one too; +All that affection feels and fears, +When hours without you seem like years. + +Till that be done, and I'd as soon +Believe this knife will chip the moon, +Accept my present, undeterred, +And leave their proverbs to the herd. + +If in a kiss--delicious treat!-- +Your lips acknowledge the receipt, +Love, fond of such substantial fare, +And proud to play the glutton there, +'All thoughts of cutting will disdain, +Save only--'cut and come again.' + + +TO THE SAME, + +ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH +WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RING. + +'Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed'-- +So, fourteen years ago, I said.---- +Behold another ring!--'For what?' +'To wed thee o'er again?'--Why not? + +With that first ring I married youth, +Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; +Taste long admired, sense long revered, +And all my Molly then appeared. +If she, by merit since disclosed, +Prove twice the woman I supposed, +I plead that double merit now, +To justify a double vow. + +Here then to-day, with faith as sure, +With ardour as intense, as pure, +As when, amidst the rites divine, +I took thy troth, and plighted mine, +To thee, sweet girl, my second ring +A token and a pledge I bring: +With this I wed, till death us part, +Thy riper virtues to my heart; +Those virtues which, before untried, +The wife has added to the bride: +Those virtues, whose progressive claim, +Endearing wedlock's very name, +My soul enjoys, my song approves, +For conscience' sake, as well as love's. + +And why? They show me every hour, +Honour's high thought, Affection's power, +Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, +And teach me all things--but repentance. + + + + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE. + + +This lady was born at Cardew Hall, near Carlisle, and remained there +from the date of her birth (1747) till she was twenty years of age, when +she accompanied her sister--who had married Colonel Graham of Duchray, +Perthshire--to Scotland, and continued there some years. She became +enamoured of Scottish music and poetry, and thus qualified herself for +writing such sweet lyrics as 'The Nabob,' and 'What ails this heart o' +mine?' On her return to Cumberland she wrote several pieces illustrative +of Cumbrian manners. She died unmarried in 1794. Her poetical pieces, +some of which had been floating through the country in the form of +popular songs, were collected by Mr Patrick Maxwell, and published in +1842. The two we have quoted rank with those of Lady Nairne in nature +and pathos. + + +THE NABOB. + +1 When silent time, wi' lightly foot, + Had trod on thirty years, + I sought again my native land + Wi' mony hopes and fears. + Wha kens gin the dear friends I left + May still continue mine? + Or gin I e'er again shall taste + The joys I left langsyne? + +2 As I drew near my ancient pile, + My heart beat a' the way; + Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak + O' some dear former day; + Those days that followed me afar, + Those happy days o' mine, + Whilk made me think the present joys + A' naething to langsyne! + +3 The ivied tower now met my eye, + Where minstrels used to blaw; + Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand, + Nae weel-kenned face I saw; + Till Donald tottered to the door, + Wham I left in his prime, + And grat to see the lad return + He bore about langsyne. + +4 I ran to ilka dear friend's room, + As if to find them there, + I knew where ilk ane used to sit, + And hang o'er mony a chair; + Till soft remembrance throw a veil + Across these een o' mine, + I closed the door, and sobbed aloud, + To think on auld langsyne! + +5 Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, + Wad next their welcome pay, + Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's, + And wished my groves away. + 'Cut, cut,' they cried, 'those aged elms, + Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' + Na! na! our fathers' names grow there, + Memorials o' langsyne. + +6 To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, + They took me to the town; + But sair on ilka weel-kenned face + I missed the youthfu' bloom. + At balls they pointed to a nymph + Wham a' declared divine; + But sure her mother's blushing cheeks + Were fairer far langsyne! + +7 In vain I sought in music's sound + To find that magic art, + Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays + Has thrilled through a' my heart. + The sang had mony an artfu' turn; + My ear confessed 'twas fine; + But missed the simple melody + I listened to langsyne. + +8 Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, + Forgie an auld man's spleen, + Wha' midst your gayest scenes still mourns + The days he ance has seen. + When time has passed and seasons fled, + Your hearts will feel like mine; + And aye the sang will maist delight + That minds ye o' langsyne! + + +WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? + +1 What ails this heart o' mine? + What ails this watery ee? + What gars me a' turn pale as death + When I tak leave o' thee? + When thou art far awa', + Thou'lt dearer grow to me; + But change o' place and change o' folk + May gar thy fancy jee. + +2 When I gae out at e'en, + Or walk at morning air, + Ilk rustling bush will seem to say + I used to meet thee there. + Then I'll sit down and cry, + And live aneath the tree, + And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, + I'll ca't a word frae thee. + +3 I'll hie me to the bower + That thou wi' roses tied, + And where wi' mony a blushing bud + I strove myself to hide. + I'll doat on ilka spot + Where I ha'e been wi' thee; + And ca' to mind some kindly word + By ilka burn and tree. + + + + +JAMES MACPHERSON. + + +Now we come to one who, with all his faults, was not only a real, but a +great poet. The events of his life need not detain us long. He was born +at Kingussie, Inverness-shire, in 1738, and educated at Aberdeen. At +twenty he published a very juvenile production in verse, called 'The +Highlandman: a Heroic Poem, in six cantos.' He taught for some time the +school of Ruthven, near his native place, and became afterwards tutor +in the family of Graham of Balgowan. While attending a scion of this +family--afterwards Lord Lynedoch--at Moffat Wells, Macpherson became +acquainted with Home, the author of 'Douglas,' and shewed to him some +fragments of Gaelic poetry, translated by himself. Home was delighted +with these specimens, and the consequence was, that our poet, under the +patronage of Home, Blair, Adam Fergusson, and Dr Carlyle, (the once +famous 'Jupiter Carlyle,' minister of Inveresk--called 'Jupiter' because +he used to sit to sculptors for their statues of 'Father Jove,' and +declared by Sir Walter Scott to have been the 'grandest demigod he ever +saw,') published, in a small volume of sixty pages, his 'Fragments of +Ancient Poetry, translated from the Gaelic or Erse language.' This +_brochure_ became popular, and Macpherson was provided with a purse to +go to the Highlands to collect additional pieces. The result was, in +1762, 'Fingal: an Epic Poem;' and, in the next year, 'Temora,' another +epic poem. Their sale was prodigious, and the effect not equalled till, +twenty-four years later, the poems of Burns appeared. He realised L1200 +by these productions. In 1764 he accompanied Governor Johnston to +Pensacola as his secretary, but quarrelled with him, and returned to +London. Here he became a professional pamphleteer, always taking the +ministerial side, and diversifying these labours by publishing a +translation of Homer, in the style of his Ossian, which, as Coleridge +says of another production, was 'damned unanimously.' Our readers are +familiar with his row with Dr Johnson, who, when threatened with +personal chastisement for his obstinate and fierce incredulity in the +matter of Ossian, thus wrote the author:-- + +'To Mr JAMES MACPHERSON. + +'I received your foolish and impudent letter. Any violence offered me +I shall do the best to repel, and what I cannot do for myself, the law +shall do for me. I hope I shall not be deterred from detecting what I +think a cheat by the menaces of a ruffian. + +'What would you have me to retract? I thought your book an imposture. I +think it an imposture still. For this opinion I have given my reasons to +the public, which I dare you to refute. Your rage I defy. Your abilities, +since your Homer, are not so formidable, and what I hear of your morals +inclines me to pay regard, not to what you shall say, but to what you +shall prove. You may print this if you will. + +'SAM. JOHNSON.' + +Nothing daunted by this, and a hundred other similar rebuffs; Macpherson, +like Mallett before him, but with twenty times his abilities, pursued +his peculiar course. He was appointed agent for the Nabob of Arcot, +and became M.P. for Carnelford. In this way he speedily accumulated a +handsome fortune, and in 1789, while still a youngish man, he retired to +his native parish, where he bought the estate of Raitts, and founded a +splendid villa, called Belleville, where, in ease and affluence, he spent +his remaining days. Surviving Johnson, his ablest opponent, by twelve +years, he died on the 17th of February 1796, in the full view of Ossian's +country. One of his daughters became his heir, and another was the first +wife of Sir David Brewster. Macpherson in his will ordered that his body +should be buried in Westminster Abbey, and left a sum of money to erect a +monument to him near Belleville. He lies, accordingly, in Poets' Corner, +and a marble obelisk to his memory may be seen near Kingussie, in the +centre of some trees. + +There is nothing new that is true, or true that is new, to be said about +the questions connected with Ossian's Poems. That Macpherson is the sole +author is a theory now as generally abandoned as the other, which held +that he was simply a free translator of the old bard. To the real +fragments of Ossian, which he found in the Highlands, he acted very much +as he did to the ancient property of Raitts, in his own native parish. +This he purchased in its crude state, and beautified into a mountain +paradise. He changed, however, its name into Belleville, and it had been +better if he had behaved in a similar way with the poems, and published +them as, with some little groundwork from another, the veritable writings +of James Macpherson, Esq. The ablest opponent of his living reputation +was, as we said, Johnson; and the ablest enemy of his posthumous fame has +been Macaulay. We are at a loss to understand _his_ animosity to the +author of Ossian. Were the Macphersons and Macaulays ever at feud, and +did the historian lose his great-great-grandmother in some onslaught made +on the Hebrides by the progenitors of the pseudo-Ossian? Macpherson as +a man we respect not, and we are persuaded that the greater part of +Ossian's Poems can be traced no further than his teeming brain. Nor are +we careful to defend his poetry from the common charges of monotony, +affectation, and fustian. But we deem Macaulay grossly unjust in his +treatment of Macpherson's genius and its results, and can fortify our +judgment by that of Sir Walter Scott and Professor Wilson, two men as far +superior to the historian in knowledge of the Highlands and of Highland +song, and in genuine poetic taste, as they were confessedly in original +imagination. The former says, 'Macpherson was certainly a man of high +talents, and his poetic powers are honourable to his country.' Wilson, in +an admirable paper in _Blackwood_ for November 1839, while admitting many +faults in Ossian, eloquently proclaims the presence in his strains of +much of the purest, most pathetic, and most sublime poetry, instancing +the 'Address to the Sun' as equal to anything in Homer or Milton. Both +these great writers have paid Macpherson a higher compliment still,--they +have imitated him, and the speeches of Allan Macaulay (a far greater +genius than his namesake), Ranald MacEagh, and Elspeth MacTavish, in the +'Waverley Novels,' and such, articles by Christopher North as 'Cottages,' +'Hints for the Holidays,' and a 'Glance at Selby's Ornithology,' are all +coloured by familiarity and fellow-feeling with Ossian's style. Best of +all, the Highlanders as a nation have accepted Ossian as their bard; he +is as much the poet of Morven as Burns of Coila, and it is as hopeless to +dislodge the one from the Highland as the other from the Lowland heart. +The true way to learn to appreciate Ossian's poetry is not to hurry, as +Macaulay seems to have done, in a steamer from Glasgow to Oban, and +thence to Ballachulish, and thence through Glencoe, (mistaking a fine +lake for a 'sullen pool' on his way, and ignoring altogether its peculiar +features of grandeur,) and thence to Inverness or Edinburgh; but it is to +live for years--as Macpherson did while writing Ossian, and Wilson also +did to some extent--under the shadow of the mountains,--to wander through +lonely moors amidst drenching mists and rains,--to hold trysts with +thunder-storms on the summit of savage hills,--to bathe after nightfall +in dreary tarns,--to lie over the ledge and dip one's fingers in the +spray of cataracts,--to plough a solitary path into the heart of forests, +and to sleep and dream for hours amidst their sunless glades,--to meet +on twilight hills the apparition of the winter moon rising over snowy +wastes,--to descend by her ghastly light precipices where the eagles +are sleeping,--and, returning home, to be haunted by night-visions of +mightier mountains, wilder desolations, and giddier descents;--experience +somewhat like this is necessary to form a true 'Child of the Mist,' and +to give the full capacity for sharing in or appreciating the shadowy, +solitary, pensive, and magnificent spirit which tabernacles in Ossian's +poetry. + +Never, at least, can we forget how, in our boyhood, while feeling, but +quite unable to express, the emotions which were suggested by the bold +shapes of mountains resting against the stars, mirrored from below in +lakes and wild torrents, and quaking sometimes in concert with the +quaking couch of the half-slumbering earthquake, the poems of Ossian +served to give our thoughts an expression which they could not otherwise +have found--how they at once strengthened and consolidated enthusiasm, +and are now regarded with feelings which, wreathed around earliest +memories and the strongest fibres of the heart, no criticism can ever +weaken or destroy. + + +OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. + +I feel the sun, O Malvina!--leave me to my rest. Perhaps +they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! +The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of +Carthon: I feel it warm around. + +O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my +fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? +Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide +themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the +western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a +companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the +mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and +grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou +art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy +course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder +rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from +the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou +lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether +thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou +tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, +like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou +shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the +morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! +Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of +the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist +is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the +traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. + + +DESOLATION OF BALCLUTHA. + +I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. +The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the +people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed +from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook +there its lonely head; the moss whistled to the wind. The +fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall +waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina; +silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of +mourning, O bards! over the land of strangers. They have but +fallen before us: for one day we must fall. Why dost thou +build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from +thy towers to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the +desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles +round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert +come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm +shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the +song, send round the shell: let joy be heard in my hall. +When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if thou shalt fail, +thou mighty light! if thy brightness is but for a season, +like Fingal, our fame shall survive thy beams. Such was the +song of Fingal in the day of his joy. + + +FINGAL AND THE SPIRIT OF LODA. + +Night came down on the sea; Roma's bay received the ship. A +rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the +top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A +narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged +trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn +from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there! +the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The +flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around: but +the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief +distressed. + +The wan, cold moon, rose in the east; sleep descended on the +youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading +fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in +the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to +behold the flame of Sarno's tower. + +The flame was dim and distant, the moon hid her red face in +the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was +the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and +shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his +dark face; his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal +advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on high. + +Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou +come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy +gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of +clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls +them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my +presence, son of night! Call thy winds, and fly! + +Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. +The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of +the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my +nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the +winds: the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is +calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant. + +Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king; let Comhal's +son be forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my hills, into thy +peaceful plains? Do I meet thee, with a spear, on thy cloud, +spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why +shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled +from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the wind +frighten the king of Morven? No: he knows the weakness of +their arms! + +Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind, and +fly! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of +the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at +the storm of my power. His battle is around Carric-thura; +and he will prevail! Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel +my flaming wrath! + +He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his +dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword; the +blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel +winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into +air, like a column of smoke, which the staff of the boy +disturbs, as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace. + +The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he +rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound, the waves +heard it on the deep. They stopped in their course with +fear: the friends of Fingal started at once, and took their +heavy spears. They missed the king; they rose in rage; all +their arms resound! + + +ADDRESS TO THE MOON. + +Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face +is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars +attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in +thy presence, O moon! they brighten their dark-brown sides. +Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The +stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their +sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course, +when the darkness of thy countenance grows? hast thou thy +hall, like Ossian? dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? +have thy sisters fallen from heaven? are they who rejoiced +with thee at night no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair +light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself +shalt fail one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The +stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in +thy presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy +brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, +O wind! that the daughter of night may look forth! that the +shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white +waves in light. + + +FINGAL'S SPIRIT-HOME. + +His friends sit around the king, on mist! They hear the +songs of Ullin: he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises +the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand +meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a +blush is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown faces of her +fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. 'Art thou come so +soon?' said Fingal, 'daughter of generous Toscar. Sadness +dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the +breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It +comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is +mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy +rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises +yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The +maids are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, +mournest there!' + + +THE CAVE. + +1 The wind is up, the field is bare, + Some hermit lead me to his cell, + Where Contemplation, lonely fair, + With blessed content has chose to dwell. + +2 Behold! it opens to my sight, + Dark in the rock, beside the flood; + Dry fern around obstructs the light; + The winds above it move the wood. + +3 Reflected in the lake, I see + The downward mountains and the skies, + The flying bird, the waving tree, + The goats that on the hill arise. + +4 The gray-cloaked herd[1] drives on the cow; + The slow-paced fowler walks the heath; + A freckled pointer scours the brow; + A musing shepherd stands beneath. + +5 Curved o'er the ruin of an oak, + The woodman lifts his axe on high; + The hills re-echo to the stroke; + I see--I see the shivers fly! + +6 Some rural maid, with apron full, + Brings fuel to the homely flame; + I see the smoky columns roll, + And, through the chinky hut, the beam. + +7 Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss, + Two well-met hunters talk at ease; + Three panting dogs beside repose; + One bleeding deer is stretched on grass. + +8 A lake at distance spreads to sight, + Skirted with shady forests round; + In midst, an island's rocky height + Sustains a ruin, once renowned. + +9 One tree bends o'er the naked walls; + Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh; + By intervals a fragment falls, + As blows the blast along the sky. + +10 The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide + With labouring oars along the flood; + An angler, bending o'er the tide, + Hangs from the boat the insidious wood. + +11 Beside the flood, beneath the rocks, + On grassy bank, two lovers lean; + Bend on each other amorous looks, + And seem to laugh and kiss between. + +12 The wind is rustling in the oak; + They seem to hear the tread of feet; + They start, they rise, look round the rock; + Again they smile, again they meet. + +13 But see! the gray mist from the lake + Ascends upon the shady hills; + Dark storms the murmuring forests shake, + Rain beats around a hundred rills. + +14 To Damon's homely hut I fly; + I see it smoking on the plain; + When storms are past and fair the sky, + I'll often seek my cave again. + +[1] 'Herd': neat-herd. + + + + +WILLIAM MASON. + + +This gentleman is now nearly forgotten, except as the friend, biographer, +and literary executor of Gray. He was born in 1725, and died in 1797. +His tragedies, 'Elfrida' and 'Caractacus,' are spirited declamations +in dramatic form, not dramas. His odes have the turgidity without the +grandeur of Gray's. His 'English Garden' is too long and too formal. His +Life of Gray was an admirable innovation on the form of biography then +prevalent, interspersing, as it does, journals and letters with mere +narrative. Mason was a royal chaplain, held the living of Ashton, and +was precentor of York Cathedral. We quote the best of his minor poems. + + +EPITAPH ON MRS MASON, +IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL. + +1 Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: + Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: + To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care + Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave, + And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? + Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? + Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine: + Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. + +2 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; + Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; + And if so fair, from vanity as free; + As firm in friendship, and as fond in love; + Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, + ('Twas even to thee,) yet the dread path once trod, + Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, + And bids 'the pure in heart behold their God.' + + +AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, KNIGHT, +COMPTROLLER-GENERAL OF HIS MAJESTY'S WORKS, ETC. + +Knight of the Polar Star! by fortune placed +To shine the Cynosure of British taste; +Whose orb collects in one refulgent view +The scattered glories of Chinese virtu; +And spreads their lustre in so broad a blaze, +That kings themselves are dazzled while they gaze: +Oh, let the Muse attend thy march sublime, +And, with thy prose, caparison her rhyme; +Teach her, like thee, to gild her splendid song, +With scenes of Yven-Ming, and sayings of Li-Tsong; +Like thee to scorn dame Nature's simple fence; +Leap each ha-ha of truth and common sense; +And proudly rising in her bold career, +Demand attention from the gracious ear +Of him, whom we and all the world admit, +Patron supreme of science, taste, and wit. +Does envy doubt? Witness, ye chosen train, +Who breathe the sweets of his Saturnian reign; +Witness, ye Hills, ye Johnsons, Scots, Shebbeares, +Hark to my call, for some of you have ears. +Let David Hume, from the remotest north, +In see-saw sceptic scruples hint his worth; +David, who there supinely deigns to lie +The fattest hog of Epicurus' sty; +Though drunk with Gallic wine, and Gallic praise, +David shall bless Old England's halcyon days; +The mighty Home, bemired in prose so long, +Again shall stalk upon the stilts of song: +While bold Mac-Ossian, wont in ghosts to deal, +Bids candid Smollett from his coffin steal; +Bids Mallock quit his sweet Elysian rest, +Sunk in his St John's philosophic breast, +And, like old Orpheus, make some strong effort +To come from Hell, and warble Truth at Court. +There was a time, 'in Esher's peaceful grove, +When Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love,' +That Pope beheld them with auspicious smile, +And owned that beauty blest their mutual toil. +Mistaken bard! could such a pair design +Scenes fit to live in thy immortal line? +Hadst thou been born in this enlightened day, +Felt, as we feel, taste's oriental ray, +Thy satire sure had given them both a stab, +Called Kent a driveller, and the nymph a drab. +For what is Nature? Ring her changes round, +Her three flat notes are water, plants, and ground; +Prolong the peal, yet, spite of all your clatter, +The tedious chime is still ground, plants, and water. +So, when some John his dull invention racks, +To rival Boodle's dinners, or Almack's; +Three uncouth legs of mutton shock our eyes, +Three roasted geese, three buttered apple-pies. +Come, then, prolific Art, and with thee bring +The charms that rise from thy exhaustless spring; +To Richmond come, for see, untutored Browne +Destroys those wonders which were once thy own. +Lo, from his melon-ground the peasant slave +Has rudely rushed, and levelled Merlin's cave; +Knocked down the waxen wizard, seized his wand, +Transformed to lawn what late was fairy-land; +And marred, with impious hand, each sweet design +Of Stephen Duck, and good Queen Caroline. +Haste, bid yon livelong terrace re-ascend, +Replace each vista, straighten every bend; +Shut out the Thames; shall that ignoble thing +Approach the presence of great Ocean's king? +No! let barbaric glories feast his eyes, +August pagodas round his palace rise, +And finished Richmond open to his view, +'A work to wonder at, perhaps a Kew.' +Nor rest we here, but, at our magic call, +Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards crawl; +Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove, +Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love; +In some fair island will we turn to grass +(With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass. +Giants from Africa shall guard the glades, +Where hiss our snakes, where sport our Tartar maids; +Or, wanting these, from Charlotte Hayes we bring +Damsels, alike adroit to sport and sting. +Now to our lawns of dalliance and delight, +Join we the groves of horror and affright; +This to achieve no foreign aids we try,-- +Thy gibbets, Bagshot! shall our wants supply; +Hounslow, whose heath sublimer terror fills, +Shall with her gibbets lend her powder-mills. +Here, too, O king of vengeance, in thy fane, +Tremendous Wilkes shall rattle his gold chain; +And round that fane, on many a Tyburn tree, +Hang fragments dire of Newgate-history; +On this shall Holland's dying speech be read, +Here Bute's confession, and his wooden head: +While all the minor plunderers of the age, +(Too numerous far for this contracted page,) +The Rigbys, Calcrafts, Dysons, Bradshaws there, +In straw-stuffed effigy, shall kick the air. +But say, ye powers, who come when fancy calls, +Where shall our mimic London rear her walls? +That eastern feature, Art must next produce, +Though not for present yet for future use, +Our sons some slave of greatness may behold, +Cast in the genuine Asiatic mould: +Who of three realms shall condescend to know +No more than he can spy from Windsor's brow; +For him, that blessing of a better time, +The Muse shall deal a while in brick and lime; +Surpass the bold [Greek: ADELPHI] in design, +And o'er the Thames fling one stupendous line +Of marble arches, in a bridge, that cuts +From Richmond Ferry slant to Brentford Butts. +Brentford with London's charms will we adorn; +Brentford, the bishopric of Parson Horne. +There, at one glance, the royal eye shall meet +Each varied beauty of St James's Street; +Stout Talbot there shall ply with hackney chair, +And patriot Betty fix her fruit-shop there. +Like distant thunder, now the coach of state +Rolls o'er the bridge, that groans beneath its weight. +The court hath crossed the stream; the sports begin; +Now Noel preaches of rebellion's sin: +And as the powers of his strong pathos rise, +Lo, brazen tears fall from Sir Fletcher's eyes. +While skulking round the pews, that babe of grace, +Who ne'er before at sermon showed his face, +See Jemmy Twitcher shambles; stop! stop thief! +He's stolen the Earl of Denbigh's handkerchief, +Let Barrington arrest him in mock fury, +And Mansfield hang the knave without a jury. +But hark, the voice of battle shouts from far, +The Jews and Maccaronis are at war: +The Jews prevail, and, thundering from the stocks, +They seize, they bind, they circumcise Charles Fox. +Fair Schwellenbergen smiles the sport to see, +And all the maids of honour cry 'Te! He!' +Be these the rural pastimes that attend +Great Brunswick's leisure: these shall best unbend +His royal mind, whene'er from state withdrawn, +He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn; +These shall prolong his Asiatic dream, +Though Europe's balance trembles on its beam. +And thou, Sir William! while thy plastic hand +Creates each wonder which thy bard has planned, +While, as thy art commands, obsequious rise +Whate'er can please, or frighten, or surprise, +Oh, let that bard his knight's protection claim, +And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame. + + + + +JOHN LOWE. + + +The author of 'Mary's Dream' was born in 1750, at Kenmore, Galloway, and +was the son of a gardener. He became a student of divinity, and acted +as tutor in the family of a Mr McGhie of Airds. A daughter of Mr McGhie +was attached to a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, and on the +occasion of his death Lowe wrote his beautiful 'Mary's Dream,' the +exquisite simplicity and music of the first stanza of which has often +been admired. Lowe was betrothed to a sister of 'Mary,' but having +emigrated to America, he married another, fell into dissipated habits, +and died in a miserable plight at Fredericksburgh in 1798. He wrote many +other pieces, but none equal to 'Mary's Dream.' + + +MARY'S DREAM. + +1 The moon had climbed the highest hill + Which rises o'er the source of Dee, + And from the eastern summit shed + Her silver light on tower and tree; + When Mary laid her down to sleep, + Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, + When, soft and low, a voice was heard, + Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!' + +2 She from her pillow gently raised + Her head, to ask who there might be, + And saw young Sandy shivering stand, + With visage pale, and hollow ee. + 'O Mary dear, cold is my clay; + It lies beneath a stormy sea. + Far, far from thee I sleep in death; + So, Mary, weep no more for me! + +3 'Three stormy nights and stormy days + We tossed upon the raging main; + And long we strove our bark to save, + But all our striving was in vain. + Even then, when horror chilled my blood, + My heart was filled with love for thee: + The storm is past, and I at rest; + So, Mary, weep no more for me! + +4 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare; + We soon shall meet upon that shore, + Where love is free from doubt and care, + And thou and I shall part no more!' + Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, + No more of Sandy could she see; + But soft the passing spirit said, + 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' + + + + +JOSEPH WARTON. + + +This accomplished critic and poet was born in 1722. He was son to the +Vicar of Basingstoke, and brother to Thomas Warton. (See a former volume +for his life.) Joseph was educated at Winchester College, and became +intimate there with William Collins. He wrote when quite young some +poetry in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. He was in due time removed to Oriel +College, where he composed two poems, entitled 'The Enthusiast,' and 'The +Dying Indian.' In 1744, he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at Oxford, +and was ordained to his father's curacy at Basingstoke. He went thence +to Chelsea, but did not remain there long, owing to some disagreement +with his parishioners, and returned to Basingstoke. In 1746, he published +a volume of Odes, and in the preface expressed his hope that it might +be successful as an attempt to bring poetry back from the didactic and +satirical taste of the age, to the truer channels of fancy and description. +The motive of this attempt was, however, more praiseworthy than its success +was conspicuous. + +In 1748, Warton was presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory of +Winslade, and he straightway married a Miss Daman, to whom he had for +some time been attached. In the same year he began, and in 1753 he +finished and printed, an edition of Virgil in English and Latin. Of this +large, elaborate work, Warton himself supplied only the life of Virgil, +with three essays on pastoral, didactic, and epic poetry, and a poetical +version of the Eclogues and the Georgics, more correct but less spirited +than Dryden's. He adopted Pitt's version of the Aeneid, and his friends +furnished some of the dissertations, notes, &c. Shortly after, he +contributed twenty-four excellent papers, including some striking +allegories, and some good criticisms on Shakspeare, to the _Adventurer_. +In 1754, he was appointed to the living of Tunworth, and the next year +was elected second master of Winchester School. Soon after this he +published anonymously 'An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope,' +which, whether because he failed in convincing the public that his +estimate of Pope was the correct one, or because he stood in awe of +Warburton, he did not complete or reprint for twenty-six years. It is a +somewhat gossiping book, but full of information and interest. + +In May 1766, he was made head-master of Winchester. In 1768, he lost his +wife, and next year married a Miss Nicholas of Winchester. In 1782, he +was promoted, through Bishop Lowth, to a prebend's post in St Paul's, and +to the living of Thorley, which he exchanged for that of Wickham. Other +livings dropped in upon him, and in 1793 he resigned the mastership of +Winchester, and went to reside at Wickham. Here he employed himself in +preparing an edition of Pope, which he published in 1797. In 1800 he +died. + +Warton, like his brother, did good service in resisting the literary +despotism of Pope, and in directing the attention of the public to the +forgotten treasures of old English poetry. He was a man of extensive +learning, a very fair and candid, as well as acute critic, and his 'Ode +to Fancy' proves him to have possessed no ordinary genius. + + +ODE TO FANCY. + +O parent of each lovely Muse, +Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, +O'er all my artless songs preside, +My footsteps to thy temple guide, +To offer at thy turf-built shrine, +In golden cups no costly wine, +No murdered fatling of the flock, +But flowers and honey from the rock. +O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, +With buskined leg, and bosom bare, +Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, +Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned, +Waving in thy snowy hand +An all-commanding magic wand, +Of power to bid fresh gardens blow, +'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow, +Whose rapid wings thy flight convey +Through air, and over earth and sea, +While the vast various landscape lies +Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. +O lover of the desert, hail! +Say, in what deep and pathless vale, +Or on what hoary mountain's side, +'Mid fall of waters, you reside, +'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene, +With green and grassy dales between, +'Mid forests dark of aged oak, +Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, +Where never human art appeared, +Nor even one straw-roofed cot was reared, +Where Nature seems to sit alone, +Majestic on a craggy throne; +Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, +To thy unknown sequestered cell, +Where woodbines cluster round the door, +Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, +And on whose top a hawthorn blows, +Amid whose thickly-woven boughs +Some nightingale still builds her nest, +Each evening warbling thee to rest: +Then lay me by the haunted stream, +Rapt in some wild, poetic dream, +In converse while methinks I rove +With Spenser through a fairy grove; +Till, suddenly awaked, I hear +Strange whispered music in my ear, +And my glad soul in bliss is drowned +By the sweetly-soothing sound! +Me, goddess, by the right hand lead +Sometimes through the yellow mead, +Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, +And Venus keeps her festive court; +Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, +And lightly trip with nimble feet, +Nodding their lily-crowned heads, +Where Laughter rose-lipped Hebe leads; +Where Echo walks steep hills among, +Listening to the shepherd's song: +Yet not these flowery fields of joy +Can long my pensive mind employ; +Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, +To meet the matron Melancholy, +Goddess of the tearful eye, +That loves to fold her arms, and sigh; +Let us with silent footsteps go +To charnels and the house of woe, +To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, +Where each sad night some virgin comes, +With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, +Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek; +Or to some abbey's mouldering towers, +Where, to avoid cold wintry showers, +The naked beggar shivering lies, +While whistling tempests round her rise, +And trembles lest the tottering wall +Should on her sleeping infants fall. +Now let us louder strike the lyre, +For my heart glows with martial fire,-- +I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, +My big tumultuous bosom beat; +The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear, +A thousand widows' shrieks I hear, +Give me another horse, I cry, +Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; +Whence is this rage?--what spirit, say, +To battle hurries me away? +'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, +Transports me to the thickest war, +There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, +Where Tumult and Destruction reign; +Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed +Tramples the dying and the dead; +Where giant Terror stalks around, +With sullen joy surveys the ground, +And, pointing to the ensanguined field, +Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! +Oh, guide me from this horrid scene, +To high-arched walks and alleys green, +Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun +The fervours of the mid-day sun; +The pangs of absence, oh, remove! +For thou canst place me near my love, +Canst fold in visionary bliss, +And let me think I steal a kiss, +While her ruby lips dispense +Luscious nectar's quintessence! +When young-eyed Spring profusely throws +From her green lap the pink and rose, +When the soft turtle of the dale +To Summer tells her tender tale; +When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, +And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; +When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, +Shakes his silver beard with cold; +At every season let my ear +Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. +O warm, enthusiastic maid, +Without thy powerful, vital aid, +That breathes an energy divine, +That gives a soul to every line, +Ne'er may I strive with lips profane +To utter an unhallowed strain, +Nor dare to touch the sacred string, +Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing. +Oh, hear our prayer! oh, hither come +From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, +On which thou lovest to sit at eve, +Musing o'er thy darling's grave; +O queen of numbers, once again +Animate some chosen swain, +Who, filled with unexhausted fire, +May boldly smite the sounding lyre, +Who with some new unequalled song +May rise above the rhyming throng, +O'er all our listening passions reign, +O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, +With terror shake, and pity move, +Rouse with revenge, or melt with love; +Oh, deign to attend his evening walk, +With him in groves and grottoes talk; +Teach him to scorn with frigid art +Feebly to touch the enraptured heart; +Like lightning, let his mighty verse +The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; +With native beauties win applause +Beyond cold critics' studied laws; +Oh, let each Muse's fame increase! +Oh, bid Britannia rival Greece! + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS. + + +SONG. + +FROM 'THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES.' DUBLIN, 1772. + +1 Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit + Do various passions raise; + And, like the lightning, yield a bright, + But momentary blaze. + +2 Eliza's milder, gentler sway, + Her conquests fairly won, + Shall last till life and time decay, + Eternal as the sun. + +3 Thus the wild flood with deafening roar + Bursts dreadful from on high; + But soon its empty rage is o'er, + And leaves the channel dry: + +4 While the pure stream, which still and slow + Its gentler current brings, + Through every change of time shall flow + With unexhausted springs. + + +VERSES, + +COPIED FROM THE WINDOW OF AN OBSCURE LODGING-HOUSE, +IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF LONDON. + +Stranger! whoe'er thou art, whose restless mind, +Like me within these walls is cribbed, confined; +Learn how each want that heaves our mutual sigh +A woman's soft solicitudes supply. +From her white breast retreat all rude alarms, +Or fly the magic circle of her arms; +While souls exchanged alternate grace acquire, +And passions catch from passion's glorious fire: +What though to deck this roof no arts combine, +Such forms as rival every fair but mine; +No nodding plumes, our humble couch above, +Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love; +No silver lamp with sculptured Cupids gay, +O'er yielding beauty pours its midnight ray; +Yet Fanny's charms could Time's slow flight beguile, +Soothe every care, and make each dungeon smile: +In her, what kings, what saints have wished, is given, +Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven. + + +THE OLD BACHELOR. + +AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER. + +1 In Phoebus' region while some bards there be + That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar; + Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me, + Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar! + Haply a scene of meaner view to scan, + Beneath their laurelled praise my verse may give, + To trace the features of unnoticed man; + Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! + Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, + From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach. + +2 A wight there was, who single and alone + Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, + Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known + His heart to captive, or his thought engage: + Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind + Might female worth or beauty give to wear, + Yet to the nobler sex he held confined + The genuine graces of the soul sincere, + And well could show with saw or proverb quaint + All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint. + +3 In plain attire this wight apparelled was, + (For much he conned of frugal lore and knew,) + Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, + From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: + But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, + Or feast, or birthday, should it chance to be, + A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore, + And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, + Gold clasped his shoon, by maiden brushed so sheen, + And his rough beard he shaved, and donned his linen clean. + +4 But in his common garb a coat he wore, + A faithful coat that long its lord had known, + That once was black, but now was black no more, + Attinged by various colours not its own. + All from his nostrils was the front embrowned, + And down the back ran many a greasy line, + While, here and there, his social moments owned + The generous signet of the purple wine. + Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appeared, + Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeared. + +5 One only maid he had, like turtle true, + But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; + For many a time her tongue bewrayed the shrew, + And in meet words unpacked her peevish mind. + Ne formed was she to raise the soft desire + That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, + Ne formed was she to light the tender fire, + By many a bard is sung in many a strain: + Hooked was her nose, and countless wrinkles told + What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old. + +6 When the clock told the wonted hour was come + When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew, + Eight patient would she watch his wending home, + His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. + If long his time was past, and leaden sleep + O'er her tired eyelids 'gan his reign to stretch, + Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep, + And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach; + Haply if potent gin had armed her tongue, + All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung. + +7 For though, the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle + O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign, + On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile, + Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign: + For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink + Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, + And for the medicine's sake, might envy think, + Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral; + Yet much the proffer did she loathe, and say + No dram might maiden taste, and often answered nay. + +8 So as in single animals he joyed, + One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed; + The first the cate-devouring mice destroyed, + Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled: + All in the sunbeams basked the lazy cat, + Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; + On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat, + And loud he barked should Puss his right invade. + The human pair oft marked them as they lay, + And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they. + +9 A room he had that faced the southern ray, + Where oft he walked to set his thoughts in tune, + Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway, + All to the music of his creeking shoon. + And at the end a darkling closet stood, + Where books he kept of old research and new, + In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood, + And rusty nails and phials not a few: + Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, + And papers squared and trimmed for use unmeet to tell. + +10 For still in form he placed his chief delight, + Nor lightly broke his old accustomed rule, + And much uncourteous would he hold the wight + That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool; + And oft in meet array their ranks he placed, + And oft with careful eye their ranks reviewed; + For novel forms, though much those forms had graced, + Himself and maiden-minister eschewed: + One path he trod, nor ever would decline + A hair's unmeasured breadth from off the even line. + +11 A Club select there was, where various talk + On various chapters passed the lingering hour, + And thither oft he bent his evening walk, + And warmed to mirth by wine's enlivening power. + And oft on politics the preachments ran, + If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume: + And oft important matters would they scan, + And deep in council fix a nation's doom: + And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer, + Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved to hear. + +12 For men like him they were of like consort, + Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn, + Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport, + And blessed their stars that kept the curse from them! + No honest love they knew, no melting smile + That shoots the transports to the throbbing heart! + Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile + Lascivious smiling through the mask of art: + And so of women deemed they as they knew, + And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew. + +13 But most abhorred they hymeneal rites, + And boasted oft the freedom of their fate: + Nor 'vailed, as they opined, its best delights + Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait; + And often would they tell of henpecked fool + Snubbed by the hard behest of sour-eyed dame. + And vowed no tongue-armed woman's freakish rule + Their mirth should quail, or damp their generous flame: + Then pledged their hands, and tossed their bumpers o'er, + And Io! Bacchus! sung, and owned no other power. + +14 If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose + Within some breast of less obdurate frame, + Lo! where its hideous form a phantom shows + Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name. + Him Scorn attended with a glance askew, + And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, + Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew, + And vexed the region round the Cupid's throne: + 'Far be from us,' they cried, 'the treacherous bane, + Far be the dimply guile, and far the flowery chain!' + + +CARELESS CONTENT. + +1 I am content, I do not care, + Wag as it will the world for me; + When fuss and fret was all my fare, + It got no ground as I could see: + So when away my caring went, + I counted cost, and was content. + +2 With more of thanks and less of thought, + I strive to make my matters meet; + To seek what ancient sages sought, + Physic and food in sour and sweet: + To take what passes in good part, + And keep the hiccups from the heart. + +3 With good and gentle-humoured hearts, + I choose to chat where'er I come, + Whate'er the subject be that starts; + But if I get among the glum, + I hold my tongue to tell the truth, + And keep my breath to cool my broth. + +4 For chance or change of peace or pain, + For Fortune's favour or her frown, + For lack or glut, for loss or gain, + I never dodge, nor up nor down: + But swing what way the ship shall swim, + Or tack about with equal trim. + +5 I suit not where I shall not speed, + Nor trace the turn of every tide; + If simple sense will not succeed, + I make no bustling, but abide: + For shining wealth, or scaring woe, + I force no friend, I fear no foe. + +6 Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, + Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right, + I shun the rancours and the routs; + And wishing well to every wight, + Whatever turn the matter takes, + I deem it all but ducks and drakes. + +7 With whom I feast I do not fawn, + Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; + If wonted welcome be withdrawn, + I cook no kind of a complaint: + With none disposed to disagree, + But like them best who best like me. + +8 Not that I rate myself the rule + How all my betters should behave + But fame shall find me no man's fool, + Nor to a set of men a slave: + I love a friendship free and frank, + And hate to hang upon a hank. + +9 Fond of a true and trusty tie, + I never loose where'er I link; + Though if a business budges by, + I talk thereon just as I think; + My word, my work, my heart, my hand, + Still on a side together stand. + +10 If names or notions make a noise, + Whatever hap the question hath, + The point impartially I poise, + And read or write, but without wrath; + For should I burn, or break my brains, + Pray, who will pay me for my pains? + +11 I love my neighbour as myself, + Myself like him too, by his leave; + Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, + Came I to crouch, as I conceive: + Dame Nature doubtless has designed + A man the monarch of his mind. + +12 Now taste and try this temper, sirs, + Mood it and brood it in your breast; + Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, + That man does right to mar his rest, + Let me be deft, and debonair, + I am content, I do not care. + + +A PASTORAL. + +1 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, + When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; + Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: + Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! + But now she is gone, and has left me behind, + What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! + When things were as fine as could possibly be, + I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she. + +2 With such a companion to tend a few sheep, + To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep: + I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay, + My heart was as light as a feather all day; + But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, + So strangely uneasy, as never was known. + My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, + And my heart--I am sure it weighs more than a pound. + +3 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, + And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; + Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, + 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: + But now she is absent, I walk by its side, + And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; + Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? + Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. + +4 My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, + And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; + How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, + When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime! + But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, + I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass: + Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, + To see you so merry while I am so sad. + +5 My dog I was ever well pleased to see + Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; + And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, + 'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. + But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look + Cry 'Sirrah;' and give him a blow with my crook: + And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray + Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away? + +6 When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, + How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! + What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, + The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! + But now she has left me, though all are still there, + They none of them now so delightful appear: + 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, + Made so many beautiful prospects arise. + +7 Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, + The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; + Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, + And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. + But now she is absent, though still they sing on, + The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: + Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, + Gave everything else its agreeable sound. + +8 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? + And where is the violet's beautiful blue? + Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile? + That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? + Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed, + And made yourselves fine for--a place in her breast: + You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, + To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. + +9 How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! + While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: + Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, + I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. + Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, + And rest so much longer for't when she is here. + Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, + Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. + +10 Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, + Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? + To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; + But what swain is so silly to live without love! + No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, + For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. + Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair; + Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. + + +ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE. + +Little tube of mighty power, +Charmer of an idle hour, +Object of my warm desire, +Lip of wax and eye of fire; +And thy snowy taper waist, +With my finger gently braced; +And thy pretty swelling crest, +With my little stopper pressed; +And the sweetest bliss of blisses, +Breathing from thy balmy kisses. +Happy thrice, and thrice again, +Happiest he of happy men; +Who when again the night returns, +When again the taper burns, +When again the cricket's gay, +(Little cricket full of play,) +Can afford his tube to feed +With the fragrant Indian weed: +Pleasure for a nose divine, +Incense of the god of wine. +Happy thrice, and thrice again, +Happiest he of happy men. + + +AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. + +1 Away! let nought to love displeasing, + My Winifreda, move your care; + Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, + Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. + +2 What though no grants of royal donors, + With pompous titles grace our blood; + We'll shine in more substantial honours, + And, to be noble, we'll be good. + +3 Our name while virtue thus we tender, + Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; + And all the great ones, they shall wonder + How they respect such little folk. + +4 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, + No mighty treasures we possess; + We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, + And be content without excess. + +5 Still shall each kind returning season + Sufficient for our wishes give; + For we will live a life of reason, + And that's the only life to live. + +6 Through youth and age, in love excelling, + We'll hand in hand together tread; + Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, + And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. + +7 How should I love the pretty creatures, + While round my knees they fondly clung! + To see them look their mother's features, + To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! + +8 And when with envy Time transported, + Shall think to rob us of our joys; + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing in my boys. + + +RICHARD BENTLEY'S SOLE POETICAL COMPOSITION. + +1 Who strives to mount Parnassus' hill, + And thence poetic laurels bring, + Must first acquire due force and skill, + Must fly with swan's or eagle's wing. + +2 Who Nature's treasures would explore, + Her mysteries and arcana know, + Must high as lofty Newton soar, + Must stoop as delving Woodward low. + +3 Who studies ancient laws and rites, + Tongues, arts, and arms, and history; + Must drudge, like Selden, days and nights, + And in the endless labour die. + +4 Who travels in religious jars, + (Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,) + Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars, + In ocean wide or sinks or strays. + +5 But grant our hero's hope, long toil + And comprehensive genius crown, + All sciences, all arts his spoil, + Yet what reward, or what renown? + +6 Envy, innate in vulgar souls, + Envy steps in and stops his rise; + Envy with poisoned tarnish fouls + His lustre, and his worth decries. + +7 He lives inglorious or in want, + To college and old books confined: + Instead of learned, he's called pedant; + Dunces advanced, he's left behind: + Yet left content, a genuine Stoic he, + Great without patron, rich without South Sea. + + +LINES ADDRESSED TO POPE.[1] + +1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page + Its own celestial fire; + While critics and while bards in rage + Admiring, won't admire: + +2 While wayward pens thy worth assail, + And envious tongues decry; + These times, though many a friend bewail, + These times bewail not I. + +3 But when the world's loud praise is thine, + And spleen no more shall blame; + When with thy Homer thou shalt shine + In one unclouded fame: + +4 When none shall rail, and every lay + Devote a wreath to thee; + That day (for come it will) that day + Shall I lament to see. + +[1] Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by +Johnson.--_See_ Boswell. + + + +THE END. + + + + +INDEX + + VOL. +A Ballad upon a Wedding, SUCKLING, i. +Abel's Blood, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the + Legion Club, SWIFT, iii. +A Cradle Hymn, WATTS, iii. +Address to the Nightingale, BARNFIELD, i. +A Description of Castara, HABINGTON, ii. +A Distempered Fancy, MORE, ii. +Admiral Hosier's Ghost, GLOVER, iii. +Address to the Moon, MACPHERSON, iii. +A Friend, PHILLIPS, ii. +A Fragment of Sappho, PHILIPS, iii. +Allegorical Characters from 'The Mirror for +Magistrates,' SACKVILLE, i. +ALEXANDER, WILLIAM, EARL OF STIRLING, i. +A Loose Saraband, LOVELACE, ii. +A Meditation, WOTTON, i. +An Epitaph, BEAUMONT, i. +An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers, MASON, iii. +An Ode to the Right Hon. Lord Gower, FENTON, iii. +An American Love Ode, WARTON THE ELDER, iii. +Apostrophe to Freedom, BARBOUR, i. +A Praise to his Lady, ANONYMOUS, i. +A Pastoral Dialogue, CAREW, i. +A Pastoral, iii. +Apostrophe to Fletcher the Dramatist, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Persian Song of Hafiz, JONES, iii. +Arcadia, CHALKHILL, ii. +Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks, CHAMBERLAYNE, ii. +Ascension-Day, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Vision upon the "Fairy Queen," RALEIGH, i. +A Valediction, BROWNE, i. +A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque, COTTON, ii. +Away! Let nought to Love Displeasing, iii. + +BAMPFYLDE, JOHN, iii. +BARBOUR, JOHN, i. +BARCLAY, ALEXANDER i. +BARNFIELD, RICHARD i. +Battle of Black Earnside BLIND HARRY, i. +Baucis and Philemon SWIFT, iii. +BEAUMONT, FRANCIS i. +BEAUMONT, DR JOSEPH ii. +BISHOP, SAMUEL iii. +BLACKMORE, SIR RICHARD iii. +BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM iii. +BLACKLOCK, THOMAS iii. +BLAMIRE, SUSANNA iii. +BLIND HARRY i. +Breathing toward the Heavenly Country WATTS, iii. +Bristowe Tragedy CHATTERTON, iii. +BROWN, JOHN iii. +BROWNE, ISAAC HAWKINS iii. +BROWNE, WILLIAM i. +BROOKE, HENRY iii. +BRUCE, MICHAEL iii. +BURTON, ROBERT i. +Burial VAUGHAN, ii. +BOOTH, BARTON iii. +BRAMSTON iii. + +Canace Condemned to Death by her Father LYDGATE, i. +Careless Content iii. +CAREW, THOMAS i. +CARTWRIGHT, WILLIAM i. +CAREY, HENRY iii. +Celia Singing STANLEY, ii. +CHALKHILL, JOHN ii. +CHAMBERLAYNE, WILLIAM ii. +CHATTERTON, THOMAS iii. +Cherry Ripe HERRICK, ii. +Cheerfulness VAUGHAN, ii. +CHESTERFIELD, LORD iii. +Childhood VAUGHAN, ii. +Close of 'Christ's Victory and Triumph' FLETCHER, i. +Cock-crowing VAUGHAN, ii. +COCKBURN, MRS iii. +Complaint of Nature LOGAN, iii. +CORBET, RICHARD i. +Corinna's Going a-Maying HERRICK, ii. +COOPER, JOHN GILBERT iii. +COTTON, CHARLES ii. +COTTON, NATHANIEL iii. +COWLEY, ABRAHAM ii. +CRAWFORD, ROBERT iii. +Creation, BLACKMORE, iii. +Cumnor Hall, MICKLE, iii. +CUNNINGHAM, JOHN, iii. + +DANIEL, SAMUEL, i. +DAVIES, SIR JOHN, i. +Davideis--Book II., COWLEY, ii. +DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM, ii. +Description of King's Mistress, JAMES I., i. +Death of Sir Henry de Bohun, BARBOUR, i. +Description of Morning, DRAYTON, i. +Description of Parthenia, FLETCHER, i. +Destruction and Renovation of all Things, DR H. MORE, ii. +Desolation of Balclutha, MACPHERSON, iii. +Dinner given by the Town Mouse to the Country + Mouse, HENRYSON, i. +Directions for Cultivating a Hop Garden, TUSSER, i. +DODSLEY, ROBERT, iii. +DONNE, JOHN, i. +DOUGLAS, GAVIN, i. +DRAYTON, MICHAEL, i. +DRUMMOND, WILLIAM, i. +DU BARTAS, i. +DUNBAR, WILLIAM, i. +Dwelling of the Witch Orandra, CHALKHILL, ii. + +Early Love, DANIEL, i. +EDWARDS, RICHARD, i. +Elegy XIII., HAMMOND, iii. +Elegy written in Spring, BRUCE, iii. +ELLIOT, Miss JANE, iii. +End, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke, JONSON, i. +Epistle addressed to the Honourable W. E. HABINGTON, ii. +Epitaph on Mrs Mason, MASON, iii. +Evening, BROWNE, i. +Eve, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Exordium of Third Part of 'Pyschozoia', DR H. MORE, ii. + +FAIRFAX, EDWARD, i. +Farewell to the Vanities of the World, WOTTON, i. +FANSHAWE, SIR RICHARD, ii. +FAWKES, FRANCIS, iii. +FENTON, ELIJAH, iii. +Few Happy Matches, WATTS, iii. +February--an Elegy, CHATTERTON, iii. +FERGUSSON, ROBERT, iii. +Fingal and the Spirit of Loda, MACPHERSON, iii. +Fingal's Spirit-Home, MACPHERSON, iii. +FLETCHER, GILES +FLETCHER, PHINEAS +From 'The Phoenix' Nest' ANONYMOUS, i. +From the Same ANONYMOUS, i. +From 'Britannia's Pastorals' W. BROWNE, i. +From 'The Shepherd's Hunting' WITHER, i. +From the Same WITHER, ii. +From 'Gondibert,' Canto II. DAVENANT, ii. +From 'Gondibert,' Canto IV. DAVENANT, ii. +From 'An Essay on Translated Verse' EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ii. +From 'The Gentle Shepherd,' Act I., Scene II. RAMSAY, iii. +From 'The Monody' LYTTELTON, iii. +From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii. +From the Same LANGHORNE, iii. +From 'Leonidas,' Book XII. GLOVER, iii. + +GARTH, SIR SAMUEL iii. +GASCOIGNE, GEORGE i. +Gipsies--From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii. +GLOVER, RICHARD iii. +Good-morrow GASCOIGNE, i. +Good-night GASCOIGNE, i. +GOULD iii. +GOWER, JOHN i. +Gratification which the Lover's Passion receives + from the Sense of Hearing GOWER, i. +GRAINGER, DR JAMES iii. +GREVILLE, MRS iii. + +HABINGTON, WILLIAM ii. +HALL, JOSEPH, BISHOP OF NORWICH ii. +Hallo, my Fancy ii. +HAMMOND, JAMES iii. +HAMILTON, WILLIAM iii. +Happiness of the Shepherd's Life P. FLETCHER, i. +HARDING, JOHN i. +HARRINGTON, JOHN i. +Harpalus' Complaint of Phillida's Love + bestowed on Corin i. +HARTE, DR WALTER iii. +HAWES, STEPHEN i. +HENRYSON, ROBERT i. +Henry, Duke of Buckingham, in the Infernal + Regions T. SACKVILLE, i. +HERRICK, ROBERT ii. +Hell DR J. BEAUMONT, ii. +HEATH, ROBERT ii. +HEADLEY, HENRY iii. +Holy Sonnets, DONNE, i. +Housewifely Physic, TUSSER, i. +HUME, ALEXANDER, i. + +Image of Death, SOUTHWELL, i. +Imperial Rome Personified, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Imitation of Thomson, ISAAC BROWNE, iii. +Imitation of Pope, ISAAC BBOWNE, iii. +Imitation of Swift, ISAAC BROWNE, iii. +Instability of Human Greatness, P. FLETCHER, i. +Introduction to the Poem on the Soul of Man, DAVIES, i. +Invitation to Izaak Walton, COTTON, ii. +In praise of the renowned Lady Anne, Countess + of Warwick, TURBERVILLE, i. +Isaac's Marriage, VAUGHAN, ii. + +JAGO, REV. RICHARD, iii. +JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND, i. +Jacob's Pillow and Pillar, VAUGHAN, ii. +Jephthah's Daughter, HERRICK, ii. +JOHN THE CHAPLAIN, i. +JONSON, BEN, i. +JONES, SIR WILLIAM, iii. +Joseph's Dream, DE BEAUMONT, ii. +Journey into France, CORBET, i. + +KAY, JOHN, i. +Kenrick--translated from the Saxon, CHATTERTON, iii. +KING, DE HENRY, ii. + +La Belle Confidante, STANLEY, ii. +LANGHORNE, JOHN, iii. +Life, COWLEY, ii. +Life, KING, ii. +Lines addressed to Pope, LEWIS, iii. +LLOYD, ROBERT, iii. +Lochaber no more, RAMSAY, iii. +LOGAN, JOHN, iii. +London Lyckpenny, The LYDGATE, i. +Look Home, SOUTHWELL, i. +Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i. +Love admits no Rival, RALEIGH, i. +Love's Darts, CARTWRIGHT, i. +LOVELACE, RICHARD, ii. +Love-Sick, VAUGHAN, ii. +LOVIBOND, EDWARD, iii. +LOWE, JOHN, iii. +LYDGATE, JOHN, i. +LYNDSAY, SIR DAVID, i. +LYTTELTON, LORD, iii. + +MACPHERSON, JAMES iii. +MAITLAND, SIR RICHARD, OF LETHINGTON i. +MALLETT, DAVID iii. +Man's Fall and Recovery VAUGHAN, ii. +Marriage of Christ and the Church P. FLETCHER, i. +MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE ii. +Mary's Dream LOWE, iii. +MARVELL, ANDREW ii. +MASON, WILLIAM iii. +May-Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen CUNNINGHAM, iii. +Meldrum's Duel with the English Champion + Talbert LYNDSAY, i. +Melancholy described by Mirth DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii. +Melancholy describing herself DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii. +MERRICK, JAMES iii. +MESTON, WILLIAM iii. +MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS iii. +Misery VAUGHAN, ii. +MONTGOMERY, ALEXANDER i. +MOORE, EDWARD iii. +MOORE, SIR JOHN HENRY iii. +MORE, DR HENRY ii. +Morning in May DOUGLAS, i. +Moral Reflections on the Wind TUSSER, i. +Mount of Olives VAUGHAN, ii. +My Mind to me a Kingdom is ii. + +Note on Anacreon STANLEY ii. +NUGENT, LORD (ROBERT CRAGGS) iii. + +Oberon's Palace HERRICK, ii. +Oberon's Feast HERRICK, ii. +OCCLEVE, THOMAS i. +Ode to Solitude GRAINGER, iii. +Ode on hearing the Drum JOHN SCOTT, iii. +Ode to Mankind NUGENT, iii. +Ode to Aurora BLACKLOCK, iii. +Ode to Fancy JOSEPH WARTON, iii. +Ode to a Tobacco-pipe iii. +Of Wit COWLEY, ii. +Of Solitude COWLEY, ii. +OLDYS, WILLIAM iii. +On Tombs in Westminster BEAUMONT, i. +On Man's Resemblance to God DU BARTAS, i. +On the Portrait of Shakspeare JONSON, i. +On Melancholy BURTON, i. +On the Death of Sir Bevil Granville CARTWRIGHT, i. +On the Praise of Poetry COWLEY, ii. +On Paradise Lost MARVELL, ii. +Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i. + +On a Charnel-house, VAUGHAN, ii. +On Gombauld's 'Endymion,' VAUGHAN, ii. +On Poetry, SWIFT, iii. +On the Death of Dr Swift, SWIFT, iii. +Opening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia,' DR MORE, ii. +Ossian's Address to the Sun, MACPHERSON, iii. + +Palm-Sunday, VAUGHAN, ii. +Paradise, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +PENROSE, THOMAS, iii. +Persuasions to Love, CAREW, i. +PHILIPS, AMBROSE, iii. +PHILIPS, JOHN, iii. +PHILLIPS, CATHERINE, ii. +Picture of the Town, VAUGHAN, ii. +POMFRET, JOHN, iii. +POPE, DR WALTER, iii. +Power of Genius over Envy, W. BROWNE, i. +Priestess of Diana, CHALKHILL, ii. +Protest of Love, HEATH, ii. +Providence, VAUGHAN, ii. +Psalm CIV., VAUGHAN, ii. + +RALEIGH, SIR WALTER, i. +RAMSAY, ALLAN, iii. +RANDOLPH, THOMAS, i. +Regeneration, VAUGHAN, ii. +Repentance, VAUGHAN, ii. +Resurrection and Immortality, VAUGHAN, ii. +Richard II. the Morning before his Murder + in Pomfret Castle, DANIEL, i. +Richard Bentley's Sole Poetical Composition, iii. +Righteousness, VAUGHAN, ii. +Rinaldo at Mount Olivet, FAIRFAX, i. +ROBERTS, WILLIAM HAYWARD, iii. +ROSCOMMON, THE EARL OF, ii. +ROSS, ALEXANDER, iii. +Rules and Lessons, VAUGHAN, ii. + +SACKVILLE, THOMAS, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET, i. +SACKVILLE, CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET, iii. +Sally in our Alley, CAREY, iii. +Satire I., HALL, ii. +Satire VII., HALL, ii. +Satire on Holland, MARVELL, ii. +SAVAGE, RICHARD, iii. +SCOTT, JOHN, iii. +SCOTT, THOMAS, iii. +Selections from Sonnets, DANIEL, i. +SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES, iii. +SEWELL, DR GEORGE, iii. +SHAW, CUTHBERT, iii. +Sic Vita, KING, ii. +SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP, i. +SKELTON, JOHN, i. +SMART, CHRISTOPHER, iii. +Song of Sorceress seeking to Tempt + Jesus, G. FLETCHER, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, SUCKLING, i. +Song, SUCKLING, i. +Song, W. BROWNE, i. +Song, W. BROWNE, i. +Song to Althea from Prison, LOVELACE, ii. +Song, LOVELACE, ii. +Song, HERRICK, ii. +Song, KING, ii. +Song, WILMOT, ii. +Song, WILMOT, ii. +Song, C. SACKVILLE, iii. +Song, SEDLEY, iii. +Song to David, SMART, iii. +Song, ANONYMOUS, iii. +Sonnet on Isabella Markham, HARRINGTON, i. +Sonnet, WATSON, i. +Sonnet, ALEXANDER, i. +Sonnets, SIDNEY, i. +Sonnets, DRUMMOND, i. +Soul compared to a Lantern, DR H. MORE, ii. +SOUTHWELL, EGBERT, i. +Spiritual Poems, DRUMMOND, i. +Spirituality of the Soul, DAVIES, i. +St Mary Magdalene, VAUGHAN, ii. +STANLEY, THOMAS, ii. +STEVENS, GEORGE ALEXANDER, iii. +STORRER, THOMAS, i. +SUCKLING, SIR JOHN, i. +Supplication in Contemption of Side-tails, LYNDSAY, i. +SYLVESTER, JOSHUA, i. +SWIFT, JONATHAN, iii. +SCOTT, ALEXANDER, i. + +That all things sometimes find Ease of their + Pain save only the Lover, UNKNOWN, i. +Thanks for a Summer's Day, HUME, i. +The Angler's Wish, WALTON, ii. +The Author's Picture BLACKLOCK, iii. +The Birks of Invermay MALLETT, iii. +The Bastard SAVAGE, iii. +The Braes of Yarrow HAMILTON, iii. +The Bush aboon Traquair CRAWFORD, iii. +The Brown Jug FAWKES, iii. +The Cave MACPHERSON, iii. +The Choice POMFRET, iii. +The Chameleon MERRICK, iii. +The Chariot of the Sun DU BARTAS, i. +The Chariot of the Sun GOWER, i. +The Chronicle: A Ballad COWLEY, ii. +The Country's Recreations RALEIGH, i. +The Country Life HERRICK, ii. +The Complaint COWLEY, ii. +The Constellation VAUGHAN, ii. +The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell DUNBAR, i. +The Dawning VAUGHAN, ii. +The Death of Wallace BLIND HARRY, i. +The Despair COWLEY, ii. +The Dispensary GARTH, iii. +The Emigrants MARVELL, ii. +The Farmer's Ingle FERGUSSON, iii. +The Feast VAUGHAN, ii. +The Flowers of the Forest MISS ELLIOT, iii. +The Same MRS COCKBURN, iii. +The Fairy Queen ii. +The Garland VAUGHAN, ii. +The Garment of Good Ladies HENRYSON, i. +The Golden Age VAUGHAN, ii. +The Inquiry C. PHILLIPS, ii. +The Jews VAUGHAN, ii. +The Kiss: A Dialogue HERRICK, ii. +The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse BLACKSTONE, iii. +The Last Time I came o'er the Moor RAMSAY, iii. +The Loss STANLEY, ii. +The Lovers LOGAN, iii. +The Mad Maid's Song HERRICK, ii. +The Mariner's Wife MICKLE, iii. +The Merle and the Nightingale DUNBAR, i. +The Miseries of a Poet's Life LLOYD, iii. +The Motto--'Tentanda via est,' &c. COWLEY, ii. +The Nativity G. FLETCHER, i. +The Nabob BLAMIRE, iii. +The Nymph complaining of the Death of her Fawn MARVELL, ii. +The Nymphs to their May Queen WATSON, i. +The Old Bachelor, ANONYMOUS, iii. +The Old and Young Courtier, ii. +The Palm-Tree, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Passion, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Picture of the Body, JONSON, i. +The Plagues of Egypt, COWLEY, ii. +The Praise of Woman, RANDOLPH, i. +The Progress of the Soul, DONNE, i. +The Rainbow, VAUGHAN, ii. +The River Forth Feasting, DRUMMOND, i. +The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow, A. ROSS, iii. +The Rose, WATTS, iii. +The Seed growing secretly (Mark iv. 26), VAUGHAN, ii. +The Search, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Self-subsistence of the Soul, DAVIES, i. +The Shepherd's Resolution, WITHER, ii. +The Steadfast Shepherd, WITHER, ii. +The Silent Lover, RALEIGH, i. +The Sluggard, WATTS, iii. +The Shower, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Story of William Canynge, CHATTERTON, iii. +The Splendid Shilling, J. PHILIPS, iii. +The Spring: A Sonnet from the Spanish, FANSHAWE, ii. +The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets, &c., GOWER, i. +The Tears of Old May-day, LOVIBOND, iii. +The Tempest, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Tempestuous Evening: An Ode, J. SCOTT, iii. +The Timber, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Waterfall, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Wish, COWLEY, ii. +The World, VAUGHAN, ii. +Thealma: A Deserted Shepherdess, CHALKHILL, ii. +Thealma in Full Dress, CHALKHILL, ii. +There is a Garden in her Face, ii. +TICKELL, THOMAS, iii. +Times go by Turns, SOUTHWELL, i. +THOMPSON, EDWARD, iii. +Thoughts in a Garden, MARVELL, ii. +To a Lady admiring herself in a + Looking-glass, RANDOLPH, i. +To a very young Lady, SEDLEY, iii. +To Ben Jonson, BEAUMONT, i. +To Blossoms, HERRICK, ii. +To Clarastella, HEATH, ii. +To Daffodils, HERRICK, ii. +To his noblest Friend, J. C., Esq., HABINGTON, ii. +To my Mistress, sitting by a River's side, CAREW, i. +To my Picture, RANDOLPH, i. +To Mrs Bishop, BISHOP, iii. +To the Same BISHOP, iii. +To Penshurst JONSON, i. +To Primroses HERRICK, ii. +To Religion SYLVESTER, i. +To the Cuckoo BRUCE, iii. +To the Rev. J. Howe WATTS, iii. +To the Memory of my beloved Master, William + Shakspeare, and what he left us JONSON, i. +To the Memory of his Wife DR BEAUMONT, ii. +To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr + Addison TICKELL, iii. +TUSSER, THOMAS i. +TURBERVILLE, THOMAS i. + +UNKNOWN i. +Upon the Shortness of Man's Life COWLEY, ii. + +VANBRUGH, SIR JOHN iii. +Variety WHITEHEAD, iii. +VAUX, THOMAS, LORD i. +VAUGHAN, HENRY ii. +VERE, EDWARD i. +Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden HARRINGTON, i. +Verses written after seeing Windsor Castle T. WARTON, iii. +Verses ANONYMOUS, iii. + +WALSH iii. +WALTON, IZAAK ii. +WARD, EDWARD iii. +WARTON, THOMAS, THE ELDER iii. +WARTON, JOSEPH iii. +WATSON, THOMAS i. +WATTS, ISAAC iii. +WEEKES, JAMES EYRE iii. +WEST, RICHARD iii. +What is Love? HEATH, ii. +What Ails this Heart o' mine? BLAMIRE, iii. +WHITEHEAD, WILLIAM iii. +WILMOT, JOHN, EARL OF ROCHESTER ii. +William and Margaret MALLETT, iii. +WITHER, GEORGE ii. +Woo'd, and Married, and a' A. ROSS, iii. +WOTTON, SIR HENRY i. +Written on a Visit to the Country in Autumn LOGAN, iii. +WYNTOUN, ANDREW i. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the +Less-known British Poets, Vol. 3, by George Gilfillan + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL. 3 *** + +This file should be named 7lbp310.txt or 7lbp310.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7lbp311.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7lbp310a.txt + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe +and the PG Online Distributed Proofreaders + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/7lbp310.zip b/old/7lbp310.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..41f1659 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7lbp310.zip diff --git a/old/8lbp310.txt b/old/8lbp310.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7eccada --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8lbp310.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13359 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known +British Poets, Vol. 3, by George Gilfillan +#4 in our series by George Gilfillan + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 3 + +Author: George Gilfillan + +Release Date: January, 2006 [EBook #9669] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 14, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL. 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe +and the PG Online Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. + +With an Introductory Essay, + +By + +THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN. + +IN THREE VOLS. + +VOL. III. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +THIRD PERIOD--FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER. + + +SIR CHARLES SEDLEY + To a very young Lady + Song + +JOHN POMFRET + The Choice + +THE EARL OF DORSET + Song + +JOHN PHILIPS + The Splendid Shilling + +WALSH, GOULD, &c. + +SIR SAMUEL GARTH + The Dispensary + +SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE + Creation + +ELIJAH FENTON + An Ode to the Right Hon. John Lord Gower + +ROBERT CRAWFORD + The Bush aboon Traquair + +THOMAS TICKELL + To the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr Addison + +JAMES HAMMOND + Elegy XIII + +SEWELL, VANBRUGH, &c. + +RICHARD SAVAGE + The Bastard + +THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER + An American Love Ode + +JONATHAN SWIFT + Baucis and Philemon + On Poetry + On the Death of Dr Swift + A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the Legion-Club,1736 + +ISAAC WATTS + Few Happy Matches + The Sluggard + The Rose + A Cradle Hymn + Breathing toward the Heavenly Country + To the Rev. Mr John Howe + +AMBROSE PHILIPS + A Fragment of Sappho + +WILLIAM HAMILTON + The Braes of Yarrow + +ALLAN RAMSAY + Lochaber no more + Tho Last Time I came o'er the Moor + From 'The Gentle Shepherd'--Act I., Scene II. + +DODSLEY, BROWN, &c + +ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE + Imitation of Thomson + Imitation of Pope + Imitation of Swift + +WILLIAM OLDYS + Song, occasioned by a Fly drinking out of a Cup of Ale + +ROBERT LLOYD + The Miseries of a Poet's Life + +HENRY CAREY + Sally in our Alley + +DAVID MALLETT + William and Margaret + The Birks of Invermay + +JAMES MERRICK + The Chameleon + +DR JAMES GRAINGER + Ode to Solitude + +MICHAEL BRUCE + To the Cuckoo + Elegy, written in Spring + +CHRISTOPHER SMART + Song to David + +THOMAS CHATTERTON + Bristowe Tragedy + Minstrel's Song + The Story of William Canynge + Kenrick + February, an Elegy + +LORD LYTTELTON + From the 'Monody' + +JOHN CUNNINGHAM + May-eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen + +ROBERT FERGUSSON + The Farmer's Ingle + +DR WALTER HARTE + +EDWARD LOVIBOND + The Tears of Old May-Day + +FRANCIS FAWKES + The Brown Jug + +JOHN LANGHORNE + From 'The Country Justice' + Gipsies + A Case where Mercy should have mitigated Justice + +SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE + The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse + +JOHN SCOTT + Ode on hearing the Drum + The Tempestuous Evening + +ALEXANDER ROSS + Woo'd, and Married, and a' + The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow + +RICHARD GLOVER + From 'Leonidas,' Book XII + Admiral Hosier's Ghost + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + Variety + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE + Cumnor Hall + The Mariner's Wife + +LORD NUGENT + Ode to Mankind + +JOHN LOGAN + The Lovers + Written in a Visit to the Country in Autumn + Complaint of Nature + +THOMAS BLACKLOCK + The Author's Picture + Ode to Aurora, on Melissa's Birthday + +MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN + The Flowers of the Forest + The Same + +SIR WILLIAM JONES + A Persian Song of Hafiz + +SAMUEL BISHOP + To Mrs Bishop + To the Same + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE + The Nabob + What Ails this Heart o' mine? + +JAMES MACPHERSON + Ossian's Address to the Sun + Desolation of Balclutha + Fingal and the Spirit of Loda + Address to the Moon + Fingal's Spirit-home + The Cave + +WILLIAM MASON + Epitaph on Mrs Mason + An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers + +JOHN LOWE + Mary's Dream + +JOSEPH WARTON + Ode to Fancy + +MISCELLANEOUS + Song + Verses, copied from the Window of an obscure Lodging-house, in the + neighbourhood of London + The Old Bachelor + Careless Content + A Pastoral + Ode to a Tobacco-pipe + Away! let nought to Love displeasing + Richard Bentley's sole Poetical Composition + Lines addressed to Pope + +INDEX + + + + +SPECIMENS, WITH MEMOIRS, OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. + + * * * * * + +THIRD PERIOD. + +FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER. + + * * * * * + + + +SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. + + +Sedley was one of those characters who exert a personal fascination over +their own age without leaving any works behind them to perpetuate the +charm to posterity. He was the son of Sir John Sedley of Aylesford, in +Kent, and was born in 1639. When the Restoration took place he repaired +to London, and plunged into all the licence of the time, shedding, +however, over the putrid pool the sheen of his wit, manners, and genius. +Charles was so delighted with him, that he is said to have asked him +whether he had not obtained a patent from Nature to be Apollo's viceroy. +He cracked jests, issued lampoons, wrote poems and plays, and, despite +some great blunders, was universally admired and loved. When his comedy +of 'Bellamira' was acted, the roof fell in, and a few, including the +author, were slightly injured. When a parasite told him that the fire of +the play had blown up the poet, house and all, Sedley replied, 'No; the +play was so heavy that it broke down the house, and buried the poet in +his own rubbish.' Latterly he sobered down, entered parliament, attended +closely to public business, and became a determined opponent of the +arbitrary measures of James II. To this he was stimulated by a personal +reason. James had seduced Sedley's daughter, and made her Countess of +Dorchester. 'For making my daughter a countess,' the father said, 'I +have helped to make his daughter' (Mary, Princess of Orange,) 'a queen.' +Sedley, thus talking, acting, and writing, lived on till he was sixty- +two years of age. He died in 1701. + +He has left nothing that the world can cherish, except such light and +graceful songs, sparkling rather with point than with poetry, as we +quote below. + + +TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. + +1 Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit + As unconcerned, as when + Your infant beauty could beget + No pleasure, nor no pain. + +2 When I the dawn used to admire, + And praised the coming day; + I little thought the growing fire + Must take my rest away. + +3 Your charms in harmless childhood lay, + Like metals in the mine, + Age from no face took more away, + Than youth concealed in thine. + +4 But as your charms insensibly + To their perfection pressed, + Fond Love as unperceived did fly, + And in my bosom rest. + +5 My passion with your beauty grew, + And Cupid at my heart, + Still as his mother favoured you, + Threw a new flaming dart. + +6 Each gloried in their wanton part, + To make a lover, he + Employed the utmost of his art, + To make a Beauty, she. + +7 Though now I slowly bend to love, + Uncertain of my fate, + If your fair self my chains approve, + I shall my freedom hate. + +8 Lovers, like dying men, may well + At first disordered be, + Since none alive can truly tell + What fortune they must see. + + +SONG. + +1 Love still has something of the sea, + From whence his mother rose; + No time his slaves from doubt can free, + Nor give their thoughts repose. + +2 They are becalmed in clearest days, + And in rough weather tossed; + They wither under cold delays, + Or are in tempests lost. + +3 One while they seem to touch the port, + Then straight into the main + Some angry wind, in cruel sport, + The vessel drives again. + +4 At first Disdain and Pride they fear, + Which if they chance to 'scape, + Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, + In a more cruel shape. + +5 By such degrees to joy they come, + And are so long withstood; + So slowly they receive the sum, + It hardly does them good. + +6 'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; + And to defer a joy, + Believe me, gentle Celemene, + Offends the winged boy. + +7 An hundred thousand oaths your fears, + Perhaps, would not remove; + And if I gazed a thousand years, + I could not deeper love. + + + + +JOHN POMFRET, + + +The author of the once popular 'Choice,' was born in 1667. He was the +son of the rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire, and, after attending +Queen's College, Cambridge, himself entered the Church. He became +minister of Malden, which is also situated in Bedfordshire, and there he +wrote and, in 1699, published a volume of poems, including some Pindaric +essays, in the style of Cowley and 'The Choice.' He might have risen +higher in his profession, but Dr Compton, Bishop of London, was +prejudiced against him on account of the following lines in the +'Choice:'-- + + 'And as I near approached the verge of life, + Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) + Should take upon him all my worldly care, + Whilst I did for a better state prepare.' + +The words in the second line, coupled with a glowing description, in a +previous part of the poem, of his ideal of an 'obliging modest fair' +one, near whom he wished to live, led to the suspicion that he preferred +a mistress to a wife. In vain did he plead that he was actually a +married man. His suit for a better living made no progress, and while +dancing attendance on his patron in London he caught small-pox, and died +in 1703, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. + +His Pindaric odes, &c., are feeble spasms, and need not detain us. His +'Reason' shews considerable capacity and common sense. His 'Choice' +opens up a pleasing vista, down which our quiet ancestors delighted to +look, but by which few now can be attracted. We quote a portion of what +a biographer calls a 'modest' preface, which Pomfret prefixed to his +poems:--'To please every one would be a new thing, and to write so as to +please nobody would be as new; for even Quarles and Withers have their +admirers. It is not the multitude of applauses, but the good sense of +the applauders which establishes a valuable reputation; and if a Rymer +or a Congreve say it is well, he will not be at all solicitous how great +the majority be to the contrary.' How strangely are opinions now +altered! Rymer was some time ago characterised by Macaulay as the worst +critic that ever lived, and Quarles and Withers have now many admirers, +while 'The Choice' and its ill-fated author are nearly forgotten. + + +THE CHOICE. + +If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, +That I might choose my method how to live, +And all those hours propitious fate should lend, +In blissful ease and satisfaction spend, +Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, +Built uniform, not little, nor too great: +Better, if on a rising ground it stood, +On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. +It should within no other things contain, +But what are useful, necessary, plain: +Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, +The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. +A little garden, grateful to the eye; +And a cool rivulet run murmuring by, +On whose delicious banks, a stately row +Of shady limes or sycamores should grow. +At the end of which a silent study placed, +Should be with all the noblest authors graced: +Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines +Immortal wit and solid learning shines; +Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too, +Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew; +He that with judgment reads his charming lines, +In which strong art with stronger nature joins, +Must grant his fancy does the best excel; +His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well; +With all those moderns, men of steady sense, +Esteemed for learning and for eloquence. +In some of these, as fancy should advise, +I'd always take my morning exercise; +For sure no minutes bring us more content, +Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent. +I'd have a clear and competent estate, +That I might live genteelly, but not great; +As much as I could moderately spend, +A little more sometimes t' oblige a friend. +Nor should the sons of poverty repine +Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine; +And all that objects of true pity were, +Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; +For that our Maker has too largely given, +Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven. + + + + +THE EARL OF DORSET. + + +This noble earl was rather a patron of poets than a poet, and possessed +more wit than genius. Charles Sackville was born on the 24th January +1637. He was descended directly from the famous Thomas, Lord Buckhurst. +He was educated under a private tutor, travelled in Italy, and returned +in time to witness the Restoration. In the first parliament thereafter, +he sat for East Grinstead, in Surrey, and might have distinguished +himself, had he not determined, in common with almost all the wits of +the time, to run a preliminary career of dissipation. What a proof of +the licentiousness of these times is to be found in the fact, that young +Lord Buckhurst, Sir Charles Sedley, and Sir Thomas Ogle were fined for +exposing themselves, drunk and naked, in indecent postures on the public +street! In 1665, the erratic energies of Buckhurst found a more +legitimate vent in the Dutch war. He attended the Duke of York in the +great sea-fight of the 3d June, in which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was, +with all his crew, blown up. He is said to have composed the song, +quoted afterwards, 'To all you ladies now at land,' on the evening +before the battle, although Dr Johnson (who observes that seldom any +splendid story is wholly true) maintains that its composition cost him +a whole week, and that he only retouched it on that remarkable evening. +Buckhurst was soon after made a gentleman of the bed-chamber, and +despatched on short embassies to France. In 1674, his uncle, James +Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex, died, and left him his estate, and +the next year the title, too, was conferred on him. In 1677, he became, +by the death of his father, Earl of Dorset, and inherited the family +estate. In 1684, his wife, whose name was Bagot, and by whom he had no +children, died, and he soon after married a daughter of the Earl of +Northampton, who is said to have been celebrated both for understanding +and beauty. Dorset was courted by James, but found it impossible to +coincide with his violent measures, and when the bishops were tried +at Westminster Hall, he, along with some other lords, appeared to +countenance them. He concurred with the Revolution settlement, and, +after William's accession, was created lord chamberlain of the +household, and received the Order of the Garter. His attendance on the +king, however, eventually cost him his life, for having been tossed with +him in an open boat on the coast of Holland for sixteen hours, in very +rough weather, he caught an illness from which he never recovered. On +19th January 1705-6, he died at Bath. + +During his life, Dorset was munificent in his kindness to such men of +genius as Prior and Dryden, who repaid him in the current coin of the +poor Parnassus of their day--gross adulation. He is now remembered +mainly for his spirited war-song, and for such pointed lines in his +satire on Edward Howard, the notorious author of 'British Princes,' as +the following:-- + + 'They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren, + When deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion; + Thy stumbling, foundered jade can trot as high + As any other Pegasus can fly. + So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud + Than all the swift-finned racers of the flood. + As skilful divers to the bottom fall + Sooner than those who cannot swim at all, + So in this way of writing without thinking, + Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking.' + +This last line has not only become proverbial, but forms the distinct +germ of 'The Dunciad.' + + +SONG. + +WRITTEN AT SEA, IN THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, +THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. + +1 To all you ladies now at land, + We men at sea indite; + But first would have you understand + How hard it is to write; + The Muses now, and Neptune too, + We must implore to write to you, + With a fa, la, la, la, la. + +2 For though the Muses should prove kind, + And fill our empty brain; + Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, + To wave the azure main, + Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, + Roll up and down our ships at sea. + With a fa, &c. + +3 Then if we write not by each post, + Think not we are unkind; + Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, + By Dutchmen, or by wind; + Our tears we'll send a speedier way, + The tide shall bring them twice a-day. + With a fa, &c. + +4 The king, with wonder and surprise, + Will swear the seas grow bold; + Because the tides will higher rise + Than e'er they used of old: + But let him know, it is our tears + Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. + With a fa, &c. + +5 Should foggy Opdam chance to know + Our sad and dismal story, + The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, + And quit their fort at Goree: + For what resistance can they find + From men who've left their hearts behind? + With a fa, &c. + +6 Let wind and weather do its worst, + Be you to us but kind; + Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, + No sorrow we shall find: + 'Tis then no matter how things go, + Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. + With a fa, &c. + +7 To pass our tedious hours away, + We throw a merry main; + Or else at serious ombre play: + But why should we in vain + Each other's ruin thus pursue? + We were undone when we left you. + With a fa, &c. + +8 But now our fears tempestuous grow, + And cast our hopes away; + Whilst you, regardless of our woe, + Sit careless at a play: + Perhaps, permit some happier man + To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. + With a fa, &c. + +9 When any mournful tune you hear, + That dies in every note, + As if it sighed with each man's care, + For being so remote, + Think how often love we've made + To you, when all those tunes were played. + With a fa, &c. + +10 In justice you can not refuse + To think of our distress, + When we for hopes of honour lose + Our certain happiness; + All those designs are but to prove + Ourselves more worthy of your love. + With a fa, &c. + +11 And now we've told you all our loves, + And likewise all our fears, + In hopes this declaration moves + Some pity from your tears; + Let's hear of no inconstancy, + We have too much of that at sea. + With a fa, la, la, la, la. + + + + +JOHN PHILIPS. + + +Bampton in Oxfordshire was the birthplace of this poet. He was born +on the 30th of December 1676. His father, Dr Stephen Philips, was +archdeacon of Salop, as well as minister of Bampton. John, after some +preliminary training at home, was sent to Winchester, where he +distinguished himself by diligence and good-nature, and enjoyed two +great luxuries,--the reading of Milton, and the having his head combed +by some one while he sat still and in rapture for hours together. This +pleasure he shared with Vossius, and with humbler persons of our +acquaintance; the combing of whose hair, they tell us, + + 'Dissolves them into ecstasies, + And brings all heaven before their eyes.' + +In 1694, he entered Christ Church, Cambridge. His intention was to +prosecute the study of medicine, and he took great delight in the +cognate pursuits of natural history and botany. His chief friend was +Edmund Smith, (Rag Smith, as he was generally called,) a kind of minor +Savage, well known in these times as the author of 'Phaedra and +Hippolytus,' and for his cureless dissipation. In 1703, Philips produced +'The Splendid Shilling,' which proved a hit, and seems to have diverted +his aspirations from the domains of Aesculapius to those of Apollo. +Bolingbroke sought him out, and employed him, after the battle of +Blenheim, to sing it in opposition to Addison, the laureate of the +Whigs. At the house of the magnificent but unprincipled St John, Philips +wrote his 'Blenheim,' which was published in 1705. The year after, his +'Cider,' a poem in two books, appeared, and was received with great +applause. Encouraged by this, he projected a poem on the Last Day, +which all who are aware of the difficulties of the subject, and the +limitations of the author's genius, must rejoice that he never wrote. +Consumption and asthma removed him prematurely on the 15th of February +1708, ere he had completed his thirty-third year. He was buried in +Hereford Cathedral, and Sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards Lord Chancellor, +erected a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey. + +Bulwer somewhere records a story of John Martin in his early days. He +was, on one occasion, reduced to his last shilling. He had kept it, out +of a heap, from a partiality to its appearance. It was very bright. He +was compelled, at last, to part with it. He went out to a baker's shop +to purchase a loaf with his favourite shilling. He had got the loaf into +his hands, when the baker discovered that the shilling was a bad one, +and poor Martin had to resign the loaf, and take back his dear, bright, +bad shilling once more. Length of time and cold criticism in like manner +have reduced John Philips to his solitary 'Splendid Shilling.' But, +though bright, it is far from bad. It is one of the cleverest of +parodies, and is perpetrated against one of those colossal works which +the smiles of a thousand caricatures were unable to injure. No great or +good poem was ever hurt by its parody:--the 'Paradise Lost' was not by +'The Splendid Shilling'--'The Last Man' of Campbell was not by 'The Last +Man' of Hood--nor the 'Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore' by their +witty, well-known caricature; and if 'The Vision of Judgment' by Southey +was laughed into oblivion by Byron's poem with the same title, it was +because Southey's original was neither good nor great. Philip's poem, +too, is the first of the kind; and surely we should be thankful to the +author of the earliest effort in a style which has created so much +innocent amusement. Dr Johnson speaks as if the pleasure arising from +such productions implied a malignant 'momentary triumph over that +grandeur which had hitherto held its captives in admiration.' We think, +on the contrary, that it springs from our deep interest in the original +production, making us alive to the strange resemblance the caricature +bears to it. It is our love that provokes our laughter, and hence the +admirers of the parodied poem are more delighted than its enemies. At +all events, it is by 'The Splendid Shilling' alone--and that principally +from its connexion with Milton's great work--that Philips is memorable. +His 'Cider' has soured with age, and the loud echo of his Blenheim +battle-piece has long since died away. + + +THE SPLENDID SHILLING. + + "... Sing, heavenly Muse! +Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," +A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimeras dire. + +Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, +In silken or in leathern purse retains +A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain +New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; +But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, +To Juniper's Magpie or Town-Hall[1] repairs: +Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye +Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames, +Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass +Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. +Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, +Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. +But I, whom griping Penury surrounds, +And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, +With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, +(Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: +Then solitary walk, or doze at home +In garret vile, and with a warming puff +Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black +As winter-chimney, or well-polished jet, +Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent! +Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, +Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, +Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings +Full famous in romantic tale) when he +O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, +Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, +High over-shadowing rides, with a design +To vend his wares, or at the Arvonian mart, +Or Maridunum, or the ancient town +Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream +Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! +Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie +With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. + +Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, +With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, +Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, +To my aërial citadel ascends, +With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, +With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know +The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. +What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, +Confounded, to the dark recess I fly +Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect +Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews +My shuddering limbs, and, wonderful to tell! +My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; +So horrible he seems! His faded brow, +Entrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, +And spreading band, admired by modern saints, +Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand +Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, +With characters and figures dire inscribed, +Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods, avert +Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks +Another monster, not unlike himself, +Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called +A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, +With force incredible, and magic charms, +Erst have endued; if he his ample palm +Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay +Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch +Obsequious, as whilom knights were wont, +To some enchanted castle is conveyed, +Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, +In durance strict detain him, till, in form +Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. + +Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk, beware, +Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken +The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft +Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, +Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch +With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) +Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn +An everlasting foe, with watchful eye +Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, +Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice +Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web +Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads +Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands +Within her woven cell; the humming prey, +Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils +Inextricable, nor will aught avail +Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; +The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, +And butterfly, proud of expanded wings +Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, +Useless resistance make: with eager strides, +She towering flies to her expected spoils; +Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood +Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave +Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. + +So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades +This world envelop, and the inclement air +Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts +With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; +Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light +Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk +Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, +Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, +Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts +My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse +Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, +Or desperate lady near a purling stream, +Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. +Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, +And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat +Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: +But if a slumber haply does invade +My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, +Thoughtful of drink, and, eager, in a dream, +Tipples imaginary pots of ale, +In vain; awake I find the settled thirst +Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. + +Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, +Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays +Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, +Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, +Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; +Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: +My galligaskins, that have long withstood +The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, +By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) +An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice +Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds +Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force +Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, +Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, +Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, +Long sailed secure, or through the Aegean deep, +Or the Ionian, till cruising near +The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush +On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) +She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, +So fierce a shock unable to withstand, +Admits the sea; in at the gaping side +The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, +Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize +The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, +They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray; +Vain efforts! still the battering waves rush in, +Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, +The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. + +[1]'Magpie or Town-hall:' two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700. + + + + +We may here mention a name or two of poets from whose verses we can +afford no extracts,--such as Walsh, called by Pope 'knowing Walsh,' +a man of some critical discernment, if not of much genius; Gould, a +domestic of the Earl of Dorset, and afterwards a schoolmaster, from whom +Campbell quotes one or two tolerable songs; and Dr Walter Pope, a man of +wit and knowledge, who was junior proctor of Oxford, one of the first +chosen fellows of the Royal Society, and who succeeded Sir Christopher +Wren as professor of astronomy in Gresham College. He is the author of +a comico-serious song of some merit, entitled 'The Old Man's Wish.' + + + + +SIR SAMUEL GARTH. + + +Of Garth little is known, save that he was an eminent physician, a +scholar, a man of benevolence, a keen Whig, and yet an admirer of old +Dryden, and a patron of young Pope--a friend of Addison, and the author +of the 'Dispensary.' The College of Physicians had instituted a +dispensary, for the purpose of furnishing the poor with medicines +gratis. This measure was opposed by the apothecaries, who had an obvious +interest in the sale of drugs; and to ridicule their selfishness Garth +wrote his poem, which is mock-heroic, in six cantos, copied in form from +the 'Lutrin,' and which, though ingenious and elaborate, seems now +tedious, and on the whole uninteresting. It appeared in 1696, and the +author died in 1718. We extract some of the opening lines of the first +canto of the poem. + + +THE DISPENSARY. + +Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell +How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; +And why physicans were so cautious grown +Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; +How by a journey to the Elysian plain +Peace triumphed, and old Time returned again. +Not far from that most celebrated place, +Where angry Justice shows her awful face; +Where little villains must submit to fate, +That great ones may enjoy the world in state; +There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, +And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; +A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, +Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill: +This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, +Raised for a use as noble as its frame; +Nor did the learn'd society decline +The propagation of that great design; +In all her mazes, nature's face they viewed, +And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. +Wrapped in the shade of night the goddess lies, +Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, +But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. +Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife +Of infant atoms kindling into life; +How ductile matter new meanders takes, +And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; +And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, +By just degrees to harden into bone; +While the more loose flow from the vital urn, +And in full tides of purple streams return; +How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, +And dart in emanations through the eyes; +How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, +To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; +Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; +How great their force, how delicate their frame; +How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain +The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; +Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, +And floods of chyle in silver currents run; +How the dim speck of entity began +To extend its recent form, and stretch to man; +To how minute an origin we owe +Young Ammon, Caesar, and the great Nassau; +Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim, +And why chill virgins redden into flame; +Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise, +And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes; +All ice, why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire; +Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire; +When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown, +Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; +How matter, by the varied shape of pores, +Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. + +Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, +How body acts upon impassive mind; +How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, +Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; +Why our complexions oft our soul declare, +And how the passions in the features are; +How touch and harmony arise between +Corporeal figure, and a form unseen; +How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, +And act at every summons of the will. +With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, +Which in the womb of distant causes lie. + +But now no grand inquiries are descried, +Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside, +Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside. +Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, +And for important nothings show a zeal: +The drooping sciences neglected pine, +And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. +No readers here with hectic looks are found, +Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching, drowned; +The lonely edifice in sweats complains +That nothing there but sullen silence reigns. + +This place, so fit for undisturbed repose, +The god of sloth for his asylum chose; +Upon a couch of down in these abodes, +Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods; +Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, +With murmurs of soft rills and whispering trees: +The poppy and each numbing plant dispense +Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence; +No passions interrupt his easy reign, +No problems puzzle his lethargic brain; +But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed, +And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head. + + + + +SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE. + + +Our next name is that of one who, like the former, was a knight, a +physician, and (in a manner) a poet. Blackmore was the son of Robert +Blackmore of Corsham, in Wiltshire, who is styled by Wood _gentleman_, +and is believed to have been an attorney. He took his degree of M.A. at +Oxford, in June 1676. He afterwards travelled, was made Doctor of Physic +at Padua, and, when he returned home, began to practise in London with +great success. In 1695, he tried his hand at poetry, producing an epic +entitled 'King Arthur,' which was followed by a series on 'King Alfred,' +'Queen Elizabeth,' 'Redemption,' 'The Creation,' &c. Some of these +productions were popular; one, 'The Creation,' has been highly praised +by Dr Johnson; but most of them were heavy. Matthew Henry has preserved +portions in his valuable Commentary. Blackmore, a man of excellent +character and of extensive medical practice, was yet the laughingstock +of the wits, perhaps as much for his piety as for his prosiness. Old, +rich, and highly respected, he died on the 8th of October 1729, while +some of his poetic persecutors came to a disgraceful or an early end. + +We quote the satire of John Gay, as one of the cleverest and best +conditioned, although one of the coarsest of the attacks made on poor +Sir Richard:-- + + +VERSES TO BE PLACED UNDER THE PICTURE OF SIR R. BLACKMORE, +CONTAINING A COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF HIS WORKS. + +See who ne'er was, nor will be half read, +Who first sang Arthur, then sang Alfred; +Praised great Eliza in God's anger, +Till all true Englishmen cried, Hang her; +Mauled human wit in one thick satire, +Next in three books spoiled human nature; +Undid Creation at a jerk, +And of Redemption made ---- work; +Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her +Full in the middle of the Scripture; +What wonders there the man grown old did, +Sternhold himself he out Sternholded; +Made David seem so mad and freakish, +All thought him just what thought King Achish; +No mortal read his Solomon +But judged Reboam his own son; +Moses he served as Moses Pharaoh, +And Deborah as she Sisera; +Made Jeremy full sore to cry, +And Job himself curse God and die. + +What punishment all this must follow? +Shall Arthur use him like King Tollo? +Shall David as Uriah slay him? +Or dext'rous Deborah Sisera him? +Or shall Eliza lay a plot +To treat him like her sister Scot? +No, none of these; Heaven save his life, +But send him, honest Job, thy wife! + + +CREATION. + +No more of courts, of triumphs, or of arms, +No more of valour's force, or beauty's charms; +The themes of vulgar lays, with just disdain, +I leave unsung, the flocks, the amorous swain, +The pleasures of the land, and terrors of the main. +How abject, how inglorious 'tis to lie +Grovelling in dust and darkness, when on high +Empires immense and rolling worlds of light, +To range their heavenly scenes the muse invite; +I meditate to soar above the skies, +To heights unknown, through ways untried, to rise; +I would the Eternal from his works assert, +And sing the wonders of creating art. +While I this unexampled task essay, +Pass awful gulfs, and beat my painful way, +Celestial Dove! divine assistance bring, +Sustain me on thy strong extended wing, +That I may reach the Almighty's sacred throne, +And make his causeless power, the cause of all things, known. +Thou dost the full extent of nature see, +And the wide realms of vast immensity; +Eternal Wisdom thou dost comprehend, +Rise to her heights, and to her depths descend; +The Father's sacred counsels thou canst tell, +Who in his bosom didst for ever dwell; +Thou on the deep's dark face, immortal Dove! +Thou with Almighty energy didst move +On the wild waves, incumbent didst display +Thy genial wings, and hatch primeval day. +Order from thee, from thee distinction came, +And all the beauties of the wondrous frame. +Hence stamped on nature we perfection find, +Fair as the idea in the Eternal Mind. +See, through this vast extended theatre +Of skill divine, what shining marks appear! +Creating power is all around expressed, +The God discovered, and his care confessed. +Nature's high birth her heavenly beauties show; +By every feature we the parent know. +The expanded spheres, amazing to the sight! +Magnificent with stars and globes of light, +The glorious orbs which heaven's bright host compose, +The imprisoned sea, that restless ebbs and flows, +The fluctuating fields of liquid air, +With all the curious meteors hovering there, +And the wide regions of the land, proclaim +The Power Divine, that raised the mighty frame. +What things soe'er are to an end referred, +And in their motions still that end regard, +Always the fitness of the means respect, +These as conducive choose, and those reject, +Must by a judgment foreign and unknown +Be guided to their end, or by their own; +For to design an end, and to pursue +That end by means, and have it still in view, +Demands a conscious, wise, reflecting cause, +Which freely moves, and acts by reason's laws; +That can deliberate, means elect, and find +Their due connexion with the end designed. +And since the world's wide frame does not include +A cause with such capacities endued, +Some other cause o'er nature must preside, +Which gave her birth, and does her motions guide; +And here behold the cause, which God we name, +The source of beings, and the mind supreme; +Whose perfect wisdom, and whose prudent care, +With one confederate voice unnumbered worlds declare. + + + + +ELIJAH FENTON. + + +This author, who was very much respected by his contemporaries, and who +translated a portion of the Odyssey in conjunction with Pope, was born +May 20, 1683, at Newcastle, in Staffordshire; studied at Cambridge, +which, owing to his nonjuring principles, he had to leave without a +degree; and passed part of his life as a schoolmaster, and part of it +as secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery. By his tragedy of 'Mariamne' he +secured a moderate competence; and during his latter years, spent his +life comfortably as tutor in the house of Lady Trumbull. He died in +1730. His accomplishments were superior, and his character excellent. +Pope, who was indebted to him for the first, fourth, nineteenth, and +twentieth of the books of the Odyssey, mourns his loss in one of his +most sincere-seeming letters. Fenton edited Waller and Milton, wrote a +brief life of the latter poet,--with which most of our readers are +acquainted,--and indited some respectable verse. + + +AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER. + +WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716. + +1 O'er Winter's long inclement sway, + At length the lusty Spring prevails; + And swift to meet the smiling May, + Is wafted by the western gales. + Around him dance the rosy Hours, + And damasking the ground with flowers, + With ambient sweets perfume the morn; + With shadowy verdure flourished high, + A sudden youth the groves enjoy; + Where Philomel laments forlorn. + +2 By her awaked, the woodland choir + To hail the coming god prepares; + And tempts me to resume the lyre, + Soft warbling to the vernal airs. + Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign + For me, the meanest of your train, + Unblamed to approach your blest retreat: + Where Horace wantons at your spring, + And Pindar sweeps a bolder string; + Whose notes the Aonian hills repeat. + +3 Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, + Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; + Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, + Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; + Thither, indulgent to my prayer, + Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair, + To swell the notes I feebly raise: + So with aspiring ardours warmed + May Gower's propitious ear be charmed + To listen to my lays. + +4 Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, + Like Thracian Mars, the undaunted Swede[1] + To dint of sword defies the foe; + In fight unknowing to recede: + From Volga's banks, the imperious Czar + Leads forth his furry troops to war; + Fond of the softer southern sky: + The Soldan galls the Illyrian coast; + But soon, the miscreant Moony host + Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. + +5 But here, no clarion's shrilling note + The Muse's green retreat can pierce; + The grove, from noisy camps remote, + Is only vocal with my verse: + Here, winged with innocence and joy, + Let the soft hours that o'er me fly + Drop freedom, health, and gay desires: + While the bright Seine, to exalt the soul, + With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, + And wit and social mirth inspires. + +6 Enamoured of the Seine, celestial fair, + (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) + Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care, + Lashed his swift tigers to the Celtic plain: + There secret in her sapphire cell, + He with the Nais wont to dwell; + Leaving the nectared feasts of Jove: + And where her mazy waters flow + He gave the mantling vine to grow, + A trophy to his love. + +7 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, + With blind opinion for his guide; + And, rebel to her rightful sway, + Leave all her beauties unenjoyed? + Fool! Time no change of motion knows; + With equal speed the torrent flows, + To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: + The past is all by death possessed; + And frugal fate that guards the rest, + By giving, bids him live To-Day. + +8 O Gower! through all the destined space, + What breath the Powers allot to me + Shall sing the virtues of thy race, + United and complete in thee. + O flower of ancient English faith! + Pursue the unbeaten Patriot-path, + In which confirmed thy father shone: + The light his fair example gives, + Already from thy dawn receives + A lustre equal to its own. + +9 Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns reared, + Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume; + Loud Paeans echoing round the roof are heard + And clouds of incense all the void perfume. + There Phocion, Laelius, Capel, Hyde, + With Falkland seated near his side, + Fixed by the Muse, the temple grace; + Prophetic of thy happier fame, + She, to receive thy radiant name, + Selects a whiter space. + +[1] Charles XII. + + + +ROBERT CRAWFORD. + + +Robert Crawford, a Scotchman, is our next poet. Of him we know only that +he was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames; that he assisted +Allan Ramsay in the 'Tea-Table Miscellany;' and was drowned when coming +from France in 1733. Besides the popular song, 'The Bush aboon Traquair,' +which we quote, Crawford wrote also a lyric, called 'Tweedside,' and some +verses, mentioned by Burns, to the old tune of 'Cowdenknowes.' + + +THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. + +1 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, + I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; + Though thus I languish and complain, + Alas! she ne'er believes me. + My vows and sighs, like silent air, + Unheeded, never move her; + At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, + 'Twas there I first did love her. + +2 That day she smiled and made me glad, + No maid seemed ever kinder; + I thought myself the luckiest lad, + So sweetly there to find her; + I tried to soothe my amorous flame, + In words that I thought tender; + If more there passed, I'm not to blame-- + I meant not to offend her. + +3 Yet now she scornful flies the plain, + The fields we then frequented; + If e'er we meet she shows disdain, + She looks as ne'er acquainted. + The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, + Its sweets I'll aye remember; + But now her frowns make it decay-- + It fades as in December. + +4 Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, + Why thus should Peggy grieve me? + Oh, make her partner in my pains, + Then let her smiles relieve me! + If not, my love will turn despair, + My passion no more tender; + I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-- + To lonely wilds I'll wander. + + + + +THOMAS TICKELL. + + +Tickell is now chiefly remembered from his connexion with Addison. He +was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, near Carlisle. In April 1701, he became +a member of Queen's College in Oxford. In 1708, he was made M.A., and +two years after was chosen Fellow. He held his Fellowship till 1726, +when, marrying in Dublin, he necessarily vacated it. He attracted +Addison's attention first by some elegant lines in praise of Rosamond, +and then by the 'Prospect of Peace,' a poem in which Tickell, although +called by Swift Whiggissimus, for once took the Tory side. This poem +Addison, in spite of its politics, praised highly in the _Spectator_, +which led to a lifelong friendship between them. Tickell commenced +contributing to the _Spectator_, among other things publishing there a +poem entitled the 'Royal Progress.' Some time after, he produced a +translation of the first book of the Iliad, which Addison declared to be +superior to Pope's. This led the latter to imagine that it was Addison's +own, although it is now, we believe, certain, from the MS., which still +exists, that it was a veritable production of Tickell's. When Addison +went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied +him, and was employed in public business. When Addison became Secretary +of State, he made Tickell Under-Secretary; and when he died, he left him +the charge of publishing his works, with an earnest recommendation to +the care of Craggs. Tickell faithfully performed the task, prefixing to +them an elegy on his departed friend, which is now his own chief title +to fame. In 1725, he was made secretary to the Lords-Justices of +Ireland, a place of great trust and honour, and which he retained till +his death. This event happened at Bath, in the year 1740. + +His genius was not strong, but elegant and refined, and appears, as we +have just stated, to best advantage in his lines on Addison's death, +which are warm with genuine love, tremulous with sincere sorrow, and +shine with a sober splendour, such as Addison's own exquisite taste +would have approved. + + +TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR ADDISON. + +If, dumb too long, the drooping muse hath stayed, +And left her debt to Addison unpaid, +Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, +And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. +What mourner ever felt poetic fires! +Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: +Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, +Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. + +Can I forget the dismal night that gave +My soul's best part for ever to the grave? +How silent did his old companions tread, +By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, +Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, +Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! +What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; +The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; +The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid: +And the last words that dust to dust conveyed! +While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, +Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. +Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; +And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. +To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, +A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; +Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, +And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. +If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, +May shame afflict this alienated heart; +Of thee forgetful if I form a song, +My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, +My grief be doubled from thy image free, +And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee! + +Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, +Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, +Along the walls where speaking marbles show +What worthies form the hallowed mould belew; +Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; +In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; +Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; +Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; +Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; +And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven; +Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, +Since their foundation came a nobler guest; +Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed +A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. + +In what new region, to the just assigned, +What new employments please the embodied mind? +A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, +From world to world unwearied does he fly? +Or curious trace the long laborious maze +Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? +Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell +How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; +Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow +In hymns of love, not ill essayed below? +Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, +A task well suited to thy gentle mind? +Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, +To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! +When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, +When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, +In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, +And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; +Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, +Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. + +That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, +Must still be loved and still deplored by me, +In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, +Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. +If business calls, or crowded courts invite, +The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; +If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, +I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; +If pensive to the rural shades I rove, +His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; +'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, +Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: +There patient showed us the wise course to steer, +A candid censor, and a friend severe; +There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high +The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die. + +Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, +Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, +Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, +O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears? +How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, +Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! +How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, +Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze! +His image thy forsaken bowers restore; +Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; +No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, +Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. + +From other ills, however fortune frowned, +Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; +Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, +Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; +And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn, +Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. +Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, +And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,) +The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, +And weep a second in the unfinished song! + +These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, +To thee, O Craggs! the expiring sage conveyed, +Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, +Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. +Swift after him thy social spirit flies, +And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. +Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell +In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell! +Farewell! whom, joined in fame, in friendship tried, +No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. + + + + +JAMES HAMMOND. + + +This elegiast was the second son of Anthony Hammond, a brother-in-law of +Sir Robert Walpole, and a man of some note in his day. He was born in +1710; educated at Westminster school; became equerry to the Prince of +Wales; fell in love with a lady named Dashwood, who rejected him, and +drove him to temporary derangement, and then to elegy-writing; entered +parliament for Truro, in Cornwall, in 1741; and died the next year. His +elegies were published after his death, and, although abounding in +pedantic allusions and frigid conceits, became very popular. + + +ELEGY XIII. + +He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each other, +they are retired into the country. + +1 Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, + And view their fields, with waving plenty crowned, + Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, + And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound: + +2 While calmly poor I trifle life away, + Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, + No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, + But, cheaply blessed, I'll scorn each vain desire. + +3 With timely care I'll sow my little field, + And plant my orchard with its master's hand, + Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, + Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. + +4 If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, + I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, + Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, + And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. + +5 What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, + And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast! + Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain, + Secure and happy, sink at last to rest! + +6 Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride, + By shady rivers indolently stray, + And with my Delia, walking side by side, + Hear how they murmur as they glide away! + +7 What joy to wind along the cool retreat, + To stop and gaze on Delia as I go! + To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, + And teach my lovely scholar all I know! + +8 Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, + In silent happiness I rest unknown; + Content with what I am, not what I seem, + I live for Delia and myself alone. + + * * * * * + +9 Hers be the care of all my little train, + While I with tender indolence am blest, + The favourite subject of her gentle reign, + By love alone distinguished from the rest. + +10 For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough, + In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock; + For her, a goat-herd, climb the mountain's brow, + And sleep extended on the naked rock: + +11 Ah, what avails to press the stately bed, + And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, + By marble fountains lay the pensive head, + And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep! + +12 Delia alone can please, and never tire, + Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; + With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, + And equal rapture glows through every night: + +13 Beauty and worth in her alike contend, + To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; + In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, + I taste the joys of sense and reason joined. + +14 On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er, + And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-- + Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, + Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. + +15 Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, + Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, + Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, + Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still: + +16 Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed, + Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart; + Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, + These weeping friends will do thy mournful part: + +17 Let them, extended on the decent bier, + Convey the corse in melancholy state, + Through all the village spread the tender tear, + While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate. + + + + +We may here mention Dr George Sewell, author of a Life of Sir Walter +Haleigh, a few papers in the _Spectator_, and some rather affecting +verses written on consumption, where he says, in reference to his +garden-- + + 'Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, + (For vanity's in little seen,) + All must be left when death appears, + In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; + Not one of all thy plants that grow, + But rosemary, will with thee go;'-- + + +Sir John Vanbrugh, best known as an architect, but who also wrote +poetry;--Edward Ward (more commonly called Ned Ward), a poetical +publican, who wrote ten thick volumes, chiefly in Hudibrastic verse, +displaying a good deal of coarse cleverness;--Barton Booth, the famous +actor, author of a song which closes thus-- + + 'Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, + Twin-born, from heaven together came; + Love will the universe control, + When dying seasons lose their name. + Divine abodes shall own his power, + When time and death shall be no more;'-- + + +Oldmixon, one of the heroes of the 'Dunciad,' famous in his day as a +party historian;--Richard West, a youth of high promise, the friend of +Gray, and who died in his twenty-sixth year;--James Eyre Weekes, an +Irishman, author of a clever copy of love verses, called 'The Five +Traitors;'--Bramston, an Oxford man, who wrote a poem called 'The Man of +Taste;'--and William Meston, an Aberdonian, author of a set of burlesque +poems entitled 'Mother Grim's Tales.' + + + + +RICHARD SAVAGE. + + +The extreme excellence, fulness, and popularity of Johnson's Life of +Savage must excuse our doing more than mentioning the leading dates of +his history. He was the son of the Earl of Rivers and the Countess of +Macclesfield, and was born in London, 1698. His mother, who had begot +him in adultery after having openly avowed her criminality, in order to +obtain a divorce from her husband, placed the boy under the care of a +poor woman, who brought him up as her son. His maternal grandmother, +Lady Mason, however, took an interest him and placed him at a grammar +school at St Alban's. He was afterwards apprenticed to a shoemaker. On +the death of his nurse, he found some letters which led to the discovery +of his real parent. He applied to her, accordingly, to be acknowledged +as her son; but she repulsed his every advance, and persecuted him with +unrelenting barbarity. He found, however, some influential friends, such +as Steele, Fielding, Aaron Hill, Pope, and Lord Tyrconnell. He was, +however, his own worst enemy, and contracted habits of the most +irregular description. In a tavern brawl he killed one James Sinclair, +and was condemned to die; but, notwithstanding his mother's interference +to prevent the exercise of the royal clemency, he was pardoned by the +queen, who afterwards gave him a pension of £50 a-year. He supported +himself in a precarious way by writing poetical pieces. Lord Tyrconnell +took him for a while into his house, and allowed him £200 a-year, but he +soon quarrelled with him, and left. When the queen died he lost his +pension, but his friends made it up by an annuity to the same amount. He +went away to reside at Swansea, but on occasion of a visit he made to +Bristol he was arrested for a small debt, and in the prison he sickened, +and died on the 1st of August 1743. He was only forty-five years of age. + +After all, Savage, in Johnson's Life, is just a dung-fly preserved in +amber. His 'Bastard,' indeed, displays considerable powers, stung by a +consciousness of wrong into convulsive action; but his other works are +nearly worthless, and his life was that of a proud, passionate, selfish, +and infatuated fool, unredeemed by scarcely one trait of genuine +excellence in character. We love and admire, even while we deeply blame, +such men as Burns; but for Savage our feeling is a curious compost of +sympathy with his misfortunes, contempt for his folly, and abhorrence +for the ingratitude, licentiousness, and other coarse and savage sins +which characterised and prematurely destroyed him. + + +THE BASTARD. + +INSCRIBED, WITH ALL DUE REVERENCE, TO MRS BRETT, +ONCE COUNTESS OF MACCLESFIELD. + +In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, +The Muse exulting, thus her lay began: +'Blest be the Bastard's birth! through wondrous ways, +He shines eccentric like a comet's blaze! +No sickly fruit of faint compliance he! +He! stamped in nature's mint of ecstasy! +He lives to build, not boast a generous race: +No tenth transmitter of a foolish face: +His daring hope no sire's example bounds; +His first-born lights no prejudice confounds. +He, kindling from within, requires no flame; +He glories in a Bastard's glowing name. + +'Born to himself, by no possession led, +In freedom fostered, and by fortune fed; +Nor guides, nor rules his sovereign choice control, +His body independent as his soul; +Loosed to the world's wide range, enjoined no aim, +Prescribed no duty, and assigned no name: +Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone, +His heart unbiased, and his mind his own. + +'O mother, yet no mother! 'tis to you +My thanks for such distinguished claims are due; +You, unenslaved to Nature's narrow laws, +Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause, +From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, +From ties maternal, moral, and divine, +Discharged my grasping soul; pushed me from shore, +And launched me into life without an oar. + +'What had I lost, if, conjugally kind, +By nature hating, yet by vows confined, +Untaught the matrimonial bonds to slight, +And coldly conscious of a husband's right, +You had faint-drawn me with a form alone, +A lawful lump of life by force your own! +Then, while your backward will retrenched desire, +And unconcurring spirits lent no fire, +I had been born your dull, domestic heir, +Load of your life, and motive of your care; +Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great, +The slave of pomp, a cipher in the state; +Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, +And slumbering in a seat by chance my own. + +'Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; +Conceived in rapture, and with fire begot! +Strong as necessity, he starts away, +Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.' +Thus unprophetic, lately misinspired, +I sung: gay fluttering hope my fancy fired: +Inly secure, through conscious scorn of ill, +Nor taught by wisdom how to balance will, +Rashly deceived, I saw no pits to shun, +But thought to purpose and to act were one; +Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way, +Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray; +But now exposed, and shrinking from distress, +I fly to shelter while the tempests press; +My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone, +The raptures languish, and the numbers groan. + +O Memory! thou soul of joy and pain! +Thou actor of our passions o'er again! +Why didst thou aggravate the wretch's woe? +Why add continuous smart to every blow? +Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot! +On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not; +While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall, +Yet thou repeat'st and multipli'st them all. + +Is chance a guilt? that my disastrous heart, +For mischief never meant; must ever smart? +Can self-defence be sin?--Ah, plead no more! +What though no purposed malice stained thee o'er? +Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side, +Thou hadst not been provoked--or thou hadst died. + +Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all +On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall! +Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, +To me! through Pity's eye condemned to see. +Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; +Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. +Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, +What ripening virtues might have made their way? +He might have lived till folly died in shame, +Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. +He might perhaps his country's friend have proved; +Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved, +He might have saved some worth, now doomed to fall; +And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all. + +O fate of late repentance! always vain: +Thy remedies but lull undying pain. +Where shall my hope find rest?--No mother's care +Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: +No father's guardian hand my youth maintained, +Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained. +Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, +First to advance, then screen from future harm? +Am I returned from death to live in pain? +Or would imperial Pity save in vain? +Distrust it not--What blame can mercy find, +Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind? + +Mother, miscalled, farewell--of soul severe, +This sad reflection yet may force one tear: +All I was wretched by to you I owed, +Alone from strangers every comfort flowed! + +Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, +And now adopted, who was doomed before; +New-born, I may a nobler mother claim, +But dare not whisper her immortal name; +Supremely lovely, and serenely great! +Majestic mother of a kneeling state! +Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before +Agreed--yet now with one consent adore! +One contest yet remains in this desire, +Who most shall give applause, where all admire. + + + + +THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER. + + +The Wartons were a poetical race. The father of Thomas and Joseph, names +so intimately associated with English poetry, was himself a poet. He was +of Magdalene College in Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and +twice chosen poetry professor. He was born in 1687, and died in 1745. +Besides the little American ode quoted below, we are tempted to give the +following + + +VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE. + +From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, +Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls, +To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, +Pleased I return, unenvious of the great. +So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes +Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens; +Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, +Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill; +Now haunts old hollowed oaks, deserted cells, +Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells; +Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, +And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;-- +At length returning to the wonted comb, +Prefers to all his little straw-built home. + +This seems sweet and simple poetry. + + +AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE. + +FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS. + +Stay, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake, +Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake: +But let me oft thy charms review, +Thy glittering scales, and golden hue; +From these a chaplet shall be wove, +To grace the youth I dearest love. + +Then ages hence, when thou no more +Shalt creep along the sunny shore, +Thy copied beauties shall be seen; +Thy red and azure mixed with green, +In mimic folds thou shalt display;-- +Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay. + + + + +JONATHAN SWIFT. + + +In contemplating the lives and works of the preceding poets in this +third volume of 'Specimens,' we have been impressed with a sense, if not +of their absolute, yet of their comparative mediocrity. Beside such +neglected giants as Henry More, Joseph Beaumont, and Andrew Marvell, the +Pomfrets, Sedleys, Blackmores, and Savages sink into insignificance. But +when we come to the name of Swift, we feel ourselves again approaching +an Alpine region. The air of a stern mountain-summit breathes chill +around our temples, and we feel that if we have no amiability to melt, +we have altitude at least to measure, and strange profound secrets of +nature, like the ravines of lofty hills, to explore. The men of the +sixteenth and seventeenth centuries may be compared to Lebanon, or +Snowdown, or Benlomond towering grandly over fertile valleys, on which +they smile--Swift to the tremendous Romsdale Horn in Norway, shedding +abroad, from a brow of four thousand feet high, what seems a scowl of +settled indignation, as if resolved not to rejoice even over the wide- +stretching deserts which, and nothing but which, it everlastingly +beholds. Mountains all of them, but what a difference between such a +mountain as Shakspeare, and such a mountain as Swift! + +Instead of going minutely over a path so long since trodden to mire as +the life of Swift, let us expend a page or two in seeking to form some +estimate of his character and genius. It is refreshing to come upon a +new thing in the world, even though it be a strange or even a bad thing; +and certainly, in any age and country, such a being as Swift must have +appeared an anomaly, not for his transcendent goodness, not for his +utter badness, but because the elements of good and evil were mixed in +him into a medley so astounding, and in proportions respectively so +large, yet unequal, that the analysis of the two seemed to many +competent only to the Great Chymist, Death, and that a sense of the +disproportion seems to have moved the man himself to inextinguishable +laughter,--a laughter which, radiating out of his own singular heart as +a centre, swept over the circumference of all beings within his reach, +and returned crying, 'Give, give,' as if he were demanding a universal +sphere for the exercise of the savage scorn which dwelt within him, and +as if he laughed not more 'consumedly' at others than he did at himself. + +Ere speaking of Swift as a man, let us say something about his genius. +That, like his character, was intensely peculiar. It was a compound of +infinite ingenuity, with very little poetical imagination--of gigantic +strength, with a propensity to incessant trifling--of passionate +purpose, with the clearest and coldest expression, as though a furnace +were fuelled with snow. A Brobdignagian by size, he was for ever toying +with Lilliputian slings and small craft. One of the most violent of +party men, and often fierce as a demoniac in temper, his favourite motto +was _Vive la bagatelle_. The creator of entire new worlds, we doubt if +his works contain more than two or three lines of genuine poetry. He may +be compared to one of the locusts of the Apocalypse, in that he had a +tail like unto a scorpion, and a sting in his tail; but his 'face is not +as the face of man, his hair is not as the hair of women, and on his +head there is no crown like gold.' All Swift's creations are more or +less disgusting. Not one of them is beautiful. His Lilliputians are +amazingly life-like, but compare them to Shakspeare's fairies, such +as Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Mustardseed; his Brobdignagians are +excrescences like enormous warts; and his Yahoos might have been spawned +in the nightmare of a drunken butcher. The same coarseness characterises +his poems and his 'Tale of a Tub.' He might well, however, in his old +age, exclaim, in reference to the latter, 'Good God! what a genius I +had when I wrote that book!' It is the wildest, wittiest, wickedest, +wealthiest book of its size in the English language. Thoughts and +figures swarm in every corner of its pages, till you think of a +disturbed nest of angry ants, for all the figures and thoughts are black +and bitter. One would imagine the book to have issued from a mind that +had been gathering gall as well as sense in an antenatal state of being. + +Swift, in all his writings--sermons, political tracts, poems, and +fictions--is essentially a satirist. He consisted originally of three +principal parts,--sense, an intense feeling of the ludicrous, and +selfish passion; and these were sure, in certain circumstances, to +ferment into a spirit of satire, 'strong as death, and cruel as the +grave.' Born with not very much natural benevolence, with little purely +poetic feeling, with furious passions and unbounded ambition, he was +entirely dependent for his peace of mind upon success. Had he become, as +by his talents he was entitled to be, the prime minister of his day, he +would have figured as a greater tyrant in the cabinet than even Chatham. +But as he was prevented from being the first statesman, he became the +first satirist of his time. From vain efforts to grasp supremacy for +himself and his party, he retired growling to his Dublin den; and there, +as Haman thought scorn to lay his hand on Mordecai, but extended his +murderous purpose to all the people of the Jews,--and as Nero wished +that Rome had one neck, that he might destroy it at a blow,--so Swift +was stung by his personal disappointment to hurl out scorn at man and +suspicion at his Maker. It was not, it must be noticed, the evil which +was in man which excited his hatred and contempt; it was man himself. He +was not merely, as many are, disgusted with the selfish and malignant +elements which are mingled in man's nature and character, and disposed +to trace them to any cause save a Divine will, but he believed man to +be, as a whole, the work and child of the devil; and he told the +imaginary creator and creature to their face, what he thought the +truth,--'The devil is an ass.' His was the very madness of Manichaeism. +That heresy held that the devil was one of two aboriginal creative +powers, but Swift seemed to believe at times that he was the only God. +From a Yahoo man, it was difficult to avoid the inference of a demon +deity. It is very laughable to find writers in _Blackwood_ and elsewhere +striving to prove Swift a Christian, as if, whatever were his +professions, and however sincere he might be often in these, the whole +tendency of his writings, his perpetual and unlimited abuse of man's +body and soul, his denial of every human virtue, the filth he pours upon +every phase of human nature, and the doctrine he insinuates--that man +has fallen indeed, but fallen, not from the angel, but from the animal, +or, rather, is just a bungled brute,--were not enough to shew that +either his notions were grossly erroneous and perverted, or that he +himself deserved, like another Nebuchadnezzar, to be driven from men, +and to have a beast's heart given unto him. Sometimes he reminds us of +an impure angel, who has surprised man naked and asleep, looked at him +with microscopic eyes, ignored all his peculiar marks of fallen dignity +and incipient godhood, and in heartless rhymes reported accordingly. + +Swift belonged to the same school as Pope, although the feminine element +which was in the latter modified and mellowed his feelings. Pope was a +more successful and a happier man than Swift. He was much smaller, too, +in soul as well as in body, and his gall-organ was proportionably less. +Pope's feeling to humanity was a tiny malice; Swift's became, at length, +a black malignity. Pope always reminds us of an injured and pouting hero +of Lilliput, 'doing well to be angry' under the gourd of a pocket-flap, +or squealing out his griefs from the centre of an empty snuff-box; Swift +is a man, nay, monster of misanthropy. In minute and microscopic vision +of human infirmities, Pope excels even Swift; but then you always +conceive Swift leaning down a giant, though gnarled, stature to behold +them, while Pope is on their level, and has only to look straight before +him. Pope's wrath is always measured; Swift's, as in the 'Legion-Club' +is a whirlwind of 'black fire and horror,' in the breath of which no +flesh can live, and against which genius and virtue themselves furnish +no shield. + +After all, Swift might, perhaps, have put in the plea of Byron-- + + 'All my faults perchance thou knowest, + All my madness none can know.' + +There was a black spot of madness in his brain, and another black spot +in his heart; and the two at last met, and closed up his destiny in +night. Let human nature forgive its most determined and systematic +reviler, for the sake of the wretchedness in which he was involved all +his life long. He was born (in 1667) a posthumous child; he was brought +up an object of charity; he spent much of his youth in dependence; he +had to leave his Irish college without a degree; he was flattered with +hopes from King William and the Whigs, which were not fulfilled; he was +condemned to spend a great part of his life in Ireland, a country he +detested; he was involved--partly, no doubt, through his own blame--in +a succession of fruitless and miserable intrigues, alike of love and +politics; he was soured by want of success in England, and spoiled by +enormous popularity in Ireland; he was tried by a kind of religious +doubts, which would not go out to prayer or fasting; he was haunted by +the fear of the dreadful calamity which at last befell him; his senses +and his soul left him one by one; he became first giddy, then deaf, and +then mad; his madness was of the most terrible sort--it was a 'silent +rage;' for a year or two he lay dumb; and at last, on the 19th of +October 1745, + + 'Swift expired, a driveller and a show,' + +leaving his money to found a lunatic asylum, and his works as a many- +volumed legacy of curse to mankind. + +[Note: It has been asserted that there were circumstances in extenuation +of Swift's conduct, particularly in reference to the ladies whose names +were connected with his, which _cannot be publicly brought forward_.] + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. + +In ancient times, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + +It happened on a winter night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Disguised in tattered habits went +To a small village down in Kent, +Where, in the strollers' canting strain, +They begged from door to door in vain, +Tried every tone might pity win; +But not a soul would let them in. +Our wandering saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having through all the village passed, +To a small cottage came at last, +Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, +Called in the neighbourhood Philemon; +Who kindly did these saints invite +In his poor hut to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +While he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fried; +Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, +Filled a large jug up to the brink, +And saw it fairly twice go round; +Yet (what is wonderful!) they found +'Twas still replenished to the top, +As if they ne'er had touched a drop. +The good old couple were amazed, +And often on each other gazed; +For both were frightened to the heart, +And just began to cry,--'What art!' +Then softly turned aside to view +Whether the lights were burning blue. +The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't, +Told them their calling, and their errand: +'Good folks, you need not be afraid, +We are but saints,' the hermits said; +'No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their houses shall be drowned; +Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes.' + +They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose every beam and rafter; +The heavy wall climbed slowly after. + +The chimney widened, and grew higher, +Became a steeple with a spire. + +The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fastened to a joist; +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below; +In vain; for a superior force, +Applied at bottom, stops its course: +Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + +A wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increased by new intestine wheels; +And, what exalts the wonder more +The number made the motion slower; +The flier, though't had leaden feet, +Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't; +But, slackened by some secret power, +Now hardly moves an inch an hour. +The jack and chimney, near allied, +Had never left each other's side: +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But up against the steeple reared, +Became a clock, and still adhered; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon declares, +Warning the cook-maid not to burn +That roast meat which it cannot turn. + +The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like a huge snail, along the wall; +There stuck aloft in public view, +And with small change a pulpit grew. + +The porringers, that in a row +Hung high, and made a glittering show, +To a less noble substance changed, +Were now but leathern buckets ranged. + +The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Joan of France, and English Moll, +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Now seemed to look abundance better, +Improved in picture, size, and letter; +And, high in order placed, describe +The heraldry of every tribe. + +A bedstead, of the antique mode, +Compact of timber many a load, +Such as our ancestors did use, +Was metamorphosed into pews; +Which still their ancient nature keep, +By lodging folks disposed to sleep. + +The cottage, by such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees; +The hermits then desired their host +To ask for what he fancied most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Returned them thanks in homely style; +Then said, 'My house is grown so fine, +Methinks I still would call it mine; +I'm old, and fain would live at ease; +Make me the parson, if you please.' + +He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat fall down his heels: +He sees, yet hardly can believe, +About each arm a pudding-sleeve; +His waistcoat to a cassock grew, +And both assumed a sable hue; +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +His talk was now of tithes and dues; +He smoked his pipe, and read the news; +Knew how to preach old sermons next, +Vamped in the preface and the text; +At christenings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wished women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrowed last; +Against Dissenters would repine, +And stood up firm for right divine; +Found his head filled with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er missed 'em. + +Thus, having furbished up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they played their farce on; +Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edged with colberteen; +Her petticoat, transformed apace, +Became black satin flounced with lace. +Plain 'Goody' would no longer down; +'Twas 'Madam' in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes, +Amazed to see her look so prim; +And she admired as much at him. + +Thus happy in their change of life +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which proved their last, +Discoursing on old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +To the churchyard to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cried out, +'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!' +'Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true; +And, really, yours is budding too; +Nay, now I cannot stir my foot-- +It feels as if 'twere taking root.' + +Description would but tire my Muse; +In short, they both were turned to yews. + +Old Goodman Dobson of the green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folks to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening-prayer, +He gathers all the parish there, +Points out the place of either yew: +'Here Baucis, there Philemon grew; +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn cut Baucis down. +At which 'tis hard to be believed +How much the other tree was grieved, +Grew scrubby, died atop, was stunted; +So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.' + + +ON POETRY. + +All human race would fain be wits, +And millions miss for one that hits. +Young's Universal Passion, pride, +Was never known to spread so wide. +Say, Britain, could you ever boast +Three poets in an age at most? +Our chilling climate hardly bears +A sprig of bays in fifty years; +While every fool his claim alleges, +As if it grew in common hedges. +What reason can there be assigned +For this perverseness in the mind? +Brutes find out where their talents lie: +A bear will not attempt to fly; +A foundered horse will oft debate +Before he tries a five-barred gate; +A dog by instinct turns aside, +Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;-- +But man we find the only creature, +Who, led by folly, combats nature; +Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, +With obstinacy fixes there; +And, where his genius least inclines, +Absurdly bends his whole designs. + +Not empire to the rising sun +By valour, conduct, fortune won; +Not highest wisdom in debates +For framing laws to govern states; +Not skill in sciences profound +So large to grasp the circle round, +Such heavenly influence require, +As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + +Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; +Not bastard of a pedlar Scot; +Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, +The spawn of Bridewell or the stews; +Not infants dropped, the spurious pledges +Of gipsies littering under hedges, +Are so disqualified by fate +To rise in church, or law, or state, +As he whom Phoebus in his ire +Hath blasted with poetic fire. +What hope of custom in the fair, +While not a soul demands your ware? +Where you have nothing to produce +For private life or public use? +Court, city, country, want you not; +You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. +For poets, law makes no provision; +The wealthy have you in derision; +Of state affairs you cannot smatter, +Are awkward when you try to flatter; +Your portion, taking Britain round, +Was just one annual hundred pound; +Now not so much as in remainder, +Since Gibber brought in an attainder, +For ever fixed by right divine, +(A monarch's right,) on Grub Street line. + +Poor starveling bard, how small thy gains! +How unproportioned to thy pains! +And here a simile comes pat in: +Though chickens take a month to fatten, +The guests in less than half an hour +Will more than half a score devour. +So, after toiling twenty days +To earn a stock of pence and praise, +Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, +Are swallowed o'er a dish of tea; +Gone to be never heard of more, +Gone where the chickens went before. +How shall a new attempter learn +Of different spirits to discern, +And how distinguish which is which, +The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? +Then hear an old experienced sinner +Instructing thus a young beginner: +Consult yourself; and if you find +A powerful impulse urge your mind, +Impartial judge within your breast +What subject you can manage best; +Whether your genius most inclines +To satire, praise, or humorous lines, +To elegies in mournful tone, +Or prologues sent from hand unknown; +Then, rising with Aurora's light, +The Muse invoked, sit down to write; +Blot out, correct, insert, refine, +Enlarge, diminish, interline; +Be mindful, when invention fails, +To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + +Your poem finished, next your care +Is needful to transcribe it fair. +In modern wit, all printed trash is +Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + +To statesmen would you give a wipe, +You print it in italic type; +When letters are in vulgar shapes, +'Tis ten to one the wit escapes; +But when in capitals expressed, +The dullest reader smokes the jest; +Or else, perhaps, he may invent +A better than the poet meant; +As learned commentators view +In Homer, more than Homer knew. + +Your poem in its modish dress, +Correctly fitted for the press, +Convey by penny-post to Lintot; +But let no friend alive look into 't. +If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, +You need not fear your labour lost: +And how agreeably surprised +Are you to see it advertised! +The hawker shows you one in print, +As fresh as farthings from a mint: +The product of your toil and sweating, +A bastard of your own begetting. + +Be sure at Will's the following day, +Lie snug, and hear what critics say; +And if you find the general vogue +Pronounces you a stupid rogue, +Damns all your thoughts as low and little, +Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; +Be silent as a politician, +For talking may beget suspicion; +Or praise the judgment of the town, +And help yourself to run it down; +Give up your fond paternal pride, +Nor argue on the weaker side; +For poems read without a name +We justly praise, or justly blame; +And critics have no partial views, +Except they know whom they abuse; +And since you ne'er provoked their spite, +Depend upon 't, their judgment's right. +But if you blab, you are undone: +Consider what a risk you run: +You lose your credit all at once; +The town will mark you for a dunce; +The vilest doggrel Grub Street sends +Will pass for yours with foes and friends; +And you must bear the whole disgrace, +Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + +Your secret kept, your poem sunk, +And sent in quires to line a trunk, +If still you be disposed to rhyme, +Go try your hand a second time. +Again you fail: yet safe's the word; +Take courage, and attempt a third. +But just with care employ your thoughts, +Where critics marked your former faults; +The trivial turns, the borrowed wit, +The similes that nothing fit; +The cant which every fool repeats, +Town jests and coffee-house conceits; +Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, +And introduced the Lord knows why: +Or where we find your fury set +Against the harmless alphabet; +On A's and B's your malice vent, +While readers wonder what you meant: +A public or a private robber, +A statesman, or a South-Sea jobber; +A prelate who no God believes; +A parliament, or den of thieves; +A pick-purse at the bar or bench; +A duchess, or a suburb wench: +Or oft, when epithets you link +In gaping lines to fill a chink; +Like stepping-stones to save a stride, +In streets where kennels are too wide; +Or like a heel-piece, to support +A cripple with one foot too short; +Or like a bridge, that joins a marish +To moorland of a different parish; +So have I seen ill-coupled hounds +Drag different ways in miry grounds; +So geographers in Afric maps +With savage pictures fill their gaps, +And o'er unhabitable downs +Place elephants, for want of towns. + +But though you miss your third essay, +You need not throw your pen away. +Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, +To spring more profitable game. +From party-merit seek support-- +The vilest verse thrives best at court. +And may you ever have the luck, +To rhyme almost as ill as Duck; +And though you never learnt to scan verse, +Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. +A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence +Will never fail to bring in pence: +Nor be concerned about the sale-- +He pays his workmen on the nail. +Display the blessings of the nation, +And praise the whole administration: +Extol the bench of Bishops round; +Who at them rail, bid----confound: +To Bishop-haters answer thus, +(The only logic used by us,) +'What though they don't believe in----, +Deny them Protestants,--thou liest.' + +A prince, the moment he is crowned, +Inherits every virtue round, +As emblems of the sovereign power, +Like other baubles in the Tower; +Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, +And so continues till he dies: +His humble senate this professes +In all their speeches, votes, addresses. +But once you fix him in a tomb, +His virtues fade, his vices bloom, +And each perfection, wrong imputed, +Is fully at his death confuted. +The loads of poems in his praise +Ascending, make one funeral blaze. +As soon as you can hear his knell +This god on earth turns devil in hell; +And lo! his ministers of state, +Transformed to imps, his levee wait, +Where, in the scenes of endless woe, +They ply their former arts below; +And as they sail in Charon's boat, +Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; +To Cerberus they give a sop, +His triple-barking mouth to stop; +Or in the ivory gate of dreams +Project Excise and South-Sea schemes, +Or hire their party pamphleteers +To set Elysium by the ears. + +Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, +Employ your Muse on kings alive; +With prudence gather up a cluster +Of all the virtues you can muster, +Which, formed into a garland sweet, +Lay humbly at your monarch's feet, +Who, as the odours reach his throne, +Will smile and think them all his own; +For law and gospel both determine +All virtues lodge in royal ermine, +(I mean the oracles of both, +Who shall depose it upon oath.) +Your garland in the following reign, +Change but the names, will do again. + +But, if you think this trade too base, +(Which seldom is the dunce's case,) +Put on the critic's brow, and sit +At Will's the puny judge of wit. +A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, +With caution used, may serve a while. +Proceed on further in your part, +Before you learn the terms of art; +For you can never be too far gone +In all our modern critics' jargon; +Then talk with more authentic face +Of unities, in time, and place; +Get scraps of Horace from your friends, +And have them at your fingers' ends; +Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, +And at all hazards boldly quote; +Judicious Rymer oft review, +Wise Dennis, and profound Bossu; +Read all the prefaces of Dryden-- +For these our critics much confide in, +(Though merely writ at first for filling, +To raise the volume's price a shilling.) + +A forward critic often dupes us +With sham quotations _Peri Hupsous_. +And if we have not read Longinus, +Will magisterially outshine us. +Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, +Procure the book for love or money, +Translated from Boileau's translation, +And quote quotation on quotation. + +At Will's you hear a poem read, +Where Battus from the table-head, +Reclining on his elbow-chair, +Gives judgment with decisive air; +To whom the tribes of circling wits +As to an oracle submits. +He gives directions to the town, +To cry it up, or run it down; +Like courtiers, when they send a note, +Instructing members how to vote. +He sets the stamp of bad and good, +Though not a word he understood. +Your lesson learned, you'll be secure +To get the name of connoisseur: +And, when your merits once are known, +Procure disciples of your own. +For poets, (you can never want 'em,) +Spread through Augusta Trinobantum, +Computing by their pecks of coals, +Amount to just nine thousand souls. +These o'er their proper districts govern, +Of wit and humour judges sovereign. +In every street a city-bard +Rules, like an alderman, his ward; +His undisputed rights extend +Through all the lane, from end to end; +The neighbours round admire his shrewdness +For songs of loyalty and lewdness; +Outdone by none in rhyming well, +Although he never learned to spell. +Two bordering wits contend for glory; +And one is Whig, and one is Tory: +And this for epics claims the bays, +And that for elegiac lays: +Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, +By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; +And some as justly Fame extols +For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. +Bavius in Wapping gains renown, +And Mavius reigns o'er Kentish-town; +Tigellius, placed in Phoebus' car, +From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: +Harmonious Cibber entertains +The court with annual birth-day strains; +Whence Gay was banished in disgrace; +Where Pope will never show his face; +Where Young must torture his invention +To flatter knaves, or lose his pension. + +But these are not a thousandth part +Of jobbers in the poet's art; +Attending each his proper station, +And all in due subordination, +Through every alley to be found, +In garrets high, or under ground; +And when they join their pericranies, +Out skips a book of miscellanies. +Hobbes clearly proves that every creature +Lives in a state of war by nature; +The greater for the smallest watch, +But meddle seldom with their match. +A whale of moderate size will draw +A shoal of herrings down his maw; +A fox with geese his belly crams; +A wolf destroys a thousand lambs: +But search among the rhyming race, +The brave are worried by the base. +If on Parnassus' top you sit, +You rarely bite, are always bit. +Each poet of inferior size +On you shall rail and criticise, +And strive to tear you limb from limb; +While others do as much for him. + +The vermin only tease and pinch +Their foes superior by an inch: +So, naturalists observe, a flea +Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; +And these have smaller still to bite 'em, +And so proceed _ad infinitum_. +Thus every poet in his kind +Is bit by him that comes behind: +Who, though too little to be seen, +Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; +Call dunces fools and sons of whores, +Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; +Extol the Greek and Roman masters, +And curse our modern poetasters; +Complain, as many an ancient bard did, +How genius is no more rewarded; +How wrong a taste prevails among us; +How much our ancestors out-sung us; +Can personate an awkward scorn +For those who are not poets born; +And all their brother-dunces lash, +Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + +O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, +Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! +Their filial piety forgot, +Deny their country like a Scot; +Though by their idiom and grimace, +They soon betray their native place. +Yet thou hast greater cause to be +Ashamed of them, than they of thee, +Degenerate from their ancient brood +Since first the court allowed them food. + +Remains a difficulty still, +To purchase fame by writing ill. +From Flecknoe down to Howard's time, +How few have reached the low sublime! +For when our high-born Howard died, +Blackmore alone his place supplied; +And lest a chasm should intervene, +When death had finished Blackmore's reign, +The leaden crown devolved to thee, +Great poet of the Hollow Tree. +But ah! how unsecure thy throne! +A thousand bards thy right disown; +They plot to turn, in factious zeal, +Duncenia to a commonweal; +And with rebellious arms pretend +An equal privilege to defend. + +In bulk there are not more degrees +From elephants to mites in cheese, +Than what a curious eye may trace +In creatures of the rhyming race. +From bad to worse, and worse, they fall; +But who can reach the worst of all? +For though in nature, depth and height +Are equally held infinite; +In poetry, the height we know; +'Tis only infinite below. +For instance, when you rashly think +No rhymer can like Welsted sink, +His merits balanced, you shall find +The laureate leaves him far behind; +Concannen, more aspiring bard, +Soars downwards deeper by a yard; +Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops; +The rest pursue as thick as hops. +With heads to point, the gulf they enter, +Linked perpendicular to the centre; +And, as their heels elated rise, +Their heads attempt the nether skies. + +Oh, what indignity and shame, +To prostitute the Muse's name, +By flattering kings, whom Heaven designed +The plagues and scourges of mankind; +Bred up in ignorance and sloth, +And every vice that nurses both. + +Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, +Whose virtues bear the strictest test; +Whom never faction could bespatter, +Nor minister nor poet flatter; +What justice in rewarding merit! +What magnanimity of spirit! +What lineaments divine we trace +Through all his figure, mien, and face! +Though peace with olive bind his hands, +Confessed the conquering hero stands. +Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, +Dread from his hand impending changes; +From him the Tartar and the Chinese, +Short by the knees, entreat for peace. +The comfort of his throne and bed, +A perfect goddess born and bred; +Appointed sovereign judge to sit +On learning, eloquence and wit. +Our eldest hope, divine Iülus, +(Late, very late, oh, may he rule us!) +What early manhood has he shown, +Before his downy beard was grown! +Then think what wonders will be done, +By going on as he begun, +An heir for Britain to secure +As long as sun and moon endure. + +The remnant of the royal blood +Comes pouring on me like a flood: +Bright goddesses, in number five; +Duke William, sweetest prince alive! + +Now sings the minister of state, +Who shines alone without a mate. +Observe with what majestic port +This Atlas stands to prop the court, +Intent the public debts to pay, +Like prudent Fabius, by delay. +Thou great vicegerent of the king, +Thy praises every Muse shall sing! +In all affairs thou sole director, +Of wit and learning chief protector; +Though small the time thou hast to spare, +The church is thy peculiar care. +Of pious prelates what a stock +You choose, to rule the sable flock! +You raise the honour of your peerage, +Proud to attend you at the steerage; +You dignify the noble race, +Content yourself with humbler place. +Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, +To titles give the sole pretence. +St George beheld thee with delight +Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, +When on thy breasts and sides herculean +He fixed the star and string cerulean. + +Say, poet, in what other nation, +Shone ever such a constellation! +Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, +And tune your harps, and strew your bays: +Your panegyrics here provide; +You cannot err on flattery's side. +Above the stars exalt your style, +You still are low ten thousand mile. +On Louis all his bards bestowed +Of incense many a thousand load; +But Europe mortified his pride, +And swore the fawning rascals lied. +Yet what the world refused to Louis, +Applied to George, exactly true is. +Exactly true! invidious poet! +'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + +Translate me now some lines, if you can, +From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. +They could all power in heaven divide, +And do no wrong on either side; +They teach you how to split a hair, +Give George and Jove an equal share. +Yet why should we be laced so strait? +I'll give my monarch butter weight; +And reason good, for many a year +Jove never intermeddled here: +Nor, though his priests be duly paid, +Did ever we desire his aid: +We now can better do without him, +Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR SWIFT. + + Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucault, 'Dans + l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque + chose qui ne nous déplaît pas;'--'In the adversity of our best + friends, we always find something that doth not displease us.' + + As Rochefoucault his maxims drew + From nature, I believe them true: + +They argue no corrupted mind +In him; the fault is in mankind. + +This maxim more than all the rest +Is thought too base for human breast: +'In all distresses of our friends, +We first consult our private ends; +While nature, kindly bent to ease us, +Points out some circumstance to please us.' + +If this perhaps your patience move, +Let reason and experience prove. + +We all behold with envious eyes +Our equals raised above our size. +Who would not at a crowded show +Stand high himself, keep others low? +I love my friend as well as you: +But why should he obstruct my view? +Then let me have the higher post; +Suppose it but an inch at most. +If in a battle you should find +One, whom you love of all mankind, +Had some heroic action done, +A champion killed, or trophy won; +Rather than thus be over-topped, +Would you not wish his laurels cropped? +Dear honest Ned is in the gout, +Lies racked with pain, and you without: +How patiently you hear him groan! +How glad the case is not your own! + +What poet would not grieve to see +His brother write as well as he? +But, rather than they should excel, +Would wish his rivals all in hell? + +Her end when emulation misses, +She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: +The strongest friendship yields to pride, +Unless the odds be on our side. +Vain human-kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, +Their empire in our hearts divide. +Give others riches, power, and station, +'Tis all on me an usurpation. +I have no title to aspire; +Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. +In Pope I cannot read a line, +But, with a sigh, I wish it mine: +When he can in one couplet fix +More sense than I can do in six, +It gives me such a jealous fit, +I cry, 'Pox take him and his wit!' +I grieve to be outdone by Gay +In my own humorous, biting way. +Arbuthnot is no more my friend, +Who dares to irony pretend, +Which I was born to introduce, +Refined at first, and showed its use. +St John, as well as Pultney, knows +That I had some repute for prose; +And, till they drove me out of date, +Could maul a minister of state. +If they have mortified my pride, +And made me throw my pen aside; +If with such talents Heaven hath blest 'em, +Have I not reason to detest 'em? + +To all my foes, dear Fortune, send +Thy gifts; but never to my friend: +I tamely can endure the first; +But this with envy makes me burst. + +Thus much may serve by way of proem; +Proceed we therefore to our poem. + +The time is not remote when I +Must by the course of nature die; +When, I foresee, my special friends +Will try to find their private ends: +And, though 'tis hardly understood +Which way my death can do them good, +Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: +'See how the Dean begins to break! +Poor gentleman, he droops apace! +You plainly find it in his face. +That old vertigo in his head +Will never leave him, till he's dead. +Besides, his memory decays: +He recollects not what he says; +He cannot call his friends to mind; +Forgets the place where last he dined; +Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; +He told them fifty times before. +How does he fancy we can sit +To hear his out-of-fashion wit? +But he takes up with younger folks, +Who for his wine will bear his jokes. +Faith! he must make his stories shorter, +Or change his comrades once a quarter: +In half the time he talks them round, +There must another set be found. + +'For poetry, he's past his prime: +He takes an hour to find a rhyme; +His fire is out, his wit decayed, +His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. +I'd have him throw away his pen;-- +But there's no talking to some men!' + +And then their tenderness appears +By adding largely to my years: +'He's older than he would be reckoned, +And well remembers Charles the Second. +He hardly drinks a pint of wine; +And that, I doubt, is no good sign. +His stomach too begins to fail: +Last year we thought him strong and hale; +But now he's quite another thing: +I wish he may hold out till spring!' +They hug themselves, and reason thus: +'It is not yet so bad with us!' + +In such a case, they talk in tropes, +And by their fears express their hopes. +Some great misfortune to portend, +No enemy can match a friend. +With all the kindness they profess, +The merit of a lucky guess +(When daily how-d'ye's come of course, +And servants answer, 'Worse and worse!') +Would please them better, than to tell, +That, 'God be praised, the Dean is well.' +Then he who prophesied the best, +Approves his foresight to the rest: +'You know I always feared the worst, +And often told you so at first.' +He'd rather choose that I should die, +Than his predictions prove a lie. +Not one foretells I shall recover; +But all agree to give me over. + +Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain +Just in the parts where I complain; +How many a message would he send! +What hearty prayers that I should mend! +Inquire what regimen I kept; +What gave me ease, and how I slept; +And more lament when I was dead, +Than all the snivellers round my bed. + +My good companions, never fear; +For, though you may mistake a year, +Though your prognostics run too fast, +They must be verified at last. + +Behold the fatal day arrive! +'How is the Dean?'--'He's just alive.' +Now the departing prayer is read; +He hardly breathes--The Dean is dead. + +Before the passing-bell begun, +The news through half the town is run. +'Oh! may we all for death prepare! +What has he left? and who's his heir?' +'I know no more than what the news is; +'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.' +'To public uses! there's a whim! +What had the public done for him? +Mere envy, avarice, and pride: +He gave it all--but first he died. +And had the Dean, in all the nation, +No worthy friend, no poor relation? +So ready to do strangers good, +Forgetting his own flesh and blood!' + +Now Grub-Street wits are all employed; +With elegies the town is cloyed: +Some paragraph in every paper, +To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. +The doctors, tender of their fame, +Wisely on me lay all the blame. +'We must confess, his case was nice; +But he would never take advice. +Had he been ruled, for aught appears, +He might have lived these twenty years: +For, when we opened him, we found +That all his vital parts were sound.' + +From Dublin soon to London spread, +'Tis told at court, 'The Dean is dead.' +And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, +Runs laughing up to tell the queen. +The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, +Cries, 'Is he gone!'tis time he should. +He's dead, you say; then let him rot. +I'm glad the medals were forgot. +I promised him, I own; but when? +I only was the princess then; +But now, as consort of the king, +You know,'tis quite another thing.' + +Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, +Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: +'Why, if he died without his shoes,' +Cries Bob, 'I'm sorry for the news: +Oh, were the wretch but living still, +And in his place my good friend Will! +Or had a mitre on his head, +Provided Bolingbroke were dead!' + +Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: +Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! +And then, to make them pass the glibber, +Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. +He'll treat me as he does my betters, +Publish my will, my life, my letters; +Revive the libels born to die: +Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + +Here shift the scene, to represent +How those I love my death lament. +Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay +A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + +St John himself will scarce forbear +To bite his pen, and drop a tear. +The rest will give a shrug, and cry, +'I'm sorry--but we all must die!' + +Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, +All fortitude of mind supplies: +For how can stony bowels melt +In those who never pity felt! +When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, +Resigning to the will of God. + +The fools, my juniors by a year, +Are tortured with suspense and fear; +Who wisely thought my age a screen, +When death approached, to stand between: +The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; +They mourn for me without dissembling. + +My female friends, whose tender hearts +Have better learned to act their parts, +Receive the news in doleful dumps: +'The Dean is dead: (Pray, what is trumps?) +Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! +(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) +Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall: +(I wish I knew what king to call.) +Madam, your husband will attend +The funeral of so good a friend.' +'No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; +And he's engaged to-morrow night: +My Lady Club will take it ill, +If he should fail her at quadrille. +He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart)-- +But dearest friends, they say, must part. +His time was come; he ran his race; +We hope he's in a better place.' + +Why do we grieve that friends should die? +No loss more easy to supply. +One year is past; a different scene! +No further mention of the Dean, +Who now, alas! no more is missed, +Than if he never did exist. +Where's now the favourite of Apollo? +Departed:--and his works must follow; +Must undergo the common fate; +His kind of wit is out of date. + +Some country squire to Lintot goes, +Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. +Says Lintot, 'I have heard the name; +He died a year ago.'--'The same.' +He searches all the shop in vain. +'Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane: +I sent them, with a load of books, +Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. +To fancy they could live a year! +I find you're but a stranger here. +The Dean was famous in his time, +And had a kind of knack at rhyme. +His way of writing now is past: +The town has got a better taste. +I keep no antiquated stuff; +But spick and span I have enough. +Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: +Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. +This ode you never yet have seen, +By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. +Then here's a letter finely penned +Against the Craftsman and his friend: +It clearly shows that all reflection +On ministers is disaffection. +Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, +And Mr Henley's last oration. +The hawkers have not got them yet; +Your honour please to buy a set? + +'Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; +'Tis read by every politician: +The country-members, when in town, +To all their boroughs send them down: +You never met a thing so smart; +The courtiers have them all by heart: +Those maids of honour who can read, +Are taught to use them for their creed. +The reverend author's good intention +Hath been rewarded with a pension: +He doth an honour to his gown, +By bravely running priestcraft down: +He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, +That Moses was a grand impostor; +That all his miracles were cheats, +Performed as jugglers do their feats: +The church had never such a writer; +A shame he hath not got a mitre!' + +Suppose me dead; and then suppose +A club assembled at the Rose; +Where, from discourse of this and that, +I grow the subject of their chat. +And while they toss my name about, +With favour some, and some without; +One, quite indifferent in the cause, +My character impartial draws: + +'The Dean, if we believe report, +Was never ill received at court, +Although, ironically grave, +He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave; +To steal a hint was never known, +But what he writ was all his own.' + +'Sir, I have heard another story; +He was a most confounded Tory, +And grew, or he is much belied, +Extremely dull, before he died.' + +'Can we the Drapier then forget? +Is not our nation in his debt? +'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!'-- + +'He should have left them for his betters; +We had a hundred abler men, +Nor need depend upon his pen.-- +Say what you will about his reading, +You never can defend his breeding; +Who, in his satires running riot, +Could never leave the world in quiet; +Attacking, when he took the whim, +Court, city, camp,--all one to him.-- +But why would he, except he slobbered, +Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, +Whose counsels aid the sovereign power +To save the nation every hour! +What scenes of evil he unravels +In satires, libels, lying travels, +Not sparing his own clergy cloth, +But eats into it, like a moth!' + +'Perhaps I may allow the Dean +Had too much satire in his vein, +And seemed determined not to starve it, +Because no age could more deserve it. +Yet malice never was his aim; +He lashed the vice, but spared the name. + +No individual could resent, +Where thousands equally were meant: +His satire points at no defect, +But what all mortals may correct; +For he abhorred the senseless tribe +Who call it humour when they gibe: +He spared a hump or crooked nose, +Whose owners set not up for beaux. +True genuine dulness moved his pity, +Unless it offered to be witty. +Those who their ignorance confessed +He ne'er offended with a jest; +But laughed to hear an idiot quote +A verse from Horace learned by rote. +Vice, if it e'er can be abashed, +Must be or ridiculed, or lashed. +If you resent it, who's to blame? +He neither knows you, nor your name. +Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, +Because its owner is a dukel? +His friendships, still to few confined, +Were always of the middling kind; +No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, +Who fain would pass for lords indeed: +Where titles give no right or power, +And peerage is a withered flower; +He would have deemed it a disgrace, +If such a wretch had known his face. +On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, +He vented oft his wrath in vain: +* * * * * * * squires to market brought, +Who sell their souls and * * * * for nought. +The * * * * * * * * go joyful back, +To rob the church, their tenants rack; +Go snacks with * * * * * justices, +And keep the peace to pick up fees; +In every job to have a share, +A gaol or turnpike to repair; +And turn * * * * * * * to public roads +Commodious to their own abodes. + +'He never thought an honour done him, +Because a peer was proud to own him; +Would rather slip aside, and choose +To talk with wits in dirty shoes; +And scorn the tools with stars and garters, +So often seen caressing Chartres. +He never courted men in station, +Nor persons held in admiration; +Of no man's greatness was afraid, +Because he sought for no man's aid. +Though trusted long in great affairs, +He gave himself no haughty airs: +Without regarding private ends, +Spent all his credit for his friends; +And only chose the wise and good; +No flatterers; no allies in blood: +But succoured virtue in distress, +And seldom failed of good success; +As numbers in their hearts must own, +Who, but for him, had been unknown. + +'He kept with princes due decorum; +Yet never stood in awe before 'em. +He followed David's lesson just, +In princes never put his trust: +And, would you make him truly sour, +Provoke him with a slave in power. +The Irish senate if you named, +With what impatience he declaimed! +Fair LIBERTY was all his cry; +For her he stood prepared to die; +For her he boldly stood alone; +For her he oft exposed his own. +Two kingdoms, just as faction led, +Had set a price upon his head; +But not a traitor could be found, +To sell him for six hundred pound. + +'Had he but spared his tongue and pen, +He might have rose like other men: +But power was never in his thought, +And wealth he valued not a groat: +Ingratitude he often found, +And pitied those who meant to wound; +But kept the tenor of his mind, +To merit well of human-kind; +Nor made a sacrifice of those +Who still were true, to please his foes. +He laboured many a fruitless hour, +To reconcile his friends in power; +Saw mischief by a faction brewing, +While they pursued each other's ruin. +But, finding vain was all his care, +He left the court in mere despair. + +'And, oh! how short are human schemes! +Here ended all our golden dreams. +What St John's skill in state affairs, +What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, +To save their sinking country lent, +Was all destroyed by one event. +Too soon that precious life was ended, +On which alone our weal depended. +When up a dangerous faction starts, +With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; +By solemn league and covenant bound, +To ruin, slaughter, and confound; +To turn religion to a fable, +And make the government a Babel; +Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, +Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; +To sacrifice old England's glory, +And make her infamous in story: +When such a tempest shook the land, +How could unguarded virtue stand! + +'With horror, grief, despair, the Dean +Beheld the dire destructive scene: +His friends in exile, or the Tower, +Himself within the frown of power; +Pursued by base envenomed pens, +Far to the land of S---- and fens; +A servile race in folly nursed, +Who truckle most, when treated worst. + +'By innocence and resolution, +He bore continual persecution; +While numbers to preferment rose, +Whose merit was to be his foes; +When even his own familiar friends, +Intent upon their private ends, +Like renegadoes now he feels, +Against him lifting up their heels. + +'The Dean did, by his pen, defeat +An infamous destructive cheat; +Taught fools their interest how to know, +And gave them arms to ward the blow. +Envy hath owned it was his doing, +To save that hapless land from ruin; +While they who at the steerage stood, +And reaped the profit, sought his blood. + +'To save them from their evil fate, +In him was held a crime of state. +A wicked monster on the bench, +Whose fury blood could never quench; +As vile and profligate a villain, +As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; +Who long all justice had discarded, +Nor feared he God, nor man regarded; +Vowed on the Dean his rage to vent, +And make him of his zeal repent: +But Heaven his innocence defends, +The grateful people stand his friends; +Not strains of law, nor judges' frown, +Nor topics brought to please the crown, +Nor witness hired, nor jury picked, +Prevail to bring him in convict. + +'In exile, with a steady heart, +He spent his life's declining part; +Where folly, pride, and faction sway, +Remote from St John, Pope, and Gay.' + +'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope +Was to be held a misanthrope. +This into general odium drew him, +Which if he liked, much good may't do him. +His zeal was not to lash our crimes, +But discontent against the times: +For, had we made him timely offers +To raise his post, or fill his coffers, +Perhaps he might have truckled down, +Like other brethren of his gown; +For party he would scarce have bled:-- +I say no more--because he's dead.-- +What writings has he left behind?' + +'I hear they're of a different kind: +A few in verse; but most in prose--' + +'Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose:-- +All scribbled in the worst of times, +To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; +To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, +As never favouring the Pretender: +Or libels yet concealed from sight, +Against the court to show his spite: +Perhaps his travels, part the third; +A lie at every second word-- +Offensive to a loyal ear:-- +But--not one sermon, you may swear.' + +'He knew an hundred pleasing stories, +With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: +Was cheerful to his dying-day; +And friends would let him have his way. + +'As for his works in verse or prose, +I own myself no judge of those. +Nor can I tell what critics thought them; +But this I know, all people bought them, +As with a moral view designed, +To please and to reform mankind: +And, if he often missed his aim, +The world must own it to their shame, +The praise is his, and theirs the blame. +He gave the little wealth he had +To build a house for fools and mad; +To show, by one satiric touch, +No nation wanted it so much. +That kingdom he hath left his debtor, +I wish it soon may have a better. +And, since you dread no further lashes, +Methinks you may forgive his ashes.' + + +A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE +LEGION-CLUB. 1736. + +As I stroll the city, oft I +See a building large and lofty, +Not a bow-shot from the college; +Half the globe from sense and knowledge: +By the prudent architect, +Placed against the church direct, +Making good thy grandame's jest, +'Near the church'--you know the rest. + +Tell us what the pile contains? +Many a head that holds no brains. +These demoniacs let me dub +With the name of Legion-Club. +Such assemblies, you might swear, +Meet when butchers bait a bear; +Such a noise, and such haranguing, +When a brother thief is hanging: +Such a rout and such a rabble +Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble; +Such a crowd their ordure throws +On a far less villain's nose. + +Could I from the building's top +Hear the rattling thunder drop, +While the devil upon the roof +(If the devil be thunder-proof) +Should with poker fiery red +Crack the stones, and melt the lead; +Drive them down on every skull, +While the den of thieves is full; +Quite destroy the harpies' nest; +How might then our isle be blest! +For divines allow that God +Sometimes makes the devil his rod; +And the gospel will inform us, +He can punish sins enormous. + +Yet should Swift endow the schools, +For his lunatics and fools, +With a rood or two of land, +I allow the pile may stand. +You perhaps will ask me, Why so? +But it is with this proviso: +Since the house is like to last, +Let the royal grant be passed, +That the club have right to dwell +Each within his proper cell, +With a passage left to creep in, +And a hole above for peeping. +Let them when they once get in, +Sell the nation for a pin; +While they sit a-picking straws, +Let them rave at making laws; +While they never hold their tongue, +Let them dabble in their dung; +Let them form a grand committee, +How to plague and starve the city; +Let them stare, and storm, and frown, +When they see a clergy gown; +Let them, ere they crack a louse, +Call for the orders of the house; +Let them, with their gosling quills, +Scribble senseless heads of bills. +We may, while they strain their throats, +Wipe our a--s with their votes. +Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, +Stuff his guts with flax and grass; +But, before the priest he fleeces, +Tear the Bible all to pieces: +At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, +Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, +Footman, traitor, vile seducer, +Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, +Lay thy privilege aside, +Sprung from Papist regicide; +Fall a-working like a mole, +Raise the dirt about your hole. + +Come, assist me, muse obedient! +Let us try some new expedient; +Shift the scene for half an hour, +Time and place are in thy power. +Thither, gentle muse, conduct me; +I shall ask, and you instruct me. + +See the muse unbars the gate! +Hark, the monkeys, how they prate! + +All ye gods who rule the soul! +Styx, through hell whose waters roll! +Let me be allowed to tell +What I heard in yonder cell. + +Near the door an entrance gapes, +Crowded round with antic shapes, +Poverty, and Grief, and Care, +Causeless Joy, and true Despair; +Discord periwigged with snakes, +See the dreadful strides she takes! + +By this odious crew beset, +I began to rage and fret, +And resolved to break their pates, +Ere we entered at the gates; +Had not Clio in the nick +Whispered me, 'Lay down your stick.' +What, said I, is this the mad-house? +These, she answered, are but shadows, +Phantoms bodiless and vain, +Empty visions of the brain.' + +In the porch Briareus stands, +Shows a bribe in all his hands; +Briareus, the secretary, +But we mortals call him Carey. +When the rogues their country fleece, +They may hope for pence a-piece. + +Clio, who had been so wise +To put on a fool's disguise, +To bespeak some approbation, +And be thought a near relation, +When she saw three hundred brutes +All involved in wild disputes, +Roaring till their lungs were spent, +'Privilege of Parliament.' +Now a new misfortune feels, +Dreading to be laid by the heels. +Never durst the muse before +Enter that infernal door; +Clio, stifled with the smell, +Into spleen and vapours fell, +By the Stygian steams that flew +From the dire infectious crew. +Not the stench of Lake Avernus +Could have more offended her nose; +Had she flown but o'er the top, +She had felt her pinions drop, +And by exhalations dire, +Though a goddess, must expire. +In a fright she crept away; +Bravely I resolved to stay. + +When I saw the keeper frown, +Tipping him with half-a-crown, +Now, said I, we are alone, +Name your heroes one by one. + +Who is that hell-featured brawler? +Is it Satan? No,'tis Waller. +In what figure can a bard dress +Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? +Honest keeper, drive him further, +In his looks are hell and murther; +See the scowling visage drop, +Just as when he murdered T----p. +Keeper, show me where to fix +On the puppy pair of Dicks; +By their lantern jaws and leathern, +You might swear they both are brethren: +Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, +Old acquaintance, are you there? +Dear companions, hug and kiss, +Toast Old Glorious in your piss: +Tie them, keeper, in a tether, +Let them starve and stink together; +Both are apt to be unruly, +Lash them daily, lash them duly; +Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, +Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them. + +Keeper, yon old dotard smoke, +Sweetly snoring in his cloak; +Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne, +Half encompassed by his kin: +There observe the tribe of Bingham, +For he never fails to bring 'em; +While he sleeps the whole debate, +They submissive round him wait; +Yet would gladly see the hunks +In his grave, and search his trunks. +See, they gently twitch his coat, +Just to yawn and give his vote, +Always firm in his vocation, +For the court, against the nation. + +Those are A----s Jack and Bob, +First in every wicked job, +Son and brother to a queer +Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. +We must give them better quarter, +For their ancestor trod mortar, +And at H----th, to boast his fame, +On a chimney cut his name. + +There sit Clements, D----ks, and Harrison, +How they swagger from their garrison! +Such a triplet could you tell +Where to find on this side hell? +Harrison, D----ks, and Clements, +Keeper, see they have their payments; +Every mischief's in their hearts; +If they fail, 'tis want of parts. + +Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man! +Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman! +Chairman to yon damned committee! +Yet I look on thee with pity. +Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan +Metamorphosed to a Gorgon? +For thy horrid looks I own, +Half convert me to a stone, +Hast thou been so long at school, +Now to turn a factious tool? +Alma Mater was thy mother, +Every young divine thy brother. +Thou a disobedient varlet, +Treat thy mother like a harlot! +Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, +Who are all grown reverend preachers! +Morgan, would it not surprise one! +Turn thy nourishment to poison! +When you walk among your books, +They reproach you with your looks. +Bind them fast, or from their shelves +They will come and right themselves; +Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, +All in arms prepare to back us. +Soon repent, or put to slaughter +Every Greek and Roman author. +Will you, in your faction's phrase, +Send the clergy all to graze, +And, to make your project pass, +Leave them not a blade of grass? +How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! +Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art, +Were but you and I acquainted, +Every monster should be painted: +You should try your graving-tools +On this odious group of fools: +Draw the beasts as I describe them +From their features, while I gibe them; +Draw them like; for I assure you, +You will need no _car'catura;_ +Draw them so, that we may trace +All the soul in every face. +Keeper, I must now retire, +You have done what I desire: +But I feel my spirits spent +With the noise, the sight, the scent. + +'Pray be patient; you shall find +Half the best are still behind: +You have hardly seen a score; +I can show two hundred more.' +Keeper, I have seen enough.-- +Taking then a pinch of snuff, +I concluded, looking round them, +'May their god, the devil, confound them. +Take them, Satan, as your due, +All except the Fifty-two.' + +[1] 'Sir Tom:' Sir Thomas Prendergrast, a privy councillor. + + + + +ISAAC WATTS. + + +We feel relieved, and so doubtless do our readers, in passing from the +dark tragic story of Swift, and his dubious and unhappy character, to +contemplate the useful career of a much smaller, but a much better man, +Isaac Watts. This admirable person was born at Southampton on the 17th +of July 1674. His father, of the same name, kept a boarding-school for +young gentlemen, and was a man of intelligence and piety. Isaac was the +eldest of nine children, and began early to display precocity of genius. +At four he commenced to study Latin at home, and afterwards, under one +Pinhorn, a clergyman, who kept the free-school at Southampton, he +learned Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. A subscription was proposed for +sending him to one of the great universities, but he preferred casting +in his lot with the Dissenters. He repaired accordingly, in 1690, to +an academy kept by the Rev. Thomas Rowe, whose son, we believe, became +the husband of the celebrated Elizabeth Rowe, the once popular author +of 'Letters from the Dead to the Living.' The Rowes belonged to the +Independent body. At this academy Watts began to write poetry, chiefly +in the Latin language, and in the then popular Pindaric measure. At the +age of twenty, he returned to his father's house, and spent two quiet +years in devotion, meditation, and study. He became next a tutor in the +family of Sir John Hartopp for five years. He was afterwards chosen +assistant to Dr Chauncey, and, after the Doctor's death, became his +successor. His health, however, failed, and, after getting an assistant +for a while, he was compelled to resign. In 1712, Sir Thomas Abney, a +benevolent gentleman of the neighbourhood, received Watts into his +house, where he continued during the rest of his life--all his wants +attended to, and his feeble frame so tenderly cared for that he lived +to the age of seventy-five. Sir Thomas died eight years after Dr Watts +entered his establishment, but the widow and daughters continued +unwearied in their attentions. Abney House was a mansion surrounded by +fine gardens and pleasure-grounds, where the Doctor became thoroughly +at home, and was wont to refresh his body and mind in the intervals +of study. He preached regularly to a congregation, and in the pulpit, +although his stature was low, not exceeding five feet, the excellence +of his matter, the easy flow of his language, and the propriety of his +pronunciation, rendered him very popular. In private he was exceedingly +kind to the poor and to children, giving to the former a third part +of his small income of £100 a-year, and writing for the other his +inimitable hymns. Besides these, he published a well-known treatise +on Logic, another on 'The Improvement of the Mind,' besides various +theological productions, amongst which his 'World to Come' has been +preeminently popular. In 1728, he received from Edinburgh and Aberdeen +an unsolicited diploma of Doctor of Divinity. As age advanced, he found +himself unable to discharge his ministerial duties, and offered to remit +his salary, but his congregation refused to accept his demission. On the +25th November 1748, quite worn out, but without suffering, this able and +worthy man expired. + +If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, +it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other +treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, +and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of +millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he +shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and +so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his +detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this +epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious +foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of +supplication to God for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me! +O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and +containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever +heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only +a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the +little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be +those of simple, heartfelt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder +Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these +not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple +breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts +consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius. + + +FEW HAPPY MATCHES. + +1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song, + To whom thy sweetest joys belong, + And who the happy pairs, + Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, + Find blessings twisted with their bands, + To soften all their cares. + +2 Not the wild herds of nymphs and swains + That thoughtless fly into thy chains, + As custom leads the way: + If there be bliss without design, + Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, + And be as blest as they. + +3 Not sordid souls of earthly mould + Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, + To dull embraces move: + So two rich mountains of Peru + May rush to wealthy marriage too, + And make a world of love. + +4 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires + With wanton flames; those raging fires + The purer bliss destroy: + On Aetna's top let furies wed, + And sheets of lightning dress the bed, + To improve the burning joy. + +5 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms + None of the melting passions warms + Can mingle hearts and hands: + Logs of green wood that quench the coals + Are married just like stoic souls, + With osiers for their bands. + +6 Not minds of melancholy strain, + Still silent, or that still complain, + Can the dear bondage bless: + As well may heavenly concerts spring + From two old lutes with ne'er a string, + Or none besides the bass. + +7 Nor can the soft enchantments hold + Two jarring souls of angry mould, + The rugged and the keen: + Samson's young foxes might as well + In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, + With firebrands tied between. + +8 Nor let the cruel fetters bind + A gentle to a savage mind, + For love abhors the sight: + Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, + For native rage and native fear + Rise and forbid delight. + +9 Two kindest souls alone must meet; + 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, + And feeds their mutual loves: + Bright Venus on her rolling throne + Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, + And Cupids yoke the doves. + + +THE SLUGGARD. + +1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, + 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.' + As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, + Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. + +2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;' + Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; + And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, + Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. + +3 I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, + The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher; + The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, + And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs. + +4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find + He had took better care for improving his mind; + He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, + But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. + +5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me: + That man's but a picture of what I might be; + But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, + Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.' + + +THE ROSE. + +1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! + The glory of April and May! + But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, + And they wither and die in a day. + +2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, + Above all the flowers of the field: + When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, + Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! + +3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, + Though they bloom and look gay like the rose: + But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; + Time kills them as fast as he goes. + +4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, + Since both of them wither and fade: + But gain a good name by well doing my duty; + This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead. + + +A CRADLE HYMN. + +1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, + Holy angels guard thy bed! + Heavenly blessings without number + Gently falling on thy head. + +2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, + House and home, thy friends provide; + All without thy care or payment, + All thy wants are well supplied. + +3 How much better thou'rt attended + Than the Son of God could be, + When from heaven he descended, + And became a child like thee! + +4 Soft and easy in thy cradle: + Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, + When his birthplace was a stable, + And his softest bed was hay. + +5 Blessed babe! what glorious features, + Spotless fair, divinely bright! + Must he dwell with brutal creatures? + How could angels bear the sight? + +6 Was there nothing but a manger + Cursed sinners could afford, + To receive the heavenly Stranger! + Did they thus affront their Lord? + +7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, + Though my song might sound too hard; + This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee, + { nurse that } + And her arms shall be thy guard. + +8 Yet to read the shameful story, + How the Jews abused their King, + How they served the Lord of glory, + Makes me angry while I sing. + +9 See the kinder shepherds round him, + Telling wonders from the sky! + Where they sought him, where they found him, + With his virgin mother by. + +10 See the lovely babe a-dressing; + Lovely infant, how he smiled! + When he wept, the mother's blessing + Soothed and hushed the holy child. + +11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger, + Where the horned oxen fed: + Peace, my darling, here's no danger, + Here's no ox a-near thy bed. + +12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, + Save my dear from burning flame, + Bitter groans, and endless crying, + That thy blest Redeemer came. + +13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him, + Trust and love him, all thy days; + Then go dwell for ever near him, + See his face, and sing his praise! + +14 I could give thee thousand kisses, + Hoping what I most desire; + Not a mother's fondest wishes + Can to greater joys aspire. + +[1] Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend. + + +BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY. + + The beauty of my native land + Immortal love inspires; + I burn, I burn with strong desires, + And sigh and wait the high command. + There glides the moon her shining way, + And shoots my heart through with a silver ray. + Upward my heart aspires: + A thousand lamps of golden light, + Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, + And wink and beckon with their amorous fires. + O ye fair glories of my heavenly home, + Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court, + Where all the happy minds resort! + When will my Father's chariot come? + Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round, + For ever see the mourner lie + An exile of the sky, + A prisoner of the ground? + Descend, some shining servants from on high, + Build me a hasty tomb; + A grassy turf will raise my head; + The neighbouring lilies dress my bed, + And shed a sweet perfume. + Here I put off the chains of death, + My soul too long has worn: + Friends, I forbid one groaning breath, + Or tear to wet my urn. + Raphael, behold me all undressed; + Here gently lay this flesh to rest, + Then mount and lead the path unknown. +Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own. + + +TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE. + + Great man, permit the muse to climb, + And seat her at thy feet; + Bid her attempt a thought sublime, + And consecrate her wit. + I feel, I feel the attractive force + Of thy superior soul: + My chariot flies her upward course, + The wheels divinely roll. + Now let me chide the mean affairs + And mighty toil of men: + How they grow gray in trifling cares, + Or waste the motion of the spheres + Upon delights as vain! + A puff of honour fills the mind, + And yellow dust is solid good; + + Thus, like the ass of savage kind, + We snuff the breezes of the wind, + Or steal the serpent's food. + Could all the choirs + That charm the poles + But strike one doleful sound, + 'Twould be employed to mourn our souls, + Souls that were framed of sprightly fires, + In floods of folly drowned. +Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy; +How they disclaim their heavenly birth, +Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth, +And hate to be refined from that impure alloy. + + Oft has thy genius roused us hence + With elevated song, + Bid us renounce this world of sense, + Bid us divide the immortal prize + With the seraphic throng: + 'Knowledge and love make spirits blest, + Knowledge their food, and love their rest;' + But flesh, the unmanageable beast, + Resists the pity of thine eyes, + And music of thy tongue. + Then let the worms of grovelling mind + Round the short joys of earthly kind + In restless windings roam; + Howe hath an ample orb of soul, + Where shining worlds of knowledge roll, + Where love, the centre and the pole, + Completes the heaven at home. + + + + +AMBROSE PHILIPS. + + +This gentleman--remembered now chiefly as Pope's temporary rival--was +born in 1671, in Leicestershire; studied at Cambridge; and, being +a great Whig, was appointed by the government of George I. to be +Commissioner of the Collieries, and afterwards to some lucrative +appointments in Ireland. He was also made one of the Commissioners of +the Lottery. He was elected member for Armagh in the Irish House of +Commons. He returned home in 1748, and died the next year in his +lodgings at Vauxhall. + +His works are 'The Distressed Mother,' a tragedy translated from Racine, +and greatly praised in the _Spectator_; two deservedly forgotten plays, +'The Briton,' and 'Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester;' some miscellaneous +pieces, of which an epistle to the Earl of Dorset, dated Copenhagen, has +some very vivid lines; his Pastorals, which were commended by Tickell at +the expense of those of Pope, who took his revenge by damning them, not +with 'faint' but with fulsome and ironical praise, in the _Guardian_; +and the subjoined fragment from Sappho, which is, particularly in the +first stanza, melody itself. Some conjecture that it was touched up by +Addison. + + +A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. + +1 Blessed as the immortal gods is he, + The youth who fondly sits by thee, + And hears and sees thee all the while + Softly speak, and sweetly smile. + +2 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, + And raised such tumults in my breast; + For while I gazed, in transport tossed, + My breath was gone, my voice was lost. + +3 My bosom glowed: the subtle flame + Ran quickly through my vital frame; + O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, + My ears with hollow murmurs rung. + +4 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, + My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; + My feeble pulse forgot to play, + I fainted, sunk, and died away. + + + + +WILLIAM HAMILTON. + + +William Hamilton, of Bangour, was born in Ayrshire in 1704. He was of +an ancient family, and mingled from the first in the most fashionable +circles. Ere he was twenty he wrote verses in Ramsay's 'Tea-Table +Miscellany.' In 1745, to the surprise of many, he joined the standard +of Prince Charles, and wrote a poem on the battle of Gladsmuir, or +Prestonpans. When the reverse of his party came, after many wanderings +and hair's-breadth escapes in the Highlands, he found refuge in France. +As he was a general favourite, and as much allowance was made for his +poetical temperament, a pardon was soon procured for him by his friends, +and he returned to his native country. His health, however, originally +delicate, had suffered by his Highland privations, and he was compelled +to seek the milder clime of Lyons, where he died in 1754. + +Hamilton was what is called a ladies'-man, but his attachments were not +deep, and he rather flirted than loved. A Scotch lady, who was annoyed +at his addresses, asked John Home how she could get rid of them. He, +knowing Hamilton well, advised her to appear to favour him. She acted on +the advice, and he immediately withdrew his suit. And yet his best poem +is a tale of love, and a tale, too, told with great simplicity and +pathos. We refer to his 'Braes of Yarrow,' the beauty of which we never +felt fully till we saw some time ago that lovely region, with its 'dowie +dens,'--its clear living stream,--Newark Castle, with its woods and +memories,--and the green wildernesses of silent hills which stretch on +all sides around; saw it, too, in that aspect of which Wordsworth sung +in the words-- + + 'The grace of forest charms decayed + And pastoral melancholy.' + +It is the highest praise we can bestow upon Hamilton's ballad that it +ranks in merit near Wordsworth's fine trinity of poems, 'Yarrow +Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow Revisited.' + + +THE BRAES OF YARROW. + +1 A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, + Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! + Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, + And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. + +2 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? + Where gat ye that winsome marrow? + A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen, + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +3 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, + Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! + Nor let thy heart lament to leave + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +4 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? + Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? + And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? + +5 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, + Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, + And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen + Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +6 For she has tint her lover lover dear, + Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, + And I hae slain the comeliest swain + That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow. + +7 Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? + Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? + And why yon melancholious weeds + Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? + +8 What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? + What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! + Tis he, the comely swain I slew + Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. + +9 Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears, + His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, + And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, + And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. + +10 Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, + Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, + And weep around in waeful wise, + His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. + +11 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, + My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, + The fatal spear that pierced his breast, + His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. + +12 Did I not warn thee not to lue, + And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; + O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm + Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. + +13 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, + Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, + Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, + Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. + +14 Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, + As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, + As sweet smells on its braes the birk, + The apple frae the rock as mellow. + +15 Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love + In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; + Though he was fair and weil beloved again, + Than me he never lued thee better. + +16 Busk ye then, busk, my bonny bonny bride, + Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, + Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, + And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. + +17 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, + How can I busk a winsome marrow, + How lue him on the banks of Tweed, + That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow? + +18 O Yarrow fields! may never never rain + Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, + For there was basely slain my love, + My love, as he had not been a lover. + +19 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, + His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin', + Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned + He was in these to meet his ruin. + +20 The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed, + Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, + But e'er the to-fall of the night + He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. + +21 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day; + I sang, my voice the woods returning, + But lang ere night the spear was flown + That slew my love, and left me mourning. + +22 What can my barbarous barbarous father do, + But with his cruel rage pursue me? + My lover's blood is on thy spear, + How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? + +23 My happy sisters may be may be proud; + With cruel and ungentle scoffin', + May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes + My lover nailed in his coffin. + +24 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, + And strive with threatening words to move me; + My lover's blood is on thy spear, + How canst thou ever bid me love thee? + +25 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, + With bridal sheets my body cover, + Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, + Let in the expected husband lover. + +26 But who the expected husband husband is? + His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. + Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, + Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after? + +27 Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, + Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow! + Take aff take aff these bridal weeds, + And crown my careful head with willow. + +28 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved; + Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee, + Ye'd lie all night between my breasts! + No youth lay ever there before thee. + +29 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth; + Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, + And lie all night between my breasts; + No youth shall ever lie there after. + +30 A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, + Return and dry thy useless sorrow: + Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs, + He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. + + + + +ALLAN RAMSAY. + + +Crawford Muir, in Lanarkshire, was the birthplace of this true poet. His +father was manager of the Earl of Hopetoun's lead-mines. Allan was born +in 1686. His mother was Alice Bower, the daughter of an Englishman who +had emigrated from Derbyshire. His father died while his son was yet in +infancy; his mother married again in the same district; and young Allan +was educated at the parish school of Leadhills. At the age of fifteen, +he was sent to Edinburgh, and bound apprentice to a wig-maker there. +This trade, however, he left after finishing his term. He displayed +rather early a passion for literature, and made a little reputation by +some pieces of verse,--such as 'An Address to the Easy Club,' a convivial +society with which he was connected,--and a considerable time after by +a capital continuation of King James' 'Christis Kirk on the Green.' +In 1712, he married a writer's daughter, Christiana Ross, who was his +affectionate companion for thirty years. Soon after, he set up a +bookseller's shop opposite Niddry's Wynd, and in this capacity edited +and published two collections,--the one of songs, some of them his own, +entitled 'The Tea-Table Miscellany,' and the other of early Scottish +poems, entitled 'The Evergreen.' In 1725, he published 'The Gentle +Shepherd.' It was the expansion of one or two pastoral scenes which he +ad shewn to his delighted friends. The poem became instantly popular, +and was republished in London and Dublin, and widely circulated in the +colonies. Pope admired it. Gay, then in Scotland with his patrons the +Queensberry family, used to lounge into Ramsay's shop to get explanations +of its Scotch phrases to transmit to Twickenham, and to watch from the +window the notable characters whom Allan pointed out to him in the +Edinburgh Exchange. He now removed to a better shop, and set up for his +sign the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond, who agreed better in figure +than they had done in reality at Hawthornden. He established the first +circulating library in Scotland. His shop became a centre of intelligence, +and Ramsay sat a Triton among the minnows of that rather mediocre day +--giving his little senate laws, and inditing verses, songs, and fables. +At forty-five--an age when Sir Walter Scott had scarcely commenced his +Waverley novels, and Dryden had by far his greatest works to produce +--honest Allan imagined his vein exhausted, and ceased to write, although +he lived and enjoyed life for nearly thirty years more. At last, after +having lost money and gained obloquy, in a vain attempt to found the +first theatre in Edinburgh, and after building for himself a curious +octagon-shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which, while +he called it Ramsay Lodge, his enemies nicknamed 'The Goose-pie,' and +which, though altered, still, we believe, stands, under the name of +Ramsay Garden, the author of 'The Gentle Shepherd' breathed his last on +the 7th of January 1758. He died of a scurvy in the gums. His son became +a distinguished painter, intimate with Johnson, Burke, and the rest of +that splendid set, although now chiefly remembered from his connexion +with them and with his father. + +Allan Ramsay was a poet with very few of the usual poetical faults. He +had an eye for nature, but he had also an eye for the main chance. He +'kept his shop, and his shop kept him.' He might sing of intrigues, and +revels, and houses of indifferent reputation; but he was himself a +quiet, _canny_, domestic man, seen regularly at kirk and market. He had +a great reverence for the gentry, with whom he fancied himself, and +perhaps was, through the Dalhousie family, connected. He had a vast +opinion of himself; and between pride of blood, pride of genius, and +plenty of means, he was tolerably happy. How different from poor maudlin +Fergusson, or from that dark-browed, dark-eyed, impetuous being who was, +within a year of Ramsay's death, to appear upon the banks of Doon, +coming into the world to sing divinely, to act insanely, and prematurely +to die! + +A bard, in the highest use of the word, in which it approaches the +meaning of prophet, Ramsay was not, else he would not have ceased so +soon to sing. Whatever lyrical impulse was in him speedily wore itself +out, and left him to his milder mission as a broad reflector of Scottish +life--in its humbler, gentler, and better aspects. His 'Gentle Shepherd' +is a chapter of Scottish still-life; and, since the pastoral is +essentially the poetry of peace, the 'Gentle Shepherd' is the finest +pastoral in the world. No thunders roll among these solitary crags; no +lightnings affright these lasses among their _claes_ at Habbie's Howe; +the air is still and soft; the plaintive bleating of the sheep upon the +hills, the echoes of the city are distant and faintly heard, so that the +very sounds seem in unison and in league with silence. One thinks of +Shelley's isle 'mid the Aegean deep:-- + + 'It is an isle under Ionian skies, + Beautiful as the wreck of Paradise; + And for the harbours are not safe and good, + The land would have remained a solitude, + But for some pastoral people, native there, + Who from the Elysian clear and sunny air + Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, + Simple and generous, innocent and bold. + + * * * * * + + The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm + To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm + Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, + From whence the fields and woods ever renew + Their green and golden immortality.' + +Yet in the little circle of calm carved out by the magician of 'The +Gentle Shepherd' there is no insipidity. Lust is sternly excluded, but +love of the purest and warmest kind there breathes. The parade of +learning is not there; but strong common sense thinks, and robust and +manly eloquence declaims. Humour too is there, and many have laughed at +Mause and Baldy, whom all the frigid wit of 'Love for Love' and the +'School for Scandal' could only move to contempt or pity. A _dénouement_ +of great skill is not wanting to stir the calm surface of the story by +the wind of surprise; the curtain falls over a group of innocent, +guileless, and happy hearts, and as we gaze at them we breathe the +prayer, that Scotland's peerage and Scotland's peasantry may always thus +be blended into one bond of mutual esteem, endearment, and excellence. +Well might Campbell say--'Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of +the "Gentle Shepherd" is engraven on the memory of its native country. +Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delight +and solace of the peasantry whom it describes.' + +Ramsay has very slightly touched on the religion of his countrymen. This +is to be regretted; but if he had no sympathy with that, he, at least, +disdained to counterfeit it, and its poetical aspects have since been +adequately sung by other minstrels. + + +LOCHABER NO MORE. + +1 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, +Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; +For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, +We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. +These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, +And no for the dangers attending on weir; +Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, +Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. + +2 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, +They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; +Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, +That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. +To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; +By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; +And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, +And I must deserve it before I can crave. + +3 Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; +Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? +Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, +And without thy favour I'd better not be. +I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, +And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, +I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, +And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. + + +THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. + +1 The last time I came o'er the moor, + I left my love behind me; + Ye powers! what pain do I endure, + When soft ideas mind me! + Soon as the ruddy morn displayed + The beaming day ensuing, + I met betimes my lovely maid, + In fit retreats for wooing. + +2 Beneath the cooling shade we lay, + Gazing and chastely sporting; + We kissed and promised time away, + Till night spread her black curtain. + I pitied all beneath the skies, + E'en kings, when she was nigh me; + In raptures I beheld her eyes, + Which could but ill deny me. + +3 Should I be called where cannons roar, + Where mortal steel may wound me; + Or cast upon some foreign shore, + Where dangers may surround me; + Yet hopes again to see my love, + To feast on glowing kisses, + Shall make my cares at distance move, + In prospect of such blisses. + +4 In all my soul there's not one place + To let a rival enter; + Since she excels in every grace, + In her my love shall centre. + Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, + Their waves the Alps shall cover, + On Greenland ice shall roses grow, + Before I cease to love her. + +5 The next time I go o'er the moor, + She shall a lover find me; + And that my faith is firm and pure, + Though I left her behind me: + Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain + My heart to her fair bosom; + There, while my being does remain, + My love more fresh shall blossom. + + +FROM 'THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.' + +ACT I.--SCENE II. + +PROLOGUE. + +A flowrie howm[1] between twa verdant braes, +Where lasses used to wash and spread their claes,[2] +A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground, +Its channel peebles shining smooth and round: +Here view twa barefoot beauties clean and clear; +First please your eye, then gratify your ear; +While Jenny what she wishes discommends, +And Meg with better sense true love defends. + +PEGGY AND JENNY. + +_Jenny_. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green, +This shining day will bleach our linen clean; +The water's clear, the lift[3] unclouded blue, +Will mak them like a lily wet with dew. + +_Peggy_. Gae farrer up the burn to Habbie's How, +Where a' that's sweet in spring and simmer grow: +Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,[4] +The water fa's, and maks a singin' din: +A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, +Kisses with easy whirls the bordering grass. +We'll end our washing while the morning's cool, +And when the day grows het we'll to the pool, +There wash oursells; 'tis healthfu' now in May, +And sweetly caller on sae warm a day. + +_Jenny_. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say, +Giff our twa herds come brattling down the brae, +And see us sae?--that jeering fellow, Pate, +Wad taunting say, 'Haith, lasses, ye're no blate.'[5] + +_Peggy_. We're far frae ony road, and out of sight; +The lads they're feeding far beyont the height; +But tell me now, dear Jenny, we're our lane, +What gars ye plague your wooer with disdain? +The neighbours a' tent this as well as I; +That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by. +What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa, +He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw. + +_Jenny_. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; +A herd mair sheepish yet I never kenn'd. +He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, +With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; +Whilk pensylie[6] he wears a thought a-jee,[7] +And spreads his garters diced beneath his knee. +He falds his owrelay[8] down his breast with care, +And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair; +For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, +Except, 'How d'ye?--or, 'There's a bonny day.' + +_Peggy_. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride, +Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: +But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld;-- +What like's a dorty[9] maiden when she's auld? +Like dawted wean[10] that tarrows at its meat,[11] +That for some feckless[12] whim will orp[13] and greet: +The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past, +And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, +Or scart anither's leavings at the last. +Fy, Jenny! think, and dinna sit your time. + +_Jenny_. I never thought a single life a crime. + +_Peggy_. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken +That men were made for us, and we for men. + +_Jenny_. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, +For sic a tale I never heard him tell. +He glowers[14] and sighs, and I can guess the cause: +But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws? +Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, +I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. +They're fools that slavery like, and may be free; +The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me. + +_Peggy_. Be doing your ways: for me, I have a mind +To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. + +_Jenny_. Heh! lass, how can ye lo'e that rattleskull? +A very deil, that aye maun have his will! +We soon will hear what a poor fechtin' life +You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife. + +_Peggy_. I'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear, +But rather think ilk langsome day a year, +Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed, +Where on my Patie's breast I'll lay my head. +There he may kiss as lang as kissing's good, +And what we do there's nane dare call it rude. +He's get his will; why no? 'tis good my part +To give him that, and he'll give me his heart. + +_Jenny_. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days +Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise, +And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane: +But soon as your newfangleness is gane, +He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, +And think he's tint his freedom for your sake. +Instead then of lang days of sweet delight, +Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: +And maybe, in his barlichood's,[15] ne'er stick +To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. + +_Peggy_. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want pith to move +My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love. +Patie to me is dearer than my breath, +But want of him, I dread nae other skaith.[16] +There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green +Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een. +And then he speaks with sic a taking art, +His words they thirl like music through my heart. +How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, +And jest at little fears that fright the lave. +Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, +He reads feil[17] books that teach him meikle skill; +He is--but what need I say that or this, +I'd spend a month to tell you what he is! +In a' he says or does there's sic a gate, +The rest seem coofs compared with my dear Pate; +His better sense will lang his love secure: +Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor. + +_Jenny._ Hey, 'bonnylass of Branksome!' or't be lang, +Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. +Oh, 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride! +Syne whinging gets about your ingle-side, +Yelping for this or that with fasheous[18] din: +To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin. +Ae wean fa's sick, and scads itself wi' brue,[19] +Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe: +The 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:'[20] hame grows hell, +When Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell. + +_Peggy._ Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, +When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. +Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight +To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. +Wow, Jenny! can there greater pleasure be, +Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee; +When a' they ettle at, their greatest wish, +Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss? +Can there be toil in tenting day and night +The like of them, when loves makes care delight? + +_Jenny_. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a', +Gif o'er your heads ill chance should beggary draw: +There little love or canty cheer can come +Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.[21] +Your nowt may die; the speat[22] may bear away +Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay; +The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows, +May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ewes; +A dyvour[23] buys your butter, woo', and cheese, +But, or the day of payment, breaks and flees; +With gloomin' brow the laird seeks in his rent, +'Tis no to gie, your merchant's to the bent; +His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear; +Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?-- +Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; +Troth, it's nae mows[24] to be a married wife. + +_Peggy_. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she, +Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. +Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best; +Nae mair's required--let Heaven make out the rest. +I've heard my honest uncle aften say, +That lads should a' for wives that's vertuous pray; +For the maist thrifty man could never get +A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let: +Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part +To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart. +Whate'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, +And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, +For healsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. +A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo', +Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due; +Syne a' behind's our ain.--Thus without fear, +With love and rowth[25] we through the warld will steer; +And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, +He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. + +_Jenny_. But what if some young giglet on the green, +With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, +Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, +And her kenn'd kisses, hardly worth a feg? + +_Peggy_. Nae mair of that:--dear Jenny, to be free, +There's some men constanter in love than we: +Nor is the ferly great, when Nature kind +Has blest them with solidity of mind; +They'll reason calmly, and with kindness smile, +When our short passions wad our peace beguile: +Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks[26]at hame, +'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame. +Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art +To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. +At even, when he comes weary frae the hill, +I'll have a' things made ready to his will: +In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, +A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane: +And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, +The seething-pot's be ready to take aff; +Clean hag-abag[27] I'll spread upon his board, +And serve him with the best we can afford: +Good-humour and white bigonets[28] shall be +Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. + +_Jenny_. A dish of married love right soon grows cauld, +And dozins[29] down to nane, as fowk grow auld. + +_Peggy_. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er find +The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind. +Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tie, +Than aught in love the like of us can spy. +See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, +Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride; +Nearer and nearer ilka year they've pressed, +Till wide their spreading branches are increased, +And in their mixture now are fully blessed: +This shields the other frae the eastlin' blast; +That in return defends it frae the wast. +Sic as stand single, (a state sae liked by you,) +Beneath ilk storm frae every airt[30] maun bow. + +_Jenny_. I've done,--I yield, dear lassie; I maun yield, +Your better sense has fairly won the field. +With the assistance of a little fae +Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. + +_Peggy_. Alake, poor pris'ner!--Jenny, that's no fair, +That ye'll no let the wee thing take the air: +Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well's we can, +Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man. + +_Jenny_. Anither time's as good; for see the sun +Is right far up, and we're not yet begun +To freath the graith: if canker'd Madge, our aunt, +Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant; +But when we've done, I'll tell you a' my mind; +For this seems true--nae lass can be unkind. + +[_Exeunt_. + +[1] Howm: holm. +[2] Claes: clothes. +[3] 'Lift:' sky. +[4] 'Linn:' a waterfall. +[5] 'Blate:' bashful. +[6] 'Pensylie:' sprucely. +[7] 'A-jee:' to one side. +[8] 'Owrelay:' cravat. +[9] 'Dorty:' pettish. +[10] 'Dawted wean:' spoiled child. +[11] 'Tarrows at its meat:' refuses its food. +[12] 'Feckless:' silly. +[13] 'Orp:' fret. +[14] 'Glowers:' stares. +[15] 'Barlichoods:' cross-moods. +[16] 'Skaith:' harm. +[17] 'Feil:' many. +[18] 'Fasheous:' troublesome. +[19] 'Scads itself wi' brue:' scalds itself with broth. +[20] 'Deil gaes o'er John Wabster:' all goes wrong. +[21] 'Toom:' empty. +[22] 'Speat:' land-flood. +[23] 'A dyvour:' bankrupt. +[24] 'Mows:' jest. +[25] 'Rowth:' plenty. +[26] 'Maiks:' mates. +[27] 'Hag-abag:' huckaback. +[28] 'White bigonets:' linen caps or coifs. +[29] 'Dozins:' dwindles. +[30] 'Airt:' quarter. + + + + +We come now to another cluster of minor poets,--such as Robert Dodsley, +who rose, partly through Pope's influence, from a footman to be a +respectable bookseller, and who, by the verses entitled 'The Parting +Kiss,'-- + + 'One fond kiss before we part, + Drop a tear and bid adieu; + Though we sever, my fond heart, + Till we meet, shall pant for you,' &c.-- + +seems to have suggested to Burns his 'Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;' +--John Brown, author of certain tragedies and other works, including the +once famous 'Estimate of the Manners and Principles of Modern Times,' of +which Cowper says-- + + 'The inestimable Estimate of Brown + Rose like a paper kite and charmed the town; + But measures planned and executed well + Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell:' + +and who went mad and died by his own hands;--John Gilbert Cooper, author +of a fine song to his wife, one stanza of which has often been quoted:-- + + 'And when with envy Time transported + Shall think to rob us of our joys; + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing in my boys;'-- + +Cuthbert Shaw, an unfortunate author of the Savage type, who wrote an +affecting monody on the death of his wife;--Thomas Scott, author of +'Lyric Poems, Devotional and Moral: London, 1773;'--Edward Thompson, a +native of Hull, and author of some tolerable sea-songs;--Henry Headley, +a young man of uncommon talents, a pupil of Dr Parr in Norwich, who, +when only twenty-one, published 'Select Beauties of the Ancient English +Poets,' accompanied by critical remarks discovering rare ripeness of mind +for his years, who wrote poetry too, but was seized with consumption, and +died at twenty-two;--Nathaniel Cotton, the physician, under whose care, +at St Alban's, Cowper for a time was;--William Hayward Roberts, author of +'Judah Restored,' a poem of much ambition and considerable merit;--John +Bampfylde, who went mad, and died in that state, after having published, +when young, some sweet sonnets, of which the following is one:-- + + 'Cold is the senseless heart that never strove + With the mild tumult of a real flame; + Rugged the breast that music cannot tame, + Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love + The pathless vale, the long-forsaken grove, + The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, + With ivy mantled o'er. For empty fame + Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove + In search of plunder far to western clime. + Give me to waste the hours in amorous play + With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme, + Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, + And all that prodigality of charms, + Formed to enslave my heart, and grace my lay;'-- + +Lord Chesterfield, who wrote some lines on 'Beau Nash's Picture at full +length, between the Busts of Newton and Pope at Bath,' of which this is +the last stanza-- + + 'The picture placed the busts between, + Adds to the thought much strength; + Wisdom and Wit are little seen, + But Folly's at full length;'-- + +Thomas Penrose, who is more memorable as a warrior than as a poet, +having fought against Buenos Ayres, as well as having written some +elegant war-verses;--Edward Moore, a contributor to the _World_;--Sir +John Henry Moore, a youth of promise, who died in his twenty-fifth year, +leaving behind him such songs as the following:-- + + 'Cease to blame my melancholy, + Though with sighs and folded arms + I muse with silence on her charms; + Censure not--I know 'tis folly; + Yet these mournful thoughts possessing, + Such delights I find in grief + That, could heaven afford relief, + My fond heart would scorn the blessing;'-- + +the Rev. Richard Jago, a friend of Shenstone's, and author of a pleasing +fable entitled 'Labour and Genius;'--Henry Brooke, better known for a +novel, once much in vogue, called 'The Fool of Quality,' than for his +elaborate poem entitled 'Universal Beauty,' which formed a prototype of +Darwin's 'Botanic Garden,' but did not enjoy that poem's fame;--George +Alexander Stevens, a comic actor, lecturer on 'heads,' and writer of +some poems, novels, and Bacchanalian songs:--and, in fine, Mrs Greville, +whose 'Prayer for Indifference' displays considerable genius. We quote +some stanzas:-- + + 'I ask no kind return in love, + No tempting charm to please; + Far from the heart such gifts remove + That sighs for peace and ease. + + 'Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know + That, like the needle true, + Turns at the touch of joy and woe, + But, turning, trembles too. + + 'Far as distress the soul can wound, + 'Tis pain in each degree; + 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound-- + Beyond, is agony. + + 'Then take this treacherous sense of mine, + Which dooms me still to smart, + Which pleasure can to pain refine, + To pain new pangs impart. + + 'Oh, haste to shed the sovereign balm, + My shattered nerves new string, + And for my guest, serenely calm, + The nymph Indifference bring.' + + + + +ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE. + + +This writer was born at Burton-on-Trent, in 1705. He was educated at +Westminster and Cambridge, and studied law at Lincoln's Inn. He was a +man of fortune, and sat in two parliaments for Wenlock, in Shropshire. +He died in 1760. His imitations of authors are clever and amusing, and +seem to have got their hint from 'The Splendid Shilling,' and to have +given it to the 'Rejected Addresses.' + + +IMITATION OF THOMSON. + +----Prorumpit ad aethera nubem +Turbine, fumantem piceo. VIRG. + + +O thou, matured by glad Hesperian suns, +Tobacco, fountain pure of limpid truth, +That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought +Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care, +And at each puff imagination burns: +Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires +Touch the mysterious lip that chants thy praise +In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown. +Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines +Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue formed, +And glazed magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill. +From Paetotheke with pungent powers perfumed, +Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbibed +Each parent ray; then rudely rammed, illume +With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet, +Marked with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds +Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around, +And many-mining fires; I all the while, +Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm. +But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join, +In genial strife and orthodoxal ale, +Stream life and joy into the Muse's bowl. +Oh, be thou still my great inspirer, thou +My Muse; oh, fan me with thy zephyrs boon, +While I, in clouded tabernacle shrined, +Burst forth all oracle and mystic song. + + +IMITATION OF POPE. + + --Solis ad ortus +Vanescit fumus. LUCAN. + +Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense +To Templars modesty, to parsons sense: +So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine, +Drank inspiration from the steam divine. +Poison that cures, a vapour that affords +Content, more solid than the smile of lords: +Rest to the weary, to the hungry food, +The last kind refuge of the wise and good. +Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale +Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail. +By thee protected, and thy sister, beer, +Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. +Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid, +While supperless he plies the piddling trade. +What though to love and soft delights a foe, +By ladies hated, hated by the beau, +Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown, +Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. +Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, +And let me taste thee unexcised by kings. + + +IMITATION OF SWIFT. + +Ex fumo dare lucem.--HOR. + +Boy! bring an ounce of Freeman's best, +And bid the vicar be my guest: +Let all be placed in manner due, +A pot wherein to spit or spew, +And London Journal, and Free-Briton, +Of use to light a pipe or * * + + * * * * * + +This village, unmolested yet +By troopers, shall be my retreat: +Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray; +Who cannot write or vote for * * * +Far from the vermin of the town, +Here let me rather live, my own, +Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland +In sweet oblivion lulls the land; +Of all which at Vienna passes, +As ignorant as * * Brass is: +And scorning rascals to caress, +Extol the days of good Queen Bess, +When first tobacco blessed our isle, +Then think of other queens--and smile. + +Come, jovial pipe, and bring along +Midnight revelry and song; +The merry catch, the madrigal, +That echoes sweet in City Hall; +The parson's pun, the smutty tale +Of country justice o'er his ale. +I ask not what the French are doing, +Or Spain, to compass Britain's ruin: + Britons, if undone, can go + Where tobacco loves to grow. + + + + +WILLIAM OLDYS. + + +Oldys was born in 1696, and died in 1761. He was a very diligent +collector of antiquarian materials, and the author of a Life of Raleigh. +He was intimate with Captain Grose, Burns' friend, who used to rally him +on his inordinate thirst for ale, although, if we believe Burns, it was +paralleled by Grose's liking for port. The following Anacreontic is +characteristic:-- + + +SONG, OCCASIONED BY A FLY DRINKING OUT OF A CUP OF ALE. + +Busy, curious, thirsty fly, +Drink with me, and drink as I; +Freely welcome to my cup, +Couldst thou sip and sip it up. +Make the most of life you may-- +Life is short, and wears away. + +Both alike are, mine and thine, +Hastening quick to their decline: +Thine's a summer, mine no more, +Though repeated to threescore; +Threescore summers, when they're gone, +Will appear as short as one. + + + + +ROBERT LLOYD. + + +Robert Lloyd was born in London in 1733. He was the son of one of the +under-masters of Westminster School. He went to Cambridge, where he +became distinguished for his talents and notorious for his dissipation. +He became an usher under his father, but soon tired of the drudgery, and +commenced professional author. He published a poem called 'The Actor,' +which attracted attention, and was the precursor of 'The Rosciad.' He +wrote for periodicals, produced some theatrical pieces of no great +merit, and edited the _St James' Magazine_. This failed, and Lloyd, +involved in pecuniary distresses, was cast into the Fleet. Here he was +deserted by all his boon companions except Churchill, to whose sister he +was attached, and who allowed him a guinea a-week and a servant, besides +promoting a subscription for his benefit. When the news of Churchill's +death arrived, Lloyd was seated at dinner; he became instantly sick, +cried out 'Poor Charles! I shall follow him soon,' and died in a few +weeks. Churchill's sister, a woman of excellent abilities, waited on +Lloyd during his illness, and died soon after him of a broken heart. +This was in 1764. + +Lloyd was a minor Churchill. He had not his brawny force, but he had +more than his liveliness of wit, and was a much better-conditioned man, +and more temperate in his satire. Cowper knew, loved, admired, and in +some of his verses imitated, Robert Lloyd. + + +THE MISERIES OF A POET'S LIFE. + +The harlot Muse, so passing gay, +Bewitches only to betray. +Though for a while with easy air +She smooths the rugged brow of care, +And laps the mind in flowery dreams, +With Fancy's transitory gleams; +Fond of the nothings she bestows, +We wake at last to real woes. +Through every age, in every place, +Consider well the poet's case; +By turns protected and caressed, +Defamed, dependent, and distressed. +The joke of wits, the bane of slaves, +The curse of fools, the butt of knaves; +Too proud to stoop for servile ends, +To lacquey rogues or flatter friends; +With prodigality to give, +Too careless of the means to live; +The bubble fame intent to gain, +And yet too lazy to maintain; +He quits the world he never prized, +Pitied by few, by more despised, +And, lost to friends, oppressed by foes, +Sinks to the nothing whence he rose. + +O glorious trade! for wit's a trade, +Where men are ruined more than made! +Let crazy Lee, neglected Gay, +The shabby Otway, Dryden gray, +Those tuneful servants of the Nine, +(Not that I blend their names with mine,) +Repeat their lives, their works, their fame. +And teach the world some useful shame. + + + + +HENRY CAREY. + + +Of Carey, the author of the popular song, 'Sally in our Alley,' we know +only that he was a professional musician, composing the air as well as +the words of 'Sally,' and that in 1763 he died by his own hands. + + +SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. + +1 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. + +2 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. + +3 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 belly full, + I'll bear it all for Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +4 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 dressed all in my best, + To walk abroad with Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +5 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. + +6 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 pounds, + I'd give it all to Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + +7 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. + + + + +DAVID MALLETT. + + +David Mallett was the son of a small innkeeper in Crieff, Perthshire, +where he was born in the year 1700. Crieff, as many of our readers know, +is situated on the western side of a hill, and commands a most varied and +beautiful prospect, including Drummond Castle, with its solemn shadowy +woods, and the Ochils, on the south,--Ochtertyre, one of the loveliest +spots in Scotland, and the gorge of Glenturrett, on the north,--and the +bold dark hills which surround the romantic village of Comrie, on the +west. Crieff is now a place of considerable note, and forms a centre +of summer attraction to multitudes; but at the commencement of the +eighteenth century it must have been a miserable hamlet. _Malloch_ was +originally the name of the poet, and the name is still common in that +part of Perthshire. David attended the college of Aberdeen, and became, +afterwards, an unsalaried tutor in the family of Mr Home of Dreghorn, +near Edinburgh. We find him next in the Duke of Montrose's family, with +a salary of £30 per annum. In 1723, he accompanied his pupils to London, +and changed his name to Mallett, as more euphonious. Next year, he +produced his pretty ballad of 'William and Margaret,' and published it +in Aaron Hill's 'Plain Dealer.' This served as an introduction to the +literary society of the metropolis, including such names as Young and +Pope. In 1733, he disgraced himself by a satire on the greatest man then +living, the venerable Richard Bentley. Mallett was one of those mean +creatures who always worship a rising, and turn their backs on a setting +sun. By his very considerable talents, his management, and his address, +he soon rose in the world. He was appointed under-secretary to the Prince +of Wales, with a salary of £200 a-year. In conjunction with Thomson, to +whom he was really kind, he wrote in 1740, 'The Masque of Alfred,' in +honour of the birthday of the Princess Augusta. His first wife, of whom +nothing is recorded, having died, he married the daughter of Lord +Carlisle's steward, who brought him a fortune of £10,000. Both she and +Mallett himself gave themselves out as Deists. This was partly owing to +his intimacy with Bolingbroke, to gratify whom, he heaped abuse upon Pope +in a preface to 'The Patriot-King,' and was rewarded by Bolingbroke +leaving him the whole of his works and MSS. These he afterwards +published, and exposed himself to the vengeful sarcasm of Johnson, who +said that Bolingbroke was a scoundrel and a coward;--a scoundrel, to +charge a blunderbuss against Christianity; and a coward, because he durst +not fire it himself, but left a shilling to a beggarly Scotsman to draw +the trigger after his death. Mallett ranked himself among the +calumniators and, as it proved, murderers of Admiral Byng. He wrote a +Life of Lord Bacon, in which, it was said, he forgot that Bacon was a +philosopher, and would probably, when he came to write the Life of +Marlborough, forget that he was a general. This Life of Bacon is now +utterly forgotten. We happened to read it in our early days, and thought +it a very contemptible performance. The Duchess of Marlborough left £1000 +in her will between Glover and Mallett to write a Life of her husband. +Glover threw up his share of the work, and Mallett engaged to perform the +whole, to which, besides, he was stimulated by a pension from the second +Duke of Marlborough. He got the money, but when he died it was found that +he had not written a line of the work. In his latter days he held the +lucrative office of Keeper of the Book of Entries for the port of London. +He died on the 2lst April 1765. + +Mallett is, on the whole, no credit to Scotland. He was a bad, mean, +insincere, and unprincipled man, whose success was procured by despicable +and dastardly arts. He had doubtless some genius, and his 'Birks of +Invermay,' and 'William and Margaret,' shall preserve his name after his +clumsy imitation of Thomson, called 'The Excursion,' and his long, +rambling 'Amyntor and Theodora;' have been forgotten. + + +WILLIAM AND MARGARET. + +1 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour + When night and morning meet; + In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, + And stood at William's feet. + +2 Her face was like an April-morn, + Clad in a wintry cloud; + And clay-cold was her lily hand, + That held her sable shroud. + +3 So shall the fairest face appear, + When youth and years are flown: + Such is the robe that kings must wear, + When death has reft their crown. + +4 Her bloom was like the springing flower, + That sips the silver dew; + The rose was budded in her cheek, + Just opening to the view. + +5 But love had, like the canker-worm, + Consumed her early prime: + The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; + She died before her time. + +6 'Awake!' she cried, 'thy true love calls, + Come from her midnight-grave; + Now let thy pity hear the maid, + Thy love refused to save. + +7 'This is the dumb and dreary hour, + When injured ghosts complain; + When yawning graves give up their dead, + To haunt the faithless swain. + +8 'Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, + Thy pledge and broken oath! + And give me back my maiden-vow, + And give me back my troth. + +9 'Why did you promise love to me, + And not that promise keep? + Why did you swear my eyes were bright, + Yet leave those eyes to weep? + +10 'How could you say my face was fair, + And yet that face forsake? + How could you win my virgin-heart, + Yet leave that heart to break? + +11 'Why did you say my lip was sweet, + And made the scarlet pale? + And why did I, young witless maid! + Believe the flattering tale? + +12 'That face, alas! no more is fair, + Those lips no longer red: + Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, + And every charm is fled. + +13 'The hungry worm my sister is; + This winding-sheet I wear: + And cold and weary lasts our night, + Till that last morn appear. + +14 'But, hark! the cock has warned me hence; + A long and late adieu! + Come, see, false man, how low she lies, + Who died for love of you.' + +15 The lark sung loud; the morning smiled, + With beams of rosy red: + Pale William quaked in every limb, + And raving left his bed. + +16 He hied him to the fatal place + Where Margaret's body lay; + And stretched him on the green-grass turf, + That wrapped her breathless clay. + +17 And thrice he called on Margaret's name. + And thrice he wept full sore; + Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, + And word spake never more! + + + +THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. + +The smiling morn, the breathing spring, +Invite the tunefu' birds to sing; +And, while they warble from the spray, +Love melts the universal lay. +Let us, Amanda, timely wise, +Like them, improve the hour that flies; +And in soft raptures waste the day, +Among the birks of Invermay. + +For soon the winter of the year, +And age, life's winter, will appear; +At this thy living bloom will fade, +As that will strip the verdant shade. +Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, +The feathered songsters are no more; +And when they drop and we decay, +Adieu the birks of Invermay! + + + + +JAMES MERRICK. + + +Merrick was a clergyman, as well as a writer of verse. He was born in +1720, and became a Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, where Lord North +was one of his pupils. He took orders, but owing to incessant pains in +the head, could not perform duty. He died in 1769. His works are a +translation of Tryphiodorus, done at twenty, a version of the Psalms, a +collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous pieces, one good specimen +of which we subjoin. + + +THE CHAMELEON. + +Oft has it been my lot to mark +A proud, conceited, talking spark, +With eyes that hardly served at most +To guard their master 'gainst a post; +Yet round the world the blade has been, +To see whatever could be seen. +Returning from his finished tour, +Grown ten times perter than before; +Whatever word you chance to drop, +The travelled fool your mouth will stop: +'Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-- +I've seen--and sure I ought to know.'-- +So begs you'd pay a due submission, +And acquiesce in his decision. + +Two travellers of such a cast, +As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, +And on their way, in friendly chat, +Now talked of this, and then of that; +Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter, +Of the chameleon's form and nature. +'A stranger animal,' cries one, +'Sure never lived beneath the sun: +A lizard's body lean and long, +A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, +Its foot with triple claw disjoined; +And what a length of tail behind! +How slow its pace! and then its hue-- +Who ever saw so fine a blue?' + +'Hold there,' the other quick replies, +''Tis green, I saw it with these eyes, +As late with open mouth it lay, +And warmed it in the sunny ray; +Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, +And saw it eat the air for food.' + +'I've seen it, sir, as well as you, +And must again affirm it blue; +At leisure I the beast surveyed +Extended in the cooling shade.' + +''Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye.' +'Green!' cries the other in a fury: +'Why, sir, d' ye think I've lost my eyes?' +''Twere no great loss,' the friend replies; +'For if they always serve you thus, +You'll find them but of little use.' + +So high at last the contest rose, +From words they almost came to blows: +When luckily came by a third; +To him the question they referred: +And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, +Whether the thing was green or blue. + +'Sirs,' cries the umpire, 'cease your pother; +The creature's neither one nor t' other. +I caught the animal last night, +And viewed it o'er by candle-light: +I marked it well, 'twas black as jet-- +You stare--but sirs, I've got it yet, +And can produce it.'--'Pray, sir, do; +I'll lay my life the thing is blue.' +'And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen +The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.' + +'Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,' +Replies the man, 'I'll turn him out: +And when before your eyes I've set him, +If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.' + +He said; and full before their sight +Produced the beast, and lo!--'twas white. +Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise-- +'My children,' the chameleon cries, +(Then first the creature found a tongue,) +'You all are right, and all are wrong: +When next you talk of what you view, +Think others see as well as you: +Nor wonder if you find that none +Prefers your eyesight to his own.' + + + + +DR JAMES GRAINGER. + + +This writer possessed some true imagination, although his claim to +immortality lies in the narrow compass of one poem--his 'Ode to +Solitude.' Little is known of his personal history. He was born in 1721 +--belonging to a gentleman's family in Cumberland. He studied medicine, +and was for some time a surgeon connected with the army. When the peace +came, he established himself in London as a medical practitioner. In +1755, he published his 'Solitude,' which found many admirers, including +Dr Johnson, who pronounced its opening lines 'very noble.' He afterwards +indited several other pieces, wrote a translation of Tibullus, and +became one of the critical staff of the _Monthly Review_. He was unable, +however, through all these labours to secure a competence, and, in 1759, +he sought the West Indies. In St Christopher's he commenced practising +as a physician, and married the Governor's daughter, who brought him a +fortune. He wrote a poem entitled 'The Sugar-cane.' This was sent over +to London in MS., and was read at Sir Joshua Reynold's table to a +literary coterie, who, according to Boswell, all burst out into a laugh +when, after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus-- + + 'Now, Muse, let's sing of _rats_! + +And what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company, slily +overlooking the reader, found that the word had been originally 'mice,' +but had been changed to rats as more dignified. + +Boswell goes on to record Johnson's opinion of Grainger. He said, 'He +was an agreeable man, a man that would do any good that was in his +power.' His translation of Tibullus was very well done, but 'The Sugar- +cane, a Poem,' did not please him. 'What could he make of a Sugar-cane? +one might as well write "The Parsley-bed, a Poem," or "The Cabbage +Garden, a Poem."' Boswell--'You must then _pickle_ your cabbage with the +_sal Atticum_.' Johnson--'One could say a great deal about cabbage. The +poem might begin with the advantages of civilised society over a rude +state, exemplified by the Scotch, who had no cabbages till Oliver +Cromwell's soldiers introduced them, and one might thus shew how arts +are propagated by conquest, as they were by the Roman arms.' Cabbage, by +the way, in a metaphorical sense, might furnish a very good subject for +a literary _satire_. + +Grainger died of the fever of the country in 1767. Bishop Percy +corroborates Johnson's character of him as a man. He says, 'He was not +only a man of genius and learning, but had many excellent virtues, being +one of the most generous, friendly, benevolent men I ever knew.' + +Grainger in some points reminds us of Dyer. Dyer staked his reputation +on 'The Fleece;' but it is his lesser poem, 'Grongar Hill,' which +preserves his name; that fine effusion has survived the laboured work. +And so Grainger's 'Solitude' has supplanted the stately 'Sugar-cane.' +The scenery of the West Indies had to wait till its real poet appeared +in the author of 'Paul and Virginia.' Grainger was hardly able to cope +with the strange and gorgeous contrasts it presents of cliffs and crags, +like those of Iceland, with vegetation rich as that of the fairest parts +of India, and of splendid sunshine, with tempests of such tremendous +fury that, but for their brief continuance, no property could be secure, +and no life could be safe. + +The commencement of the 'Ode to Solitude' is fine, but the closing part +becomes tedious. In the middle of the poem there is a tumult of +personifications, some of them felicitous and others forced. + + 'Sage Reflection, bent with years,' +may pass, but + 'Conscious Virtue, void of fears,' +is poor. + 'Halcyon Peace on moss reclined,' +is a picture; + 'Retrospect that scans the mind,' +is nothing; + 'Health that snuffs the morning air,' +is a living image; but what sense is there in + 'Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare?' +and how poor his + 'Laughter in loud peals that breaks,' +to Milton's + 'Laughter, holding both his sides!' +The paragraph, however, commencing + 'With you roses brighter bloom,' +and closing with + 'The bournless macrocosm's thine,' +is very spirited, and, along with the opening lines, proves +Grainger a poet. + + +ODE TO SOLITUDE. + +O solitude, romantic maid! +Whether by nodding towers you tread, +Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, +Or hover o'er the yawning tomb, +Or climb the Andes' clifted side, +Or by the Nile's coy source abide, +Or starting from your half-year's sleep +From Hecla view the thawing deep, +Or, at the purple dawn of day, +Tadmor's marble wastes survey, +You, recluse, again I woo, +And again your steps pursue. + +Plumed Conceit himself surveying, +Folly with her shadow playing, +Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, +Bloated empiric, puffed Pretence, +Noise that through a trumpet speaks, +Laughter in loud peals that breaks, +Intrusion with a fopling's face, +Ignorant of time and place, +Sparks of fire Dissension blowing, +Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing, +Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer, +Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer, +Ambition's buskins, steeped in blood, +Fly thy presence, Solitude. + +Sage Reflection, bent with years, +Conscious Virtue, void of fears, +Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy, +Meditation's piercing eye, +Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, +Retrospect that scans the mind, +Rapt, earth-gazing Reverie, +Blushing, artless Modesty, +Health that snuffs the morning air, +Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare, +Inspiration, Nature's child, +Seek the solitary wild. + +You, with the tragic muse retired, +The wise Euripides inspired, +You taught the sadly-pleasing air +That Athens saved from ruins bare. +You gave the Cean's tears to flow, +And unlocked the springs of woe; +You penned what exiled Naso thought, +And poured the melancholy note. +With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you strayed, +When death snatched his long-loved maid; +You taught the rocks her loss to mourn, +Ye strewed with flowers her virgin urn. +And late in Hagley you were seen, +With bloodshot eyes, and sombre mien, +Hymen his yellow vestment tore, +And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore. +But chief your own the solemn lay +That wept Narcissa young and gay, +Darkness clapped her sable wing, +While you touched the mournful string, +Anguish left the pathless wild, +Grim-faced Melancholy smiled, +Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn, +The starry host put back the dawn, +Aside their harps even seraphs flung +To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young! +When all nature's hushed asleep, +Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep, +Soft you leave your caverned den, +And wander o'er the works of men; +But when Phosphor brings the dawn +By her dappled coursers drawn, +Again you to the wild retreat +And the early huntsman meet, +Where as you pensive pace along, +You catch the distant shepherd's song, +Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, +Or the rising primrose view. +Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings, +You mount, and nature with you sings. +But when mid-day fervours glow, +To upland airy shades you go, +Where never sunburnt woodman came, +Nor sportsman chased the timid game; +And there beneath an oak reclined, +With drowsy waterfalls behind, +You sink to rest. +Till the tuneful bird of night +From the neighbouring poplar's height +Wake you with her solemn strain, +And teach pleased Echo to complain. + +With you roses brighter bloom, +Sweeter every sweet perfume, +Purer every fountain flows, +Stronger every wilding grows. +Let those toil for gold who please, +Or for fame renounce their ease. +What is fame? an empty bubble. +Gold? a transient shining trouble. +Let them for their country bleed, +What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed? +Man's not worth a moment's pain, +Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. +Then let me, sequestered fair, +To your sibyl grot repair; +On yon hanging cliff it stands, +Scooped by nature's salvage hands, +Bosomed in the gloomy shade +Of cypress not with age decayed. +Where the owl still-hooting sits, +Where the bat incessant flits, +There in loftier strains I'll sing +Whence the changing seasons spring, +Tell how storms deform the skies, +Whence the waves subside and rise, +Trace the comet's blazing tail, +Weigh the planets in a scale; +Bend, great God, before thy shrine, +The bournless macrocosm's thine. + * * * * * + + + + +MICHAEL BRUCE. + + +We refer our readers to Dr Mackelvie's well-known and very able Life of +poor Bruce, for his full story, and for the evidence on which his claim +to the 'Cuckoo' is rested. Apart from external evidence, we think that +poem more characteristic of Bruce's genius than of Logan's, and have +therefore ranked it under Bruce's name. + +Bruce was born on the 27th of March 1746, at Kinnesswood, parish of +Portmoak, county of Kinross. His father was a weaver, and Michael was +the fifth of a family of eight children. + +Poor as his parents were, they were intelligent, religious, and most +conscientious in the discharge of their duties to their children. In the +summer months Michael was sent out to herd cattle; and one loves to +imagine the young poet wrapt in his plaid, under a whin-bush, while the +storm was blowing,--or gazing at the rainbow from the summit of a +fence,--or admiring at Lochleven and its old ruined castle,--or weaving +around the form of some little maiden, herding in a neighbouring field +--some 'Jeanie Morrison'--one of those webs of romantic early love which +are beautiful and evanescent as the gossamer, but how exquisitely +relished while they last! Say not, with one of his biographers, that his +'education was retarded by this employment;' he was receiving in these +solitary fields a kind of education which no school and no college could +furnish; nay, who knows but, as he saw the cuckoo winging her way from +one deep woodland recess to another, or heard her dull, divine monotone +coming from the heart of the forest, the germ of that exquisite strain, +'least in the kingdom' of the heaven of poetry in size, but immortal in +its smallness, was sown in his mind? In winter he went to school, and +profited there so much, that at fifteen (not a very early period, after +all, for a Scotch student beginning his curriculum--in our day twelve +was not an uncommon age) he was judged fit for going to college. And +just in time a windfall came across the path of our poet, the mention of +which may make many of our readers smile. This was a legacy which was +left his father by a relative, amounting to 200 merks, or £11, 2s.6d. +With this munificent sum in his pocket, Bruce was sent to study at +Edinburgh College. Here he became distinguished by his attainments, and +particularly his taste and poetic powers; and here, too, he became +acquainted with John Logan, afterwards his biographer. After spending +three sessions at college, supported by his parents and other friends, +he returned to the country, and taught a school at Gairney Bridge (a +place famous for the first meeting of the first presbytery of the +Seceders) for £11 of salary. Thence he removed to Foresthill, near +Alloa, where a damp school-room, poverty, and hard labour in teaching, +united to injure his health and depress his spirits. At Foresthill he +wrote his poem 'Lochleven,' which discovers no small descriptive power. +Consumption began now to make its appearance, and he returned to the +cottage of his parents, where he wrote his 'Elegy on Spring,' in which +he refers with dignified pathos to his approaching dissolution. On the +5th of July 1767, this remarkable youth died, aged twenty-one years and +three months. His Bible was found on his pillow, marked at the words, +Jer. xxii. 10, 'Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but weep +sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his +native country.' + +Lord Craig wrote some time afterwards an affecting paper in the _Mirror_, +recording the fate, and commending the genius of Bruce. John Logan, in +1770, published his poems. In the year 1807, the kind-hearted Principal +Baird published an edition of the poems for the behoof of Bruce's mother, +then an aged widow. And in 1837, Dr William Mackelvie, Balgedie, Kinross- +shire, published what may be considered the standard Life of this poet, +along with a complete edition of his Works. + +It is impossible from so small a segment of a circle as Bruce's life +describes, to infer with any certainty the whole. So far as we can judge +from the fragments left, his power was rather in the beautiful, than in +the sublime or in the strong. The lines on Spring, from the words 'Now +spring returns' to the close, form a continuous stream of pensive +loveliness. How sweetly he sings in the shadow of death! Nor let us too +severely blame his allusion to the old Pagan mythology, in the words-- + + 'I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe, + I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore;' + +remembering that he was still a mere student, and not recovered from +that fine intoxication in which classical literature drenches a young +imaginative soul, and that at last we find him 'resting in the hopes of +an eternal day.' 'Lochleven' is the spent echo of the 'Seasons,' although, +as we said before, its descriptions possess considerable merit. His 'Last +Day' is more ambitious than successful. If we grant the 'Cuckoo' to be +his, as we are inclined decidedly to do, it is a sure title to fame, +being one of the sweetest little poems in any language. Shakspeare would +have been proud of the verse-- + + 'Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year.' + +Bruce has not, however, it has always appeared to us, caught so well as +Wordsworth the differentia of the cuckoo,--its invisible, shadowy, +shifting, supernatural character--heard, but seldom seen--its note so +limited and almost unearthly:-- + + 'O Cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, + Or but a _wandering voice_?' + +How fine this conception of a separated voice--'The viewless spirit of a +_lonely_ sound,' plaining in the woods as if seeking for some incarnation +it cannot find, and saddening the spring groves by a note so contradictory +to the genius of the season. In reference to the note of the cuckoo we +find the following remarks among the fragments from the commonplace-book +of Dr Thomas Brown, printed by Dr Welsh:--'The name of the cuckoo has +generally been considered as a very pure instance of imitative harmony. +But in giving that name, we have most unjustly defrauded the poor bird of +a portion of its very small variety of sound. The second syllable is not +a mere echo of the first; it is the sound reversed, like the reading of +a sotadic line; and to preserve the strictness of the imitation we should +give it the name of Ook-koo.' _This_ is the prose of the cuckoo after its +poetry. + + +TO THE CUCKOO. + +1 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! + The messenger of spring! + Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, + And woods thy welcome sing. + +2 Soon as the daisy decks the green, + Thy certain voice we hear; + Hast thou a star to guide thy path, + Or mark the rolling year? + +3 Delightful visitant! with thee + I hail the time of flowers, + And hear the sound of music sweet, + From birds among the bowers. + +4 The school-boy, wandering through the wood + To pull the primrose gay, + Starts thy curious voice to hear, + And imitates the lay. + +5 What time the pea puts on the bloom, + Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, + An annual guest in other lands, + Another spring to hail. + +6 Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, + Thy sky is ever clear; + Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, + No winter in thy year. + +7 Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! + We'd make with joyful wing + Our annual visit o'er the globe, + Attendants on the spring. + + +ELEGY, WRITTEN IN SPRING. + +1 'Tis past: the North has spent his rage; + Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day; + The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, + And warm o'er ether western breezes play. + +2 Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, + From southern climes, beneath another sky, + The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: + Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. + +3 Far to the North grim Winter draws his train, + To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; + Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign, + Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar. + +4 Loosed from the bonds of frost, the verdant ground + Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, + Again puts forth her flowers, and all around, + Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. + +5 Behold! the trees new-deck their withered boughs; + Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane, + The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose; + The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. + +6 The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, + Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun: + The birds on ground, or on the branches green, + Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. + +7 Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, + From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; + And cheerful singing, up the air she steers; + Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. + +8 On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms + That fill the air with fragrance all around, + The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, + While o'er the wild his broken notes resound. + +9 While the sun journeys down the western sky, + Along the green sward, marked with Roman mound, + Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye, + The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. + +10 Now is the time for those who wisdom love, + Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road, + Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove, + And follow Nature up to Nature's God. + +11 Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws; + Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; + Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty cause, + And left the wondering multitude behind. + +12 Thus Ashley gathered academic bays; + Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, + Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, + And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. + +13 Thus have I walked along the dewy lawn; + My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn: + Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, + And gathered health from all the gales of morn. + +14 And even when Winter chilled the aged year, + I wandered lonely o'er the hoary plain: + Though frosty Boreas warned me to forbear, + Boreas, with all his tempests, warned in vain. + +15 Then sleep my nights, and quiet blessed my days; + I feared no loss, my mind was all my store; + No anxious wishes e'er disturbed my ease; + Heaven gave content and health--I asked no more. + +16 Now Spring returns: but not to me returns + The vernal joy my better years have known; + Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, + And all the joys of life with health are flown. + +17 Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, + Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, + Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, + And count the silent moments as they pass: + +18 The winged moments, whose unstaying speed + No art can stop, or in their course arrest; + Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, + And lay me down at peace with them at rest. + +19 Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate; + And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true. + Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate, + And bid the realms of light and life adieu. + +20 I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; + I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, + The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, + Which mortals visit, and return no more. + +21 Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! + Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, + Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, + And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. + +22 There let me wander at the shut of eve, + When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes: + The world and all its busy follies leave, + And talk of wisdom where my Daphnis lies. + +23 There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, + When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes; + Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, + Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. + + + + +CHRISTOPHER SMART. + + +We hear of 'Single-speech Hamilton.' We have now to say something of +'Single-poem Smart,' the author of one of the grandest bursts of +devotional and poetical feeling in the English language--the 'Song to +David.' This poor unfortunate was born at Shipbourne, Kent, in 1722. +His father was steward to Lord Barnard, who, after his death, continued +his patronage to the son, who was then eleven years of age. The Duchess +of Cleveland, through Lord Barnard's influence, bestowed on Christopher +an allowance of £40 a-year. With this he went to Pembroke Hall, Cam- +bridge, in 1739; was in 1745 elected a Fellow of Pembroke, and in 1747 +took his degree of M.A. At college, Smart began to display that reckless +dissipation which led afterwards to such melancholy consequences. He +studied hard, however, at intervals; wrote poetry both in Latin and +English; produced a comedy called a 'Trip to Cambridge; or, The Grateful +Fair,' which was acted in the hall of Pembroke College; and, in spite of +his vices and follies, was popular on account of his agreeable manners +and amiable dispositions. Having become acquainted with Newberry, +the benevolent, red-nosed bookseller commemorated in 'The Vicar of +Wakefield,'--for whom he wrote some trifles,--he married his step- +daughter, Miss Carnan, in the year 1753. He now removed to London, and +became an author to trade. He wrote a clever satire, entitled 'The +Hilliad,' against Sir John Hill, who had attacked him in an underhand +manner. He translated the fables of Phaedrus into verse,--Horace into +prose ('Smart's Horace' used to be a great favourite, under the rose, +with schoolboys); made an indifferent version of the Psalms and +Paraphrases, and a good one, at a former period, of Pope's 'Ode on St +Cecilia's Day,' with which that poet professed himself highly pleased. +He was employed on a monthly publication called _The Universal Visitor_. +We find Johnson giving the following account of this matter in Boswell's +Life:--'Old Gardner, the bookseller, employed Rolt and Smart to write a +monthly miscellany called _The Universal Visitor_.' There was a formal +written contract. They were bound to write nothing else,--they were to +have, I think, a third of the profits of the sixpenny pamphlet, and the +contract was for ninety-nine years. I wrote for some months in _The +Universal Visitor_ for poor Smart, while he was mad, not then knowing +the terms on which he was engaged to write, and thinking I was doing him +good. I hoped his wits would soon return to him. Mine returned to me, and +I wrote in _The Universal Visitor_ no longer.' + +Smart at last was called to pay the penalty of his blended labour and +dissipation. In 1763 he was shut up in a madhouse. His derangement had +exhibited itself in a religious way: he insisted upon people kneeling +down along with him in the street and praying. During his confinement, +writing materials were denied him, and he used to write his poetical +pieces with a key on the wainscot. Thus, 'scrabbling,' like his own hero, +on the wall, he produced his immortal 'Song to David.' He became by and +by sane; but, returning to his old habits, got into debt, and died in the +King's Bench prison, after a short illness, in 1770. + +The 'Song to David' has been well called one of the greatest curiosities +of literature. It ranks in this point with the tragedies written by Lee, +and the sermons and prayers uttered by Hall in a similar melancholy state +of mind. In these cases, as well as in Smart's, the thin partition +between genius and madness was broken down in thunder,--the thunder of a +higher poetry than perhaps they were capable of even conceiving in their +saner moments. Lee produced in that state--which was, indeed, nearly his +normal one--some glorious extravagancies. Hall's sermons, monologised +and overheard in the madhouse, are said to have transcended all that he +preached in his healthier moods. And, assuredly, the other poems by Smart +scarcely furnish a point of comparison with the towering and sustained +loftiness of some parts of the 'Song to David.' Nor is it loftiness +alone,--although the last three stanzas are absolute inspiration, and +you see the waters of Castalia tossed by a heavenly wind to the very +summit of Parnassus,--but there are innumerable exquisite beauties and +subtleties, dropt as if by the hand of rich haste, in every corner of +the poem. Witness his description of David's muse, as a + + 'Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, + The more _than Michal of his bloom_, + The _Abishag of his age_! + +The account of David's object-- + + 'To further knowledge, silence vice, + And plant perpetual paradise, + When _God had calmed the world_.' + +Of David's Sabbath-- + + ''Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, + And heavenly melancholy tuned, + To bless and bear the rest.' + +One of David's themes-- + + 'The multitudinous abyss, + Where secrecy remains in bliss, + And wisdom hides her skill.' + +And, not to multiply instances to repletion, this stanza about gems-- + + 'Of gems--their virtue and their price, + Which, hid in earth from man's device, + Their _darts of lustre sheath_; + The jasper of the master's stamp, + The topaz blazing like a lamp, + Among the mines beneath.' + +Incoherence and extravagance we find here and there; but it is not the +flutter of weakness, it is the fury of power: from the very stumble of +the rushing steed, sparks are kindled. And, even as Baretti, when he +read the _Rambler_, in Italy, thought within himself, If such are the +lighter productions of the English mind, what must be the grander and +sterner efforts of its genius? and formed, consequently, a strong desire +to visit that country; so might he have reasoned, If such poems as +'David' issue from England's very madhouses, what must be the writings +of its saner and nobler poetic souls? and thus might he, from the +parallax of a Smart, have been able to rise toward the ideal altitudes +of a Shakspeare or a Milton. Indeed, there are portions of the 'Song to +David,' which a Milton or a Shakspeare has never surpassed. The blaze of +the meteor often eclipses the light of + + 'The loftiest star of unascended heaven, + Pinnacled dim in the intense inane.' + + +SONG TO DAVID. + +1 O thou, that sitt'st upon a throne, + With harp of high, majestic tone, + To praise the King of kings: + And voice of heaven, ascending, swell, + Which, while its deeper notes excel, + Clear as a clarion rings: + +2 To bless each valley, grove, and coast, + And charm the cherubs to the post + Of gratitude in throngs; + To keep the days on Zion's Mount, + And send the year to his account, + With dances and with songs: + +3 O servant of God's holiest charge, + The minister of praise at large, + Which thou mayst now receive; + From thy blest mansion hail and hear, + From topmost eminence appear + To this the wreath I weave. + +4 Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean, + Sublime, contemplative, serene, + Strong, constant, pleasant, wise! + Bright effluence of exceeding grace; + Best man! the swiftness and the race, + The peril and the prize! + +5 Great--from the lustre of his crown, + From Samuel's horn, and God's renown, + Which is the people's voice; + For all the host, from rear to van, + Applauded and embraced the man-- + The man of God's own choice. + +6 Valiant--the word, and up he rose; + The fight--he triumphed o'er the foes + Whom God's just laws abhor; + And, armed in gallant faith, he took + Against the boaster, from the brook, + The weapons of the war. + +7 Pious--magnificent and grand, + 'Twas he the famous temple planned, + (The seraph in his soul:) + Foremost to give the Lord his dues, + Foremost to bless the welcome news, + And foremost to condole. + +8 Good--from Jehudah's genuine vein, + From God's best nature, good in grain, + His aspect and his heart: + To pity, to forgive, to save, + Witness En-gedi's conscious cave, + And Shimei's blunted dart. + +9 Clean--if perpetual prayer be pure, + And love, which could itself inure + To fasting and to fear-- + Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet, + To smite the lyre, the dance complete, + To play the sword and spear. + +10 Sublime--invention ever young, + Of vast conception, towering tongue, + To God the eternal theme; + Notes from yon exaltations caught, + Unrivalled royalty of thought, + O'er meaner strains supreme. + +11 Contemplative--on God to fix + His musings, and above the six + The Sabbath-day he blessed; + 'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, + And heavenly melancholy tuned, + To bless and bear the rest. + +12 Serene--to sow the seeds of peace, + Remembering when he watched the fleece, + How sweetly Kidron purled-- + To further knowledge, silence vice, + And plant perpetual paradise, + When God had calmed the world. + +13 Strong--in the Lord, who could defy + Satan, and all his powers that lie + In sempiternal night; + And hell, and horror, and despair + Were as the lion and the bear + To his undaunted might. + +14 Constant--in love to God, the Truth, + Age, manhood, infancy, and youth; + To Jonathan his friend + Constant, beyond the verge of death; + And Ziba, and Mephibosheth, + His endless fame attend. + +15 Pleasant--and various as the year; + Man, soul, and angel without peer, + Priest, champion, sage, and boy; + In armour or in ephod clad, + His pomp, his piety was glad; + Majestic was his joy. + +16 Wise--in recovery from his fall, + Whence rose his eminence o'er all, + Of all the most reviled; + The light of Israel in his ways, + Wise are his precepts, prayer, and praise, + And counsel to his child. + +17 His muse, bright angel of his verse, + Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, + For all the pangs that rage; + Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, + The more than Michal of his bloom, + The Abishag of his age. + +18 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. + +19 Angels--their ministry and meed, + Which to and fro with blessings speed, + Or with their citterns wait; + Where Michael, with his millions, bows, + Where dwells the seraph and his spouse, + The cherub and her mate. + +20 Of man--the semblance and effect + Of God and love--the saint elect + For infinite applause-- + To rule the land, and briny broad, + To be laborious in his laud, + And heroes in his cause. + +21 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. + +22 Trees, plants, and flowers--of virtuous root; + Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit, + Choice gums and precious balm; + Bless ye the nosegay in the vale, + And with the sweetness of the gale + Enrich the thankful psalm. + +23 Of fowl--even every beak and wing + Which cheer the winter, hail the spring, + That live in peace, or prey; + They that make music, or that mock, + The quail, the brave domestic cock, + The raven, swan, and jay. + +24 Of fishes--every size and shape, + Which nature frames of light escape, + Devouring man to shun: + The shells are in the wealthy deep, + The shoals upon the surface leap, + And love the glancing sun. + +25 Of beasts--the beaver plods his task; + While the sleek tigers roll and bask, + Nor yet the shades arouse; + Her cave the mining coney scoops; + Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops, + The kids exult and browse. + +26 Of gems--their virtue and their price, + Which, hid in earth from man's device, + Their darts of lustre sheath; + The jasper of the master's stamp, + The topaz blazing like a lamp, + Among the mines beneath. + +27 Blest was the tenderness he felt, + When to his graceful harp he knelt, + And did for audience call; + When Satan with his hand he quelled, + And in serene suspense he held + The frantic throes of Saul. + +28 His furious foes no more maligned + As he such melody divined, + And sense and soul detained; + Now striking strong, now soothing soft, + He sent the godly sounds aloft, + Or in delight refrained. + +29 When up to heaven his thoughts he piled, + From fervent lips fair Michal smiled, + As blush to blush she stood; + And chose herself the queen, and gave + Her utmost from her heart--'so brave, + And plays his hymns so good.' + +30 The pillars of the Lord are seven, + Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; + His wisdom drew the plan; + His Word accomplished the design, + From brightest gem to deepest mine, + From Christ enthroned to man. + +31 Alpha, the cause of causes, first + In station, fountain, whence the burst + Of light and blaze of day; + Whence bold attempt, and brave advance, + Have motion, life, and ordinance, + And heaven itself its stay. + +32 Gamma supports the glorious arch + On which angelic legions march, + And is with sapphires paved; + Thence the fleet clouds are sent adrift, + And thence the painted folds that lift + The crimson veil, are waved. + +33 Eta with living sculpture breathes, + With verdant carvings, flowery wreathes + Of never-wasting bloom; + In strong relief his goodly base + All instruments of labour grace, + The trowel, spade, and loom. + +34 Next Theta stands to the supreme-- + Who formed in number, sign, and scheme, + The illustrious lights that are; + And one addressed his saffron robe, + And one, clad in a silver globe, + Held rule with every star. + +35 Iota's tuned to choral hymns + Of those that fly, while he that swims + In thankful safety lurks; + And foot, and chapiter, and niche, + The various histories enrich + Of God's recorded works. + +36 Sigma presents the social droves + With him that solitary roves, + And man of all the chief; + Fair on whose face, and stately frame, + Did God impress his hallowed name, + For ocular belief. + +37 Omega! greatest and the best, + Stands sacred to the day of rest, + For gratitude and thought; + Which blessed the world upon his pole, + And gave the universe his goal, + And closed the infernal draught. + +38 O David, scholar of the Lord! + Such is thy science, whence reward, + And infinite degree; + O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe! + God's harp thy symbol, and thy type + The lion and the bee! + +39 There is but One who ne'er rebelled, + But One by passion unimpelled, + By pleasures unenticed; + He from himself his semblance sent, + Grand object of his own content, + And saw the God in Christ. + +40 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. + +41 Thou art--to give and to confirm, + For each his talent and his term; + All flesh thy bounties share: + Thou shalt not call thy brother fool; + The porches of the Christian school + Are meekness, peace, and prayer. + +42 Open and naked of offence, + Man's made of mercy, soul, and sense: + God armed the snail and wilk; + Be good to him that pulls thy plough; + Due food and care, due rest allow + For her that yields thee milk. + +43 Rise up before the hoary head, + And God's benign commandment dread, + Which says thou shalt not die: + 'Not as I will, but as thou wilt,' + Prayed He, whose conscience knew no guilt; + With whose blessed pattern vie. + +44 Use all thy passions!--love is thine, + And joy and jealousy divine; + Thine hope's eternal fort, + And care thy leisure to disturb, + With fear concupiscence to curb, + And rapture to transport. + +45 Act simply, as occasion asks; + Put mellow wine in seasoned casks; + Till not with ass and bull: + Remember thy baptismal bond; + Keep from commixtures foul and fond, + Nor work thy flax with wool. + +46 Distribute; pay the Lord his tithe, + And make the widow's heart-strings blithe; + Resort with those that weep: + As you from all and each expect, + For all and each thy love direct, + And render as you reap. + +47 The slander and its bearer spurn, + And propagating praise sojourn + To make thy welcome last; + Turn from old Adam to the New: + By hope futurity pursue: + Look upwards to the past. + +48 Control thine eye, salute success, + Honour the wiser, happier bless, + And for thy neighbour feel; + Grutch not of mammon and his leaven, + Work emulation up to heaven + By knowledge and by zeal. + +49 O David, highest in the list + Of worthies, on God's ways insist, + The genuine word repeat! + Vain are the documents of men, + And vain the flourish of the pen + That keeps the fool's conceit. + +50 Praise above all--for praise prevails; + Heap up the measure, load the scales, + And good to goodness add: + The generous soul her Saviour aids, + But peevish obloquy degrades; + The Lord is great and glad. + +51 For Adoration all the ranks + Of angels yield eternal thanks, + And David in the midst; + With God's good poor, which, last and least + In man's esteem, thou to thy feast, + O blessed bridegroom, bidst. + +52 For Adoration seasons change, + And order, truth, and beauty range, + Adjust, attract, and fill: + The grass the polyanthus checks; + And polished porphyry reflects, + By the descending rill. + +53 Rich almonds colour to the prime + For Adoration; tendrils climb, + And fruit-trees pledge their gems; + And Ivis, with her gorgeous vest, + Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, + And bell-flowers bow their stems. + +54 With vinous syrup cedars spout; + From rocks pure honey gushing out, + For Adoration springs: + All scenes of painting crowd the map + Of nature; to the mermaid's pap + The scaled infant clings. + +55 The spotted ounce and playsome cubs + Run rustling 'mongst the flowering shrubs, + And lizards feed the moss; + For Adoration beasts embark, + While waves upholding halcyon's ark + No longer roar and toss. + +56 While Israel sits beneath his fig, + With coral root and amber sprig + The weaned adventurer sports; + Where to the palm the jasmine cleaves, + For Adoration 'mong the leaves + The gale his peace reports. + +57 Increasing days their reign exalt, + Nor in the pink and mottled vault + The opposing spirits tilt; + And by the coasting reader spied, + The silverlings and crusions glide + For Adoration gilt. + +58 For Adoration ripening canes, + And cocoa's purest milk detains + The western pilgrim's staff; + Where rain in clasping boughs enclosed, + And vines with oranges disposed, + Embower the social laugh. + +59 Now labour his reward receives, + For Adoration counts his sheaves + To peace, her bounteous prince; + The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes, + And apples of ten thousand tribes, + And quick peculiar quince. + +60 The wealthy crops of whitening rice + 'Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice, + For Adoration grow; + And, marshalled in the fenced land, + The peaches and pomegranates stand, + Where wild carnations blow. + +61 The laurels with the winter strive; + The crocus burnishes alive + Upon the snow-clad earth: + For Adoration myrtles stay + To keep the garden from dismay, + And bless the sight from dearth. + +62 The pheasant shows his pompous neck; + And ermine, jealous of a speck, + With fear eludes offence: + The sable, with his glossy pride, + For Adoration is descried, + Where frosts the waves condense. + +63 The cheerful holly, pensive yew, + And holy thorn, their trim renew; + The squirrel hoards his nuts: + All creatures batten o'er their stores, + And careful nature all her doors + For Adoration shuts. + +64 For Adoration, David's Psalms + Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; + And he, who kneels and chants, + Prevails his passions to control, + Finds meat and medicine to the soul, + Which for translation pants. + +65 For Adoration, beyond match, + The scholar bullfinch aims to catch + The soft flute's ivory touch; + And, careless, on the hazel spray + The daring redbreast keeps at bay + The damsel's greedy clutch. + +66 For Adoration, in the skies, + The Lord's philosopher espies + The dog, the ram, and rose; + The planets' ring, Orion's sword; + Nor is his greatness less adored + In the vile worm that glows. + +67 For Adoration, on the strings + The western breezes work their wings, + The captive ear to soothe-- + Hark! 'tis a voice--how still, and small-- + That makes the cataracts to fall, + Or bids the sea be smooth! + +68 For Adoration, incense comes + From bezoar, and Arabian gums, + And from the civet's fur: + But as for prayer, or e'er it faints, + Far better is the breath of saints + Than galbanum or myrrh. + +69 For Adoration, from the down + Of damsons to the anana's crown, + God sends to tempt the taste; + And while the luscious zest invites + The sense, that in the scene delights, + Commands desire be chaste. + +70 For Adoration, all the paths + Of grace are open, all the baths + Of purity refresh; + And all the rays of glory beam + To deck the man of God's esteem, + Who triumphs o'er the flesh. + +71 For Adoration, in the dome + Of Christ, the sparrows find a home; + And on his olives perch: + The swallow also dwells with thee, + O man of God's humility, + Within his Saviour's church. + +72 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, + And drops upon the leafy limes; + Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: + Sweet is the lily's silver bell, + And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell + That watch for early prayer. + +73 Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, + Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; + Sweet when the lost arrive: + Sweet the musician's ardour beats, + While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, + The choicest flowers to hive. + +74 Sweeter, in all the strains of love, + The language of thy turtle-dove, + Paired to thy swelling chord; + Sweeter, with every grace endued, + The glory of thy gratitude, + Respired unto the Lord. + +75 Strong is the horse upon his speed; + Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, + Which makes at once his game: + Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; + Strong through the turbulent profound + Shoots xiphias to his aim. + +76 Strong is the lion--like a coal + His eyeball--like a bastion's mole + His chest against the foes: + Strong the gier-eagle on his sail, + Strong against tide the enormous whale + Emerges as he goes. + +77 But stronger still in earth and air, + And in the sea the man of prayer, + And far beneath the tide: + And in the seat to faith assigned, + Where ask is have, where seek is find, + Where knock is open wide. + +78 Beauteous the fleet before the gale; + Beauteous the multitudes in mail, + Ranked arms, and crested heads; + Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild. + Walk, water, meditated wild, + And all the bloomy beds. + +79 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; + And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn, + The virgin to her spouse: + Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, + When to the heaven of heavens they build + Their heart-directed vows. + +80 Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, + The Shepherd King upon his knees, + For his momentous trust; + With wish of infinite conceit, + For man, beast, mute, the small and great, + And prostrate dust to dust. + +81 Precious the bounteous widow's mite; + And precious, for extreme delight, + The largess from the churl: + Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, + And alba's blest imperial rays, + And pure cerulean pearl. + +82 Precious the penitential tear; + And precious is the sigh sincere; + Acceptable to God: + And precious are the winning flowers, + In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers, + Bound on the hallowed sod. + +83 More precious that diviner part + Of David, even the Lord's own heart, + Great, beautiful, and new: + In all things where it was intent, + In all extremes, in each event, + Proof--answering true to true. + +84 Glorious the sun in mid career; + Glorious the assembled fires appear; + Glorious the comet's train: + Glorious the trumpet and alarm; + Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; + Glorious the enraptured main: + +85 Glorious the northern lights astream; + Glorious the song, when God's the theme; + Glorious the thunder's roar: + Glorious hosannah from the den; + Glorious the catholic amen; + Glorious the martyr's gore: + +86 Glorious--more glorious is the crown + Of Him that brought salvation down, + By meekness called thy Son; + Thou that stupendous truth believed, + And now the matchless deed's achieved, + Determined, Dared, and Done. + + + + +THOMAS CHATTERTON. + + +The history of this 'marvellous boy' is familiar to all the readers of +English poetry, and requires only a cursory treatment here. Thomas +Chatterton was born in Bristol, November 20, 1752. His father, a teacher +in the free-school there, had died before his birth, and he was sent to +be educated at a charity-school. He first learned to read from a black- +letter Bible. At the age of fourteen, he was put apprentice to an +attorney; a situation which, however uncongenial, left him ample leisure +for pursuing his private studies. In an unlucky hour, some evil genius +seemed to have whispered to this extra-ordinary youth,--'Do not find or +force, but forge thy way to renown; the other paths to the summit of the +hill are worn and common-place; try a new and dangerous course, the +rather as I forewarn thee that thy time is short.' When, accordingly, +the new bridge at Bristol was finished in October 1768, Chatterton sent +to a newspaper a fictitious account of the opening of the old bridge, +alleging in a note that he had found the principal part of the +description in an ancient MS. And having thus fairly begun to work the +mint of forgery, it was amazing what a number of false coins he threw +off, and with what perfect ease and mastery! Ancient poems, pretending +to have been written four hundred and fifty years before; fragments of +sermons on the Holy Spirit, dated from the fifteenth century; accounts +of all the churches of Bristol as they had appeared three hundred years +before; with drawings and descriptions of the castle--most of them +professing to be drawn from the writings of 'ane gode prieste, Thomas +Rowley'--issued in thick succession from this wonderful, and, to use +the Shakspearean word in a twofold sense, 'forgetive' brain. He next +ventured to send to Horace Walpole, who was employed on a History of +British Painters, an account of eminent 'Carvellers and Peyneters,' who, +according to him, once flourished in Bristol. These labours he plied in +secret, and with the utmost enthusiasm. He used to write by the light of +the moon, deeming that there was a special inspiration in the rays of +that planet, and reminding one of poor Nat Lee inditing his insane +tragedies in his asylum under the same weird lustre. On Sabbaths he was +wont to stroll away into the country around Bristol, which is very +beautiful, and to draw sketches of those objects which impressed his +imagination. He often lay down on the meadows near St Mary's Redcliffe +Church, admiring the ancient edifice; and some years ago we saw a +chamber near the summit of that edifice where he used to sit and write, +his 'eye in a fine frenzy rolling,' and where we could imagine him, when +a moonless night fell, composing his wild Runic lays by the light of a +candle burning in a human skull. It was actually in one of the rooms of +this church that some ancient chests had been deposited, including one +called the 'Coffre of Mr Canynge,' an eminent merchant in Bristol, who +had rebuilt the church in the reign of Edward IV. This coffer had been +broken up by public authority in 1727, and some valuable deeds had been +taken out. Besides these, they contained various MSS., some of which +Chatterton's father, whose uncle was sexton of the church, had carried +off and used as covers to the copy-books of his scholars. This furnished +a hint to Chatterton's inventive genius. He gave out that among these +parchments he had found many productions of Mr Canynge's, and of the +aforesaid Thomas Rowley's, a priest of the fifteenth century, and a +friend of Canynge's. Chatterton had become a contributor to a periodical +of the day called _The Town and Country Magazine_, and to it from time +to time he sent these poems. A keen controversy arose as to their +genuineness. Horace Walpole shewed some of them, which Chatterton had +sent him, to Gray and Mason, who were deemed, justly, first-rate +authorities on antiquarian matters, and who at once pronounced them +forgeries. It is deeply to be regretted that these men, perceiving, as +they must have done, the great merit of these productions, had not made +more particular inquiries about them, and tried to help and save the +poet. Walpole, to say the least of it, treated him coldly, telling him, +when he had discovered the forgery, to attend to his own business, and +keeping some of his MSS. in his hands, till an indignant letter from the +author compelled him to restore them. + +Chatterton now determined to go to London. His three years' apprenticeship +had expired, and there was in Bristol no further field for his aspiring +genius. He found instant employment among the booksellers, and procured +an introduction to Beckford, the patriot mayor, who tried to get him +engaged upon the Opposition side in politics. Our capricious and +unprincipled poet, however, declared that he was a poor author that could +not write on both sides; and although his leanings were to the popular +party, yet on the death of Beckford he addressed a letter to Lord North +in support of his administration. He had projected some large works, such +as a History of England and a History of London, and wrote flaming +letters to his mother and sisters about his prospects, enclosing them at +the same time small remittances of money. But his bright hopes were soon +overcast. Instead of a prominent political character, he found himself a +mere bookseller's hack. To this his poverty no more than his will would +consent, for though that was great it was equalled by his pride. His life +in the country had been regular, although his religious principles were +loose; but in town, misery drove him to intemperance, and intemperance, +in its reaction, to remorse and a desperate tampering with the thought, + + 'There is one remedy for all.' + +At last, after a vain attempt to obtain an appointment as a surgeon's +mate to Africa, he made up his mind to suicide. A guinea had been sent +him by a gentleman, which he declined. Mrs Angel, his landlady, knowing +him to be in want, the day before his death offered him his dinner, but +this also he spurned; and, on the 25th of August 1770, having first +destroyed all his papers, he swallowed arsenic, and was found dead in +his bed. + +He was buried in a shell in the burial-place of Shoe-Lane Workhouse. +He was aged seventeen years nine months and a few days. Alas for + + 'The sleepless soul that perished in his pride!' + +Chatterton, had he lived, would, perhaps, have become a powerful poet, +or a powerful character of some kind. But we must now view him chiefly +as a prodigy. Some have treated his power as unnatural--resembling a +huge hydrocephalic head, the magnitude of which implies disease, +ultimate weakness, and early death. Others maintain that, apart from the +extraordinary elements that undoubtedly characterised Chatterton, and +constituted him a premature and prodigious birth intellectually, there +was also in parts of his poems evidence of a healthy vigour which only +needed favourable circumstances to develop into transcendent excellence. +Hazlitt, holding with the one of these opinions, cries, 'If Chatterton +had had a great work to do by living, he would have lived!' Others +retort on the critic, 'On the same principle, why did Keats, whom you +rate so high, perish so early?' The question altogether is nugatory, +seeing it can never be settled. Suffice it that these songs and rhymes +of Chatterton have great beauties, apart from the age and position of +their author. There may at times be madness, but there is method in it. +The flight of the rhapsody is ever upheld by the strength of the wing, +and while the reading discovered is enormous for a boy, the depth of +feeling exhibited is equally extraordinary; and the clear, firm judgment +which did not characterise his conduct, forms the root and the trunk of +much of his poetry. It was said of his eyes that it seemed as if fire +rolled under them; and it rolls still, and shall ever roll, below many +of his verses. + + +BRISTOWE TRAGEDY. + +1 The feathered songster, chanticleer, + Hath wound his bugle-horn, + And told the early villager + The coming of the morn. + +2 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks + Of light eclipse the gray, + And heard the raven's croaking throat + Proclaim the fated day. + +3 'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God + That sits enthroned on high! + Charles Bawdin and his fellows twain + To-day shall surely die.' + +4 Then with a jug of nappy ale + His knights did on him wait; + 'Go tell the traitor that to-day + He leaves this mortal state.' + +5 Sir Canterlone then bended low, + With heart brimful of woe; + He journeyed to the castle-gate, + And to Sir Charles did go. + +6 But when he came, his children twain, + And eke his loving wife, + With briny tears did wet the floor, + For good Sir Charles' life. + +7 'O good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone, + 'Bad tidings I do bring.' + 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles; + 'What says the traitor king?' + +8 'I grieve to tell; before that sun + Doth from the heaven fly, + He hath upon his honour sworn, + That thou shalt surely die.' + +9 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; + 'Of that I'm not afeard; + What boots to live a little space? + Thank Jesus, I'm prepared: + +10 'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, + I'd sooner die to-day + Than live his slave, as many are, + Though I should live for aye.' + +11 Then Canterlone he did go out, + To tell the mayor straight + To get all things in readiness + For good Sir Charles' fate. + +12 Then Master Canynge sought the king, + And fell down on his knee; + 'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your Grace + To move your clemency.' + +13 'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out; + You have been much our friend; + Whatever your request may be, + We will to it attend.' + +14 'My noble liege! all my request + Is for a noble knight, + Who, though perhaps he has done wrong, + He thought it still was right: + +15 'He has a spouse and children twain-- + All ruined are for aye, + If that you are resolved to let + Charles Bawdin die to-day.' + +16 'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' + The king in fury said; + 'Before the evening star doth shine, + Bawdin shall lose his head: + +17 'Justice does loudly for him call, + And he shall have his meed; + Speak, Master Canynge! what thing else + At present do you need?' + +18 'My noble liege!' good Canynge said, + 'Leave justice to our God, + And lay the iron rule aside;-- + Be thine the olive rod. + +19 'Was God to search our hearts and reins, + The best were sinners great; + Christ's vicar only knows no sin, + In all this mortal state. + +20 'Let mercy rule thine infant reign; + 'Twill fix thy crown full sure; + From race to race thy family + All sovereigns shall endure: + +21 'But if with blood and slaughter thou + Begin thy infant reign, + Thy crown upon thy children's brow + Will never long remain.' + +22 'Canynge, away! this traitor vile + Has scorned my power and me; + How canst thou then for such a man + Entreat my clemency?' + +23 'My noble liege! the truly brave + Will valorous actions prize; + Respect a brave and noble mind, + Although in enemies.' + +24 'Canynge, away! By God in heaven, + That did me being give, + I will not taste a bit of bread + While this Sir Charles doth live. + +25 'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, + This sun shall be his last.'-- + Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, + And from the presence passed. + +26 With heart brimful of gnawing grief, + He to Sir Charles did go, + And sat him down upon a stool, + And tears began to flow. + +27 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; + 'What boots it how or when? + Death is the sure, the certain fate + Of all us mortal men. + +28 'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul + Runs over at thine eye? + Is it for my most welcome doom + That thou dost child-like cry?' + +29 Quoth godly Canynge, 'I do weep, + That thou so soon must die, + And leave thy sons and helpless wife; + 'Tis this that wets mine eye.' + +30 'Then dry the tears that out thine eye + From godly fountains spring; + Death I despise, and all the power + Of Edward, traitor king. + +31 'When through the tyrant's welcome means + I shall resign my life, + The God I serve will soon provide + For both my sons and wife. + +32 'Before I saw the lightsome sun, + This was appointed me;-- + Shall mortal man repine or grudge + What God ordains to be? + +33 'How oft in battle have I stood, + When thousands died around; + When smoking streams of crimson blood + Imbrued the fattened ground? + +34 'How did I know that every dart, + That cut the airy way, + Might not find passage to my heart, + And close mine eyes for aye? + +35 'And shall I now from fear of death + Look wan and be dismayed? + No! from my heart fly childish fear, + Be all the man displayed. + +36 'Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend + And guard thee and thy son, + If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, + Why, then his will be done. + +37 'My honest friend, my fault has been + To serve God and my prince; + And that I no timeserver am, + My death will soon convince. + +38 'In London city was I born, + Of parents of great note; + My father did a noble arms + Emblazon on his coat: + +39 'I make no doubt that he is gone + 'Where soon I hope to go; + Where we for ever shall be blest, + From out the reach of woe. + +40 'He taught me justice and the laws + With pity to unite; + And likewise taught me how to know + The wrong cause from the right: + +41 'He taught me with a prudent hand + To feed the hungry poor; + Nor let my servants drive away + The hungry from my door: + +42 'And none can say but all my life + I have his counsel kept, + And summed the actions of each day + Each night before I slept. + +43 'I have a spouse; go ask of her + If I denied her bed; + I have a king, and none can lay + Black treason on my head. + +44 'In Lent, and on the holy eve, + From flesh I did refrain; + Why should I then appear dismayed + To leave this world of pain? + +45 'No, hapless Henry! I rejoice + I shall not see thy death; + Most willingly in thy just cause + Do I resign my breath. + +46 'O fickle people, ruined land! + Thou wilt know peace no moe; + While Richard's sons exalt themselves, + Thy brooks with blood will flow. + +47 'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, + And godly Henry's reign, + That you did change your easy days + For those of blood and pain? + +48 'What though I on a sledge be drawn, + And mangled by a hind? + I do defy the traitor's power,-- + He cannot harm my mind! + +49 'What though uphoisted on a pole, + My limbs shall rot in air, + And no rich monument of brass + Charles Bawdin's name shall bear? + +50 'Yet in the holy book above, + Which time can't eat away, + There, with the servants of the Lord, + My name shall live for aye. + +51 'Then welcome death! for life eterne + I leave this mortal life: + Farewell, vain world! and all that's dear, + My sons and loving wife! + +52 'Now death as welcome to me comes + As e'er the month of May; + Nor would I even wish to live, + With my dear wife to stay.' + +53 Quoth Canynge, ''Tis a goodly thing + To be prepared to die; + And from this world of pain and grief + To God in heaven to fly.' + +54 And now the bell began to toll, + And clarions to sound; + Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet + A-prancing on the ground: + +55 And just before the officers + His loving wife came in, + Weeping unfeigned tears of woe, + With loud and dismal din. + +56 'Sweet Florence! now, I pray, forbear; + In quiet let me die; + Pray God that every Christian soul + May look on death as I. + +57 'Sweet Florence! why those briny tears? + They wash my soul away, + And almost make me wish for life, + With thee, sweet dame, to stay. + +58 ''Tis but a journey I shall go + Unto the land of bliss; + Now, as a proof of husband's love, + Receive this holy kiss.' + +59 Then Florence, faltering in her say, + Trembling these words she spoke,-- + 'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! + My heart is well-nigh broke. + +60 'Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go + Without thy loving wife? + The cruel axe that cuts thy neck + Shall also end my life.' + +61 And now the officers came in + To bring Sir Charles away, + Who turned to his loving wife, + And thus to her did say: + +62 'I go to life, and not to death; + Trust thou in God above, + And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, + And in their hearts him love: + +63 'Teach them to run the noble race + That I their father run; + Florence! should death thee take--adieu!-- + Ye officers, lead on.' + +64 Then Florence raved as any mad, + And did her tresses tear;-- + 'Oh, stay, my husband, lord, and life!'-- + Sir Charles then dropped a tear;-- + +65 Till tired out with raving loud, + She fell upon the floor: + Sir Charles exerted all his might, + And marched from out the door. + +66 Upon a sledge he mounted then, + With looks full brave and sweet; + Looks that did show no more concern + Than any in the street. + +67 Before him went the council-men, + In scarlet robes and gold, + And tassels spangling in the sun, + Much glorious to behold: + +68 The friars of St Augustine next + Appeared to the sight, + All clad in homely russet weeds + Of godly monkish plight: + +69 In different parts a godly psalm + Most sweetly they did chaunt; + Behind their backs six minstrels came, + Who tuned the strong bataunt. + +70 Then five-and-twenty archers came; + Each one the bow did bend, + From rescue of King Henry's friends + Sir Charles for to defend. + +71 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, + Drawn on a cloth-laid sled + By two black steeds, in trappings white, + With plumes upon their head. + +72 Behind him five-and-twenty more + Of archers strong and stout, + With bended bow each one in hand, + Marched in goodly rout: + +73 Saint James's friars marched next, + Each one his part did chaunt; + Behind their backs six minstrels came + Who tuned the strong bataunt: + +74 Then came the mayor and aldermen, + In cloth of scarlet decked; + And their attending men, each one + Like eastern princes tricked: + +75 And after them a multitude + Of citizens did throng; + The windows were all full of heads, + As he did pass along. + +76 And when he came to the high cross, + Sir Charles did turn and say,-- + 'O Thou that savest man from sin, + Wash my soul clean this day!' + +77 At the great minster window sat + The king in mickle state, + To see Charles Bawdin go along + To his most welcome fate. + +78 Soon as the sledge drew nigh enough + That Edward he might hear, + The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, + And thus his words declare: + +79 'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! + Exposed to infamy; + But be assured, disloyal man! + I'm greater now than thee. + +80 'By foul proceedings, murder, blood, + Thou wearest now a crown; + And hast appointed me to die, + By power not thine own. + +81 'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; + I have been dead till now, + And soon shall live to wear a crown + For ever on my brow: + +82 'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years + Shall rule this fickle land, + To let them know how wide the rule + 'Twixt king and tyrant hand: + +83 'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! + Shall fall on thy own head'---- + From out of hearing of the king + Departed then the sled. + +84 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, + He turned his head away, + And to his brother Gloucester + He thus did speak and say: + +85 'To him that so much dreaded death + No ghastly terrors bring, + Behold the man! he spake the truth, + He's greater than a king!' + +86 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; + 'And may each of our foes + Bend down their necks to bloody axe, + And feed the carrion crows!' + +87 And now the horses gently drew + Sir Charles up the high hill; + The axe did glisten in the sun, + His precious blood to spill. + +88 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, + As up a gilded car + Of victory, by valorous chiefs, + Gained in the bloody war: + +89 And to the people he did say,-- + 'Behold, you see me die, + For serving loyally my king, + My king most rightfully. + +90 'As long as Edward rules this land, + No quiet you will know; + Your sons and husbands shall be slain, + And brooks with blood shall flow. + +91 'You leave your good and lawful king + When in adversity; + Like me unto the true cause stick, + And for the true cause die.' + +92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, + A prayer to God did make, + Beseeching him unto himself + His parting soul to take. + +93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head + Most seemly on the block; + Which from his body fair at once + The able headsman stroke: + +94 And out the blood began to flow, + And round the scaffold twine; + And tears, enough to wash't away, + Did flow from each man's eyne. + +95 The bloody axe his body fair + Into four quarters cut; + And every part, likewise his head, + Upon a pole was put. + +96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, + One on the minster-tower, + And one from off the castle-gate + The crowen did devour: + +97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, + A dreary spectacle; + His head was placed on the high cross, + In high street most nobile. + +98 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;-- + God prosper long our king, + And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, + In heaven God's mercy sing! + + + +MINSTREL'S SONG. + +1 O! sing unto my roundelay, + O! drop the briny tear with me; + Dance no more at holy-day, + Like a running river be: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, + White his rode[2] as the summer snow, + Red his face as the morning light, + Cold he lies in the grave below: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, + Quick in dance as thought can be, + Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; + O! he lies by the willow-tree: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, + In the briared dell below; + Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing + To the night-mares as they go: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +5 See! the white moon shines on high; + Whiter is my true love's shroud, + Whiter than the morning sky, + Whiter than the evening cloud: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +6 Here upon my true love's grave, + Shall the barren flowers be laid, + Not one holy saint to save + All the celness of a maid: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars + Round his holy corse to gree;[4] + Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires-- + Here my body still shall be: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, + Drain my heartë's-blood away; + Life and all its goods I scorn, + Dance by night, or feast by day: + My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree. + +9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6] + Bear me to your lethal tide. + 'I die! I come! my true love waits!' + Thus the damsel spake, and died. + +[1] 'Cryne:' hair. +[2] 'Rode:' complexion. +[3] 'Dent:' fix. +[4] 'Gree:' grow. +[5] 'Ouphant:' elfish. +[6] 'Reytes:' water-flags. + + +THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE. + +1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined, + Listening to hear the water glide along, + Minding how thorough the green meads it twined, + Whilst the caves responsed its muttering song, + At distant rising Avon to he sped, + Amenged[1] with rising hills did show its head; + +2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds + And wraytes[2] of alders of a bercie scent, + And sticking out with cloud-agested reeds, + The hoary Avon showed dire semblament, + Whilst blatant Severn, from Sabrina cleped, + Boars flemie o'er the sandës that she heaped. + +3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought + Of hardy champions knowen to the flood, + How on the banks thereof brave Aelle fought, + Aelle descended from Merce kingly blood, + Warder of Bristol town and castle stede, + Who ever and anon made Danes to bleed. + +4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite + Dight in the armour brace that Michael bore, + When he with Satan, king of Hell, did fight, + And earth was drenched in a sea of gore; + Or, soon as they did see the worldë's light, + Fate had wrote down, 'This man is born to fight.' + +5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say, + Why is thy actions left so spare in story? + Were I to dispone, there should liven aye, + In earth and heaven's rolls thy tale of glory; + Thy acts so doughty should for aye abide, + And by their test all after acts be tried. + +6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind, + As fair a saint as any town can boast, + Or be the earth with light or mirk ywrynde,[4] + I see his image walking through the coast: + Fitz-Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twenty moe, + In vision 'fore my fantasy did go. + +7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed, + And each digne[6] builder dequaced on my mind, + When from the distant stream arose a maid, + Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind; + Like to the silver moon in frosty night, + The damoiselle did come so blithe and sweet. + +8 No broidered mantle of a scarlet hue, + No shoe-pikes plaited o'er with riband gear, + No costly robes of woaden blue, + Nought of a dress, but beauty did she wear; + Naked she was, and looked sweet of youth, + All did bewrayen that her name was Truth. + +9 The easy ringlets of her nut-brown hair + What ne a man should see did sweetly hide, + Which on her milk-white bodykin so fair + Did show like brown streams fouling the white tide, + Or veins of brown hue in a marble cuarr,[7] + Which by the traveller is kenned from far. + +10 Astounded mickle there I silent lay, + Still scauncing wondrous at the walking sight; + My senses forgard,[8] nor could run away, + But was not forstraught[9] when she did alight + Anigh to me, dressed up in naked view, + Which might in some lascivious thoughts abrew. + +11 But I did not once think of wanton thought; + For well I minded what by vow I hete, + And in my pocket had a crochee[10] brought; + Which in the blossom would such sins anete; + I looked with eyes as pure as angels do, + And did the every thought of foul eschew. + +12 With sweet semblatë, and an angel's grace, + She 'gan to lecture from her gentle breast; + For Truth's own wordës is her mindë's face, + False oratories she did aye detest: + Sweetness was in each word she did ywreene, + Though she strove not to make that sweetness seen. + +13 She said, 'My manner of appearing here + My name and slighted myndruch may thee tell; + I'm Truth, that did descend from heaven-were, + Goulers and courtiers do not know me well; + Thy inmost thoughts, thy labouring brain I saw, + And from thy gentle dream will thee adawe.[11] + +14 Full many champions, and men of lore, + Painters and carvellers[12] have gained good name, + But there's a Canynge to increase the store, + A Canynge who shall buy up all their fame. + Take thou my power, and see in child and man + What true nobility in Canynge ran.' + +15 As when a bordelier[13] on easy bed, + Tired with the labours maynt[14] of sultry day, + In sleepë's bosom lays his weary head, + So, senses sunk to rest, my body lay; + Eftsoons my sprite, from earthly bands untied, + Emerged in flanched air with Truth aside. + +16 Straight was I carried back to times of yore, + Whilst Canynge swathed yet in fleshly bed, + And saw all actions which had been before, + And all the scroll of fate unravelled; + And when the fate-marked babe had come to sight, + I saw him eager gasping after light. + +17 In all his shepen gambols and child's play, + In every merry-making, fair, or wake, + I knew a purple light of wisdom's ray; + He eat down learning with a wastle cake. + As wise as any of the aldermen, + He'd wit enough to make a mayor at ten. + +18 As the dulce[15] downy barbe began to gre, + So was the well thighte texture of his lore + Each day enheedynge mockler[16] for to be, + Great in his counsel for the days he bore. + All tongues, all carols did unto him sing, + Wond'ring at one so wise, and yet so ying.[17] + +19 Increasing in the years of mortal life, + And hasting to his journey unto heaven, + He thought it proper for to choose a wife, + And use the sexes for the purpose given. + He then was youth of comely semelikede, + And he had made a maiden's heart to bleed. + +20 He had a father (Jesus rest his soul!) + Who loved money, as his cherished joy; + He had a brother (happy man be's dole!) + In mind and body his own father's boy: + What then could Canynge wishen as a part + To give to her who had made exchange of heart? + +21 But lands and castle tenures, gold and bighes,[18] + And hoards of silver rusted in the ent,[19] + Canynge and his fair sweet did that despise, + To change of truly love was their content; + They lived together in a house adigne,[20] + Of good sendaument commily and fine. + +22 But soon his brother and his sire did die, + And left to William states and renting-rolls, + And at his will his brother John supply. + He gave a chauntry to redeem their souls; + And put his brother into such a trade, + That he Lord Mayor of London town was made. + +23 Eftsoons his morning turned to gloomy night; + His dame, his second self, gave up her breath, + Seeking for eterne life and endless light, + And slew good Canynge; sad mistake of Death! + So have I seen a flower in summer-time + Trod down and broke and wither in its prime. + +24 Near Redcliff Church (oh, work of hand of Heaven! + Where Canynge showeth as an instrument) + Was to my bismarde eyesight newly given; + 'Tis past to blazon it to good content. + You that would fain the festive building see + Repair to Redcliff, and contented be. + +25 I saw the myndbruch of his notte soul + When Edward menaced a second wife; + I saw what Pheryons in his mind did roll: + Now fixed from second dames, a priest for life, + This is the man of men, the vision spoke; + Then bell for even-song my senses woke. + +[1] 'Amenged:' mixed. +[2] 'Wraytes:' flags. +[3] 'Swithin:' quickly. +[4] 'Ywrynde:' covered. +[5] 'Faitour:' vagrant. +[6] 'Digne:' worthy. +[7] 'Cuarr:' quarry. +[8] 'Forgard:' lose. +[9] 'Forstraught:' distracted. +[10] 'A crochee:' a cross. +[11] 'Adawe:' awake. +[12] 'Carvellers:' sculptors. +[13] 'A bordelier:' a cottager. +[14] 'Maynt:' many. +[15] 'Dulce:' sweet. +[16] 'Mockler:' more. +[17] 'Ying:' young. +[18] 'Bighes:' jewels. +[19] 'Ent:' bag. +[20] 'Adigne:' worthy. + + +KENRICK. + +TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON. + +When winter yelled through the leafless grove; when the black waves +rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of +the sun; when the silver brook stood still, and snow environed the top +of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blasted +fields, and the boughs of the leafless trees bent with the loads of +ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering +light of the western sky; Kenrick, terrible as the tempest, young as +the snake of the valley, strong as the mountain of the slain; his +armour shining like the stars in the dark night, when the moon is +veiled in sable, and the blasting winds howl over the wide plain; his +shield like the black rock, prepared himself for war. + +Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the first rays of the +morning star, swift as the flying deer, strong as the young oak, +fierce as an evening wolf, drew his sword; glittering like the blue +vapours in the valley of Horso; terrible as the red lightning, +bursting from the dark-brown clouds; his swift bark rode over the +foaming waves, like the wind in the tempest; the arches fell at his +blow, and he wrapped the towers in flames: he followed Kenrick, like +a wolf roaming for prey. + +Centwin of the vale arose, he seized the massy spear; terrible was his +voice, great was his strength; he hurled the rocks into the sea, and +broke the strong oaks of the forest. Slow in the race as the minutes +of impatience. His spear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, swept down +whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the stones of hail +at the approach of the sun. + +Awake, O Eldulph! thou that sleepest on the white mountain, with the +fairest of women. No more pursue the dark-brown wolf: arise from the +mossy bank of the falling waters; let thy garments be stained in +blood, and the streams of life discolour thy girdle; let thy flowing +hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into +terror. + +Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: +pursue the black companies of the enemy. + +Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the stars, act like +yourselves. + +Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, swelled with rain, the Saxons +moved along; like a blazing star the sword of Kenrick shone among the +Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he +burnt up the ranks of his enemy. + +Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward sported in blood; armies +melted at his stroke. Eldulph was a flaming vapour; destruction sat +upon his sword. Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock +before the sword of Mervin. + +Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on +his hand. + +Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the +roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain. + +The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the +howling winds. + +Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursuers; deck their brows with +chaplets of jewels; spread the branches of the oak beneath their feet. +Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon +his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his +knees are red with the gore of the foe. + +Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance +around him. + +Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the +praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to +the foundation of the black rock. + +Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious. + + +FEBRUARY, AN ELEGY. + +1 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay, + Aeonian doxies, sound the thrumming string; + Attempt no number of the plaintive Gray; + Let me like midnight cats, or Collins, sing. + +2 If in the trammels of the doleful line, + The bounding hail or drilling rain descend; + Come, brooding Melancholy, power divine, + And every unformed mass of words amend. + +3 Now the rough Goat withdraws his curling horns, + And the cold Waterer twirls his circling mop: + Swift sudden anguish darts through altering corns, + And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop. + +4 Now infant authors, maddening for renown, + Extend the plume, and hum about the stage, + Procure a benefit, amuse the town, + And proudly glitter in a title-page. + +5 Now, wrapped in ninefold fur, his squeamish Grace + Defies the fury of the howling storm; + And whilst the tempest whistles round his face, + Exults to find his mantled carcase warm. + +6 Now rumbling coaches furious drive along, + Full of the majesty of city dames, + Whose jewels, sparkling in the gaudy throng, + Raise strange emotions and invidious flames. + +7 Now Merit, happy in the calm of place, + To mortals as a Highlander appears, + And conscious of the excellence of lace, + With spreading frogs and gleaming spangles glares: + +8 Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh, + In form a shoe-boy, daubs the valued fruit, + And darting lightnings from his vengeful eye, + Raves about Wilkes, and politics, and Bute. + +9 Now Barry, taller than a grenadier, + Dwindles into a stripling of eighteen; + Or sabled in Othello breaks the ear, + Exerts his voice, and totters to the scene. + +10 Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind, + Applies his wax to personal defects; + But leaves untouched the image of the mind;-- + His art no mental quality reflects. + +11 Now Drury's potent king extorts applause, + And pit, box, gallery, echo, 'How divine!' + Whilst, versed in all the drama's mystic laws, + His graceful action saves the wooden line. + +12 Now--but what further can the muses sing? + Now dropping particles of water fall; + Now vapours riding on the north wind's wing, + With transitory darkness shadows all. + +13 Alas! how joyless the descriptive theme, + When sorrow on the writer's quiet preys; + And like a mouse in Cheshire cheese supreme, + Devours the substance of the lessening bays. + +14 Come, February, lend thy darkest sky, + There teach the wintered muse with clouds to soar: + Come, February, lift the number high; + Let the sharp strain like wind through alleys roar. + +15 Ye channels, wandering through the spacious street, + In hollow murmurs roll the dirt along, + With inundations wet the sabled feet, + Whilst gouts, responsive, join the elegiac song. + +16 Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill + Sound through meandering folds of Echo's horn; + Let the sweet cry of liberty be still, + No more let smoking cakes awake the morn. + +17 O Winter! put away thy snowy pride; + O Spring! neglect the cowslip and the bell; + O Summer! throw thy pears and plums aside; + O Autumn! bid the grape with poison swell. + +18 The pensioned muse of Johnson is no more! + Drowned in a butt of wine his genius lies. + Earth! Ocean! Heaven! the wondrous loss deplore, + The dregs of nature with her glory dies. + +19 What iron Stoic can suppress the tear! + What sour reviewer read with vacant eye! + What bard but decks his literary bier!-- + Alas! I cannot sing--I howl--I cry! + + + + +LORD LYTTELTON. + + +Dr Johnson said once of Chesterfield, 'I thought him a lord among wits, +but I find him to be only a wit among lords.' And so we may say of Lord +Lyttelton, 'He is a poet among lords, if not a lord among poets.' He was +the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton, of Hagley in Worcestershire, and was +born in 1709. He went to Eton and Oxford, where he distinguished himself. +Having gone the usual grand tour, he entered Parliament, and became an +opponent of Sir Robert Walpole. He was made secretary to the Prince of +Wales, and was in this capacity useful to Mallett and Thomson. In 1741, +he married Lucy Fortescue, of Devonshire, who died five years afterwards. +Lyttelton grieved sincerely for her, and wrote his affecting 'Monody' on +the subject. When his party triumphed, he was created a Lord of the +Treasury, and afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequer, with a peerage. He +employed much of his leisure in literary composition, writing a good +little book on the Conversion of St Paul, a laboured History of Henry II., +and some verses, including the stanza in the 'Castle of Indolence' +describing Thomson-- + + 'A bard there dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,' &c.-- + +and a very spirited prologue to Thomson's 'Coriolanus,' which was written +after that author's death, and says of him, + + --'His chaste muse employed her heaven-taught lyre + None but the noblest passions to inspire: + Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, + _One line which, dying he could wish to blot_.' + +Lyttelton himself died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. His History is +now little read. It took him, it is said, thirty years to write it, and +he employed another man to point it--a fact recalling what is told of +Macaulay, that he sent the first volume of his 'History of England' to +Lord Jeffrey, who overlooked the punctuation and criticised the style. +Of a series of Dialogues issued by this writer, Dr Johnson remarked, +with his usual pointed severity, 'Here is a man telling the world what +the world had all his life been telling him.' His 'Monody' expresses +real grief in an artificial style, but has some stanzas as natural in +the expression as they are pathetic in the feeling. + + +FROM THE 'MONODY.' + +At length escaped from every human eye, + From every duty, every care, +That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, +Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; +Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, +This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, +I now may give my burdened heart relief, + And pour forth all my stores of grief; +Of grief surpassing every other woe, +Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love + Can on the ennobled mind bestow, + Exceeds the vulgar joys that move +Our gross desires, inelegant and low. + + * * * * * + + In vain I look around + O'er all the well-known ground, +My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; + Where oft we used to walk, + Where oft in tender talk +We saw the summer sun go down the sky; + Nor by yon fountain's side, + Nor where its waters glide +Along the valley, can she now be found: +In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound + No more my mournful eye + Can aught of her espy, +But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. + + * * * * * + +Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, +Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns + By your delighted mother's side: + Who now your infant steps shall guide? +Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care +To every virtue would have formed your youth, +And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? + O loss beyond repair! + O wretched father! left alone, +To weep their dire misfortune and thy own: +How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with woe, + And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, +Perform the duties that you doubly owe! + Now she, alas! is gone, +From folly and from vice their helpless age to save? + + * * * * * + + O best of wives! O dearer far to me + Than when thy virgin charms + Were yielded to my arms: + How can my soul endure the loss of thee? + How in the world, to me a desert grown, + Abandoned and alone, + Without my sweet companion can I live? + Without thy lovely smile, + The dear reward of every virtuous toil, + What pleasures now can palled ambition give? + Even the delightful sense of well-earned praise, +Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise. + + For my distracted mind + What succour can I find? + On whom for consolation shall I call? + Support me, every friend; + Your kind assistance lend, + To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. + Alas! each friend of mine, + My dear departed love, so much was thine, + That none has any comfort to bestow. + My books, the best relief + In every other grief, + Are now with your idea saddened all: + Each favourite author we together read +My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead. + + We were the happiest pair of human kind; + The rolling year its varying course performed, + And back returned again; + Another and another smiling came, + And saw our happiness unchanged remain: + Still in her golden chain + Harmonious concord did our wishes bind: + Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. + O fatal, fatal stroke, + That all this pleasing fabric love had raised + Of rare felicity, + On which even wanton vice with envy gazed, + And every scheme of bliss our hearts had formed, + With soothing hope, for many a future day, + In one sad moment broke!-- + Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay; + Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, + Or against his supreme decree + With impious grief complain; + That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, +Was his most righteous will--and be that will obeyed. + + + + +JOHN CUNNINGHAM. + + +We know very little of the history of this pleasing poet. He was born in +1729, the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. At the age of seventeen he +wrote a farce; entitled 'Love in a Mist,' and shortly after came to +Britain as an actor. He was for a long time a performer in Digges' +company in Edinburgh, and subsequently resided in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. +Here he seems to have fallen into distressed circumstances, and was +supported by a benevolent printer, at whose house he died in 1773. His +poetry is distinguished by a charming simplicity. This characterises +'Kate of Aberdeen,' given below, and also his 'Content: a Pastoral,' in +which he says allegorically-- + + 'Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, + So simple yet sweet were her charms! + I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek, + And locked the dear maid in my arms. + + 'Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, + And if, by yon prattler, the stream, + Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep, + Her image still softens my dream.' + + +MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. + +1 The silver moon's enamoured beam + Steals softly through the night, + To wanton with the winding stream, + And kiss reflected light. + To beds of state go, balmy sleep, + (Tis where you've seldom been,) + May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep + With Kate of Aberdeen. + +2 Upon the green the virgins wait, + In rosy chaplets gay, + Till Morn unbar her golden gate, + And give the promised May. + Methinks I hear the maids declare, + The promised May, when seen, + Not half so fragrant, half so fair, + As Kate of Aberdeen. + +3 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, + We'll rouse the nodding grove; + The nested birds shall raise their throats, + And hail the maid I love: + And see--the matin lark mistakes, + He quits the tufted green: + Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, + 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. + +4 Now lightsome o'er the level mead, + Where midnight fairies rove, + Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, + Or tune the reed to love: + For see the rosy May draws nigh; + She claims a virgin queen! + And hark, the happy shepherds cry, + 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. + + + + +ROBERT FERGUSSON. + + +This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some +say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to +the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four +children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and +Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having +obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven- +teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish +Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical +knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural +Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a +passion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject +of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of +studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful +preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named +John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor +Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in +his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings in his pocket +proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of +his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell +into a severe fit of illness. + +He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and +afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to +_Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_. We remember in boyhood reading some odd +volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably +poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His +evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated +youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.' +That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of +one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns, +doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse. +Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated +by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was +warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary +benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance, +his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum. +Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered +a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The +history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and +Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact +duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the +moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,' +roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the +light. 'Thou stupid god,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By +and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his +mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated, +but his constitution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor +Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New +Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his +death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a +fortune in the East Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and +enclosing a remittance of £100 to defray the expenses of the journey. + +Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried +in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to +his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers. + +Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He +was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather +than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to +sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,' +are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is +nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low +compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft +to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, +with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- +man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On +the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he +exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, +to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay. + + +THE FARMER'S INGLE. + +Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, +Ante locum, si frigus erit.--VIRG. + +1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1] + Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre; + Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4] + An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire; + What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld, + An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; + Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, + Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; + Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain. + +2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, + Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift, + Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill, + An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift. + The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, + Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een, + That ilka turn is handled to his mind; + That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean; + For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean. + +3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require + A heartsome meltith,[14] an' refreshin' synd[15] + O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire: + Sair wark an' poortith downa[16] weel be joined. + Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks; + I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams; + The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks, + An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, + Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems. + +4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: + Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, + They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, + Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. + Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; + At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; + Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23] + Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, + Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound. + +5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed + By Caledonia's ancestors been done; + By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed + In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun. + 'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang; + That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; + Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang; + Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays; + For near our crest their heads they dought na raise. + +6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre; + The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29] + O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour, + Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30] + 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; + How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; + An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, + Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; + The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. + +7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now; + For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: + Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, + Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32] + In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low, + Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear, + O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35] + O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear, + Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear! + +8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be + Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill; + That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee; + An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln. + O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, + Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; + Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return, + And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear; + The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near. + +9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, + Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; + Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; + Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43] + On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, + Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, + Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw + Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44] + Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45] + +10 In its auld lerroch[46] yet the deas[47] remains, + Where the gudeman aft streeks[48] him at his ease; + A warm and canny lean for weary banes + O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. + Round him will baudrins[49] an' the collie come, + To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee, + To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb + O' kebbuck[50] whang'd, an' dainty fadge[51] to prie;[52] + This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee. + +11 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: + What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; + How big a birn[53] maun lie on bassie's[54] back, + For meal an' mu'ter[55] to the thirlin' mill. + Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids + Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies[56] bound; + Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,[57] + An' ca' the laiglen's[58] treasure on the ground; + Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound. + + +12 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,[59] + Their joints to slack frae industry a while; + The leaden god fa's heavy on their een, + An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil: + The cruizy,[60] too, can only blink and bleer; + The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow; + Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, + Upo' the cod[61] to clear their drumly pow,[62] + Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow. + +13 Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, + Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! + Lang may his sock[63] and cou'ter turn the gleyb,[64] + An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear! + May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green; + Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed! + May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,[65] + Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed; + An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed! + +[1] 'Keeks:' peeps. +[2] 'Owsen:' oxen. +[3] 'Sair dung:' fatigued. +[4] 'Steeks:' shuts. +[5] 'Dightin':' winnowing. +[6] 'What bangs fu' leal:' what shuts out most comfortably. +[7] 'Gars:' makes. +[8] 'Fley'd:' frightened. +[9] 'Wi' divots theekit:' thatched with turf. +[10] 'Chimley:' chimney. +[11] 'Smeek:' smoke. +[12] 'Hallan:' the inner wall of a cottage. +[13] 'Cosh:' comfortable. +[14] 'Meltith:' meal. +[15] 'Synd:' drink. +[16] 'Downa:' should not. +[17] 'Girdle:' a flat iron for toasting cakes. +[18] 'Bowie:' beer-barrel. +[19] 'Kail:' broth with greens. +[20] 'Kitchen:' anything eaten with bread. +[21] 'Gabs:' palates. +[22] 'Eident:' assidious. +[23] 'Spae:' fortell. +[24] 'Brulzies:' contests. +[25] 'Gardies:' arms. +[26] 'Yird:' earth. +[27] 'Cracks:' pleasant talk. +[28] 'Bicker:' the cup. +[29] 'gash:' debat. +[30] 'Their mailins' produce hash:' destroy the produce of their farms. +[31] 'The fient a cheep:' not a whimper. +[32] 'Maen:' moan. +[33] 'Rangles:' circles. +[34] 'Gudame's:' grandame. +[35] 'Wirrikow:' scare-crow. +[36] 'Win:' abide. +[37] 'Fleetch:' entice. +[38] 'Tint:' lost. +[39] 'Scowder'd:' scorched. +[40] 'Eild:' age. +[41] 'Bairnly:' childish. +[42] 'Stent:' task. +[43] 'Lave:' the rest. +[44] 'Oy:' grand child. +[45] 'Her foy:' her farewell entertainment. +[46] 'Lerroch:'corner. +[47] 'Deas:' bench. +[48] 'Streeks:' stretches. +[49] 'Baudrins:' the cat. +[50] 'Kebbuck:' cheese. +[51] 'Fadge:' loaf. +[52] 'To prie:' to taste. +[53] 'Birn:' burden. +[54] 'Bassie:' the horse. +[55] 'Mu'ter:' the miller's perquisite. +[56] 'Hawkies:'cows. +[57] 'Tids:' fits. +[58] 'The laiglen: 'the milk-pail. +[59] 'To green:' to long. +[60] 'The cruizy:' the lamp. +[61] 'Cod:' pillow. +[62] 'Drumly pow:' thick heads. +[63] 'Sock:' ploughshare. +[64] 'Gleyb:' soil. +[65] 'Bien: 'comfortable. + + + + +DR WALTER HARTE. + + +Campbell, in his 'Specimens,' devotes a large portion of space to Dr +Walter Harte, and has quoted profusely from a poem of his entitled +'Eulogius.' We may give some of the best lines here:-- + + 'This spot for dwelling fit Eulogius chose, + And in a month a decent homestall rose, + Something between a cottage and a cell; + Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell. + + 'The site was neither granted him nor given; + 'Twas Nature's, and the ground-rent due to Heaven. + + Wife he had none, nor had he love to spare,-- + An aged mother wanted all his care. + They thanked their Maker for a pittance sent, + Supped on a turnip, slept upon content.' + +Again, of a neighbouring matron, who died leaving Eulogius money-- + + 'This matron, whitened with good works and age, + Approached the Sabbath of her pilgrimage; + Her spirit to himself the Almighty drew, + _Breathed on the alembic, and exhaled the dew_.' + +And once more-- + + 'Who but Eulogius now exults for joy? + New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind employ; + Pride pushed forth buds at every branching shoot, + And virtue shrank almost beneath the root. + High raised on fortune's hill, new Alps he spies, + O'ershoots the valley which beneath him lies, + Forgets the depths between, and travels with his eyes.' + + + + +EDWARD LOVIBOND. + + +Hampton in Middlesex was the birthplace of our next poet, Edward Lovibond. +He was a gentleman of fortune, who chiefly employed his time in rural +occupations. He became a director of the East India Company. He helped his +friend Moore in conducting the periodical called _The World_, to which he +contributed several papers, including the very pleasing poem entitled +'The Tears of Old May-Day.' He died in 1775. + + +THE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY. + +WRITTEN ON THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754. + +1 Led by the jocund train of vernal hours + And vernal airs, uprose the gentle May; + Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flowers + That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray. + +2 Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were bright, + And amorous zephyrs fluttered on her breast: + With every shifting gleam of morning light, + The colours shifted of her rainbow vest. + +3 Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form, + A golden key and golden wand she bore; + This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm, + And that unlocks the summer's copious store. + +4 Onward in conscious majesty she came, + The grateful honours of mankind to taste: + To gather fairest wreaths of future fame, + And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past. + +5 Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite + Her virgin votaries, and at early dawn, + Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite, + Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled lawn. + +6 To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride + Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine: + Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide, + A purer offering at her rustic shrine. + +7 No more the Maypole's verdant height around + To valour's games the ambitious youth advance; + No merry bells and tabor's sprightlier sound + Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance. + +8 Sudden in pensive sadness drooped her head, + Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson died-- + 'O chaste victorious triumphs! whither fled? + My maiden honours, whither gone?' she cried. + +9 Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born, + The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise, + With time coeval and the star of morn, + The first, the fairest daughter of the skies. + +10 Then, when at Heaven's prolific mandate sprung + The radiant beam of new-created day, + Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung, + Hailed the glad dawn, and angels called me May. + +11 Space in her empty regions heard the sound, + And hills, and dales, and rocks, and valleys rung; + The sun exulted in his glorious round, + And shouting planets in their courses sung. + +12 For ever then I led the constant year; + Saw youth, and joy, and love's enchanting wiles; + Saw the mild graces in my train appear, + And infant beauty brighten in my smiles. + +13 No winter frowned. In sweet embrace allied, + Three sister seasons danced the eternal green; + And Spring's retiring softness gently vied + With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty mien. + +14 Too soon, when man profaned the blessings given, + And vengeance armed to blot a guilty age, + With bright Astrea to my native heaven + I fled, and flying saw the deluge rage; + +15 Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, + While sounding billows from the mountains rolled, + With bitter waves polluting all my streams, + My nectared streams, that flowed on sands of gold. + +16 Then vanished many a sea-girt isle and grove, + Their forests floating on the watery plain: + Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove, + My Atalantis sunk beneath the main. + +17 No longer bloomed primeval Eden's bowers, + Nor guardian dragons watched the Hesperian steep: + With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flowers, + Torn from the continent to glut the deep. + +18 No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deigned, + Yet oft descending to the languid earth, + With quickening powers the fainting mass sustained, + And waked her slumbering atoms into birth. + +19 And every echo taught my raptured name, + And every virgin breathed her amorous vows, + And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame, + Showered by the Muses, crowned my lofty brows. + +20 But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride, + My Albion's favoured realms, I rose adored; + And poured my wealth, to other climes denied; + From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored. + +21 Ah me! for now a younger rival claims + My ravished honours, and to her belong + My choral dances, and victorious games, + To her my garlands and triumphal song. + +22 O say what yet untasted beauties flow, + What purer joys await her gentler reign? + Do lilies fairer, violets sweeter blow? + And warbles Philomel a softer strain? + +23 Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise? + Does evening fan her with serener gales? + Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies, + Or wantons plenty in her happier vales? + +24 Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light + Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day; + And Cynthia, riding on the car of night, + Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way. + +25 Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs, + Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flower; + Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings + When silence listens at the midnight hour. + +26 Nor wonder, man, that Nature's bashful face, + And opening charms, her rude embraces fear: + Is she not sprung from April's wayward race, + The sickly daughter of the unripened year? + +27 With showers and sunshine in her fickle eyes, + With hollow smiles proclaiming treacherous peace, + With blushes, harbouring, in their thin disguise, + The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase? + +28 Is this the fair invested with my spoil + By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command? + Ungenerous Europe! let me fly thy soil, + And waft my treasures to a grateful land; + +29 Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore, + My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain; + Again to Afric's sultry sands restore + Embowering shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane: + +30 Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast, + There hush to silence elemental strife; + Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost, + And swell her barren womb with heat and life. + +31 Then Britain--Here she ceased. Indignant grief, + And parting pangs, her faltering tongue suppressed: + Veiled in an amber cloud she sought relief, + And tears and silent anguish told the rest. + + + + +FRANCIS FAWKES. + + +This 'learned and jovial parson,' as Campbell calls him, was born in 1721, +in Yorkshire. He studied at Cambridge, and became curate at Croydon, in +Surrey. Here he obtained the friendship of Archbishop Herring, and was by +him appointed vicar of Orpington in Kent, a situation which he ultimately +exchanged for the rectory of Hayes, in the same county. He translated +various minor Greek poets, including Anacreon, Sappho, Bion and Moschus, +Theocritus, &c. He died in 1777. His 'Brown Jug' breathes some of the +spirit of the first of these writers, and two or three lines of it were +once quoted triumphantly in Parliament by Sheil, while charging Peel, we +think it was, with appropriating arguments from Bishop Philpotts--'Harry +of Exeter.' + + 'Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, + Was once Toby Philpotts,' &c. + + +THE BROWN JUG. + +1 Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, + (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale,) + Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul + As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl; + In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel, + And among jolly topers lie bore off the bell. + +2 It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease + In his flower-woven arbour as gay as you please, + With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away, + And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, + His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, + And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. + +3 His body, when long in the ground it had lain, + And time into clay had resolved it again, + A potter found out in its covert so snug, + And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug + Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale; + So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale. + + + + +JOHN LANGHORNE. + + +This poetical divine was born in 1735, at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland. +Left fatherless at four years old, his mother fulfilled her double charge +of duty with great tenderness and assiduity. He was educated at Appleby, +and subsequently became assistant at the free-school of Wakefield, took +deacon's orders, and gave promise, although very young, of becoming a +popular preacher. After various vicissitudes of life and fortune, and +publishing a number of works in prose and verse, Langhorne repaired to +London, and obtained, in 1764, the curacy and lectureship of St John's, +Clerkenwell. He soon afterwards became assistant-preacher in Lincoln's +Inn Chapel, where he had a very intellectual audience to address, and +bore a somewhat trying ordeal with complete success. He continued for a +number of years in London, maintaining his reputation both as a preacher +and writer. His most popular works were the 'Letters of Theodosius and +Constantia,' and a translation of Plutarch's Lives, which Wrangham +afterwards corrected and improved, and which is still standard. He was +twice married, and survived both his wives. He obtained the living of +Blagden in Somersetshire, and in addition to it, in 1777, a prebend in +the Cathedral of Wells. He died in 1779, aged only forty-four; his death, +it is supposed, being accelerated by intemperance, although it does not +seem to have been of a gross or aggravated description. Langhorne, an +amiable man, and highly popular as well as warmly beloved in his day, +survives now in memory chiefly through his Plutarch's Lives, and through +a few lines in his 'Country Justice,' which are immortalised by the well- +known story of Scott's interview with Burns. Campbell puts in a plea +besides for his 'Owen of Carron,' but the plea, being founded on early +reading, is partial, and has not been responded to by the public. + + +FROM 'THE COUNTRY JUSTICE.' + +The social laws from insult to protect, +To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; +The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, +To smooth the bed of penury and pain; +The hapless vagrant to his rest restore, +The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore; +The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art, +To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; +Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell, +Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, +Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, +For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm; +For this the rural magistrate, of yore, +Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore. + +Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails, +On silver waves that flow through smiling vales; +In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, +Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; +With many a group of antique columns crowned, +In Gothic guise such, mansion have I found. + +Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, +Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face, +Of the more manly structures here ye view; +They rose for greatness that ye never knew! +Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my spleen +With Venus and the Graces on your green! +Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth, +Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth, +The shopman, Janus, with his double looks, +Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books! +But spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace, +Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face! + +Ye royal architects, whose antic taste +Would lay the realms of sense and nature waste; +Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, +That folly only points each other way; +Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees, +Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the trees; +Yet let not too severe a censure fall +On the plain precincts of the ancient hall. + +For though no sight your childish fancy meets, +Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets; +Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, +And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail; +Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, +The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone; +And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes, +Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting gods. + +Long have these mighty monsters known disgrace, +Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place; +Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase rears +The field-day triumphs of two hundred years. + +The enormous antlers here recall the day +That saw the forest monarch forced away; +Who, many a flood, and many a mountain passed, +Not finding those, nor deeming these the last, +O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly, +Long ere the death-drop filled his failing eye! + +Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown old, +Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. +Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer, +The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, +And tells his old, traditionary tale, +Though known to every tenant of the vale. + +Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, +Marked with his weight, the mighty horns are spread: +Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, +Where the vast master with the vast sirloin +Vied in round magnitude--Respect I bear +To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair. + +These, and such antique tokens that record +The manly spirit, and the bounteous board, +Me more delight than all the gewgaw train, +The whims and zigzags of a modern brain, +More than all Asia's marmosets to view, +Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew. + +Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast thou strayed, +By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, +And seen with lionest, antiquated air, +In the plain hall the magistratial chair? +There Herbert sat--The love of human kind, +Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind, +In the free eye the featured soul displayed, +Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting shade: +Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, +Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, +Bend o'er her urn with many a generous fear, +Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear; +Fair equity, and reason scorning art, +And all the sober virtues of the heart-- +These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail +Where statutes order, or where statutes fail. + +Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan: +Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. + +He whom the mighty master of this ball +We fondly deem, or farcically call, +To own the patriarch's truth, however loth, +Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth. + +Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, +Born but to err, and erring to bewail, +Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, +And give to life one human weakness more? + +Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; +Still mark the strong temptation and the need: +On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, +At least more lenient let thy justice fall. + +For him who, lost to every hope of life, +Has long with fortune held unequal strife, +Known to no human love, no human care, +The friendless, homeless object of despair; +For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, +Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. +Alike, if folly or misfortune brought +Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; +Believe with social mercy and with me, +Folly's misfortune in the first degree. + +Perhaps on some inhospitable shore +The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore; +Who then, no more by golden prospects led, +Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed. +Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, +Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain; +Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, +The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, +Gave the sad presage of his future years, +The child of misery, baptized in tears! + + +GIPSIES. + +FROM THE SAME. + +The gipsy-race my pity rarely move; +Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love: +Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, more; +Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore. + +For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves +The tawny father with his offspring roves; +When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, +In mossy caves, where welling waters play, +Fanned by each gale that cools the fervid sky, +With this in ragged luxury they lie. +Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain +The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again; +Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, +For their prophetic mother's mantle call. + +Far other cares that wandering mother wait, +The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! +From her to hear, in evening's friendly shade, +Of future fortune, flies the village-maid, +Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, +And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold. + +But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures! +She opens not the womb of time, but yours. +Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, +Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung! +The parson's maid--sore cause had she to rue +The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too. +Long had that anxious daughter sighed to know +What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau, +Meant by those glances which at church he stole, +Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl; +Long had she sighed; at length a prophet came, +By many a sure prediction known to fame, +To Marian known, and all she told, for true: +She knew the future, for the past she knew. + + +A CASE WHERE MERCY SHOULD HAVE MITIGATED JUSTICE. + +FROM THE SAME. + +Unnumbered objects ask thy honest care, +Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer: +Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless, +Unnumbered evils call for thy redress. + +Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn, +Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn? +While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye, +A few seem straggling in the evening sky! +Not many suns have hastened down the day, +Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way, +Since there, a scene that stained their sacred light, +With horror stopped a felon in his flight; +A babe just born that signs of life expressed, +Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast. +The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued, +He had no time to waste, yet stood and viewed; +To the next cot the trembling infant bore, +And gave a part of what he stole before; +Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear, +He felt as man, and dropped a human tear. + +Far other treatment she who breathless lay, +Found from a viler animal of prey. + +Worn with long toil on many a painful road, +That toil increased by nature's growing load, +When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, +And all the mother thronged about her breast, +The ruffian officer opposed her stay, +And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, +So far beyond the town's last limits drove, +That to return were hopeless, had she strove; +Abandoned there, with famine, pain, and cold, +And anguish, she expired,--The rest I've told. + +'Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh, +That thief shall live, that overseer shall die.' + +Too late!--his life the generous robber paid, +Lost by that pity which his steps delayed! +No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, +No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; +No liberal justice first assigned the gaol, +Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his tale. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. + + +This is not the place for writing the life of the great lawyer whose +awful wig has been singed by the sarcasm of Junius. He was born in +London in 1723, and died in 1780. He had early coquetted with poetry, +but on entering the Middle Temple he bade a 'Farewell to his Muse' in +the verses subjoined. So far as lucre was concerned, he chose the better +part, and rose gradually on the ladder of law to be a knight and a judge +in the Court of Common Pleas. It has been conjectured, from some notes +on Shakspeare published by Stevens, that Sir William continued till the +end of his days to hold occasional flirtations with his old flame. + + +THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. + +As, by some tyrant's stern command, +A wretch forsakes his native land, +In foreign climes condemned to roam +An endless exile from his home; +Pensive he treads the destined way, +And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; +Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow +He stops, and turns his eyes below; +There, melting at the well-known view, +Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: +So I, thus doomed from thee to part, +Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art, +Reluctant move, with doubtful mind +Oft stop, and often look behind. + +Companion of my tender age, +Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, +How blithesome were we wont to rove +By verdant hill, or shady grove, +Where fervent bees, with humming voice, +Around the honeyed oak rejoice, +And aged elms with awful bend +In long cathedral walks extend! +Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, +Cheered by the warbling of the woods, +How blessed my days, my thoughts how free, +In sweet society with thee! +Then all was joyous, all was young, +And years unheeded rolled along: +But now the pleasing dream is o'er, +These scenes must charm me now no more. +Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-- +Farewell!--a long, a last adieu. +Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, +To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: +There selfish faction rules the day, +And pride and avarice throng the way; +Diseases taint the murky air, +And midnight conflagrations glare; +Loose Revelry and Riot bold +In frighted streets their orgies hold; +Or, where in silence all is drowned, +Fell Murder walks his lonely round; +No room for peace, no room for you, +Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! + +Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, +Nor all the art of Addison, +Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, +Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: +Instead of these a formal band, +In furs and coifs, around me stand; +With sounds uncouth and accents dry, +That grate the soul of harmony, +Each pedant sage unlocks his store +Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; +And points with tottering hand the ways +That lead me to the thorny maze. + +There, in a winding close retreat, +Is Justice doomed to fix her seat; +There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, +She keeps the wondering world in awe; +And there, from vulgar sight retired, +Like eastern queens, is more admired. + +Oh, let me pierce the sacred shade +Where dwells the venerable maid! +There humbly mark, with reverent awe, +The guardian of Britannia's law; +Unfold with joy her sacred page, +The united boast of many an age; +Where mixed, yet uniform, appears +The wisdom of a thousand years. +In that pure spring the bottom view, +Clear, deep, and regularly true; +And other doctrines thence imbibe +Than lurk within the sordid scribe; +Observe how parts with parts unite +In one harmonious rule of right; +See countless wheels distinctly tend +By various laws to one great end: +While mighty Alfred's piercing soul +Pervades, and regulates the whole. + +Then welcome business, welcome strife, +Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, +The visage wan, the poreblind sight, +The toil by day, the lamp at night, +The tedious forms, the solemn prate, +The pert dispute, the dull debate, +The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall, +For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! +Thus though my noon of life be passed, +Yet let my setting sun, at last, +Find out the still, the rural cell, +Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! +There let me taste the homefelt bliss. +Of innocence and inward peace; +Untainted by the guilty bribe; +Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; +No orphan's cry to wound my ear; +My honour and my conscience clear; +Thus may I calmly meet my end, +Thus to the grave in peace descend. + + + + +JOHN SCOTT. + + +This poet is generally known as 'Scott of Amwell.' This arises from the +fact that his father, a draper in Southwark, where John was born in +1730, retired ten years afterwards to Amwell. He had never been +inoculated with the small-pox, and such was his dread of the disease, +and that of his family, that for twenty years, although within twenty +miles of London, he never visited it. His parents, who belonged to the +amiable sect of Quakers, sent him to a day-school at Ware, but that too +he left upon the first alarm of infection. At seventeen, although his +education was much neglected, he began to relish reading, and was +materially assisted in his studies by a neighbour of the name of +Frogley, a master bricklayer, who, though somewhat illiterate, admired +poetry. Scott sent his first essays to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and +in his thirtieth year published four elegies, which met with a kind +reception, although Dr Johnson said only of them, 'They are very well, +but such as twenty people might write.' He produced afterwards 'The +Garden,' 'Amwell,' and other poems, besides some rather narrow 'Critical +Essays on the English Poets.' When thirty-six years of age, he submitted +to inoculation, and henceforward visited London frequently, and became +acquainted with Dr Johnson, Sir William Jones, Mrs Montague, and other +eminent characters. He was a very active promoter of local improvements, +and diligent in cultivating his grounds and garden. He was twice +married, his first wife being a daughter of his friend Frogley. He died +in 1783, not of that disease which he so 'greatly feared,' but of a +putrid fever, at Radcliff. One note of his, entitled 'Ode on Hearing the +Drum,' still reverberates on the ear of poetic readers. Wordsworth has +imitated it in his 'Andrew Jones.' Sir Walter makes Rachel Geddes say, +in 'Redgauntlet,' alluding to books of verse, 'Some of our people do +indeed hold that every writer who is not with us is against us, but +brother Joshua is mitigated in his opinions, and correspondeth with our +friend John Scott of Amwell, who hath himself constructed verses well +approved of even in the world.' + + +ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM. + +1 I hate that drum's discordant sound, + Parading round, and round, and round: + To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, + And lures from cities and from fields, + To sell their liberty for charms + Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms; + And when ambition's voice commands, + To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. + +2 I hate that drum's discordant sound, + Parading round, and round, and round: + To me it talks of ravaged plains, + And burning towns, and ruined swains, + And mangled limbs, and dying groans, + And widows' tears, and orphans' moans; + And all that misery's hand bestows, + To fill the catalogue of human woes. + + +THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. + +AN ODE. + +1 There's grandeur in this sounding storm, + That drives the hurrying clouds along, + That on each other seem to throng, + And mix in many a varied form; + While, bursting now and then between, + The moon's dim misty orb is seen, + And casts faint glimpses on the green. + +2 Beneath the blast the forests bend, + And thick the branchy ruin lies, + And wide the shower of foliage flies; + The lake's black waves in tumult blend, + Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, + And foaming on the rocky shore, + Whose caverns echo to their roar. + +3 The sight sublime enrapts my thought, + And swift along the past it strays, + And much of strange event surveys, + What history's faithful tongue has taught, + Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill + The page with fabled change can fill + Of ill to good, or good to ill. + +4 But can my soul the scene enjoy, + That rends another's breast with pain? + O hapless he, who, near the main, + Now sees its billowy rage destroy! + Beholds the foundering bark descend, + Nor knows but what its fate may end + The moments of his dearest friend! + + + + +ALEXANDER ROSS. + + +Of this fine old Scottish poet we regret that we can tell our readers so +little. He was born in 1698, became parish schoolmaster at Lochlee in +Angusshire, and published, by the advice of Dr Beattie, in 1768, a +volume entitled 'Helenore; or, The Fortunate Shepherdess: a Pastoral Tale +in the Scottish Dialect; along with a few Songs.' Some of these latter, +such as 'Woo'd, and Married, and a',' became very popular. Beattie loved +the 'good-humoured, social, happy old man,' who was 'passing rich' on +twenty pounds a-year, and wrote in the _Aberdeen Journal_ a poetical +letter in the Scotch language to promote the sale of his poem. Ross died +in 1784, about eighty-six years old, and is buried in a churchyard at the +east end of the loch. + +Lochlee is a very solitary and romantic spot. The road to it from the +low country, or Howe of the Mearns, conducts us through a winding, +unequal, but very interesting glen, which, after bearing at its foot +many patches of corn, yellowing amidst thick green copsewood and birch +trees, fades and darkens gradually into a stern, woodless, and rocky +defile, which emerges on a solitary loch, lying 'dern and dreary' amidst +silent hills. It is one of those lakes which divide the distance between +the loch and the tarn, being two miles in length and one in breadth. The +hills, which are stony and savage, sink directly down upon its brink. +A house or two are all the dwellings in view. The celebrated Thomas +Guthrie dearly loves this lake, lives beside it for months at a time, +and is often seen rowing his lonely boat in the midst of it, by sunlight +and by moonlight too. On the west, one bold, sword-like summit, Craig +Macskeldie by name, cuts the air, and relieves the monotony of the other +mountains. Fit rest has Ross found in that calm, rural burying-place, +beside 'the rude forefathers of the hamlet,' with short, sweet, flower- +sprinkled grass covering his dust, the low voice of the lake sounding +a few yards from his cold ear, and a plain gravestone uniting with his +native mountains to form his memorial. 'Fortunate Shepherd,' (shall we +call him?) to have obtained a grave so intensely characteristic of a +Scottish poet! + + +WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'. + +1 The bride cam' out o' the byre, + And, O, as she dighted her cheeks! + 'Sirs, I'm to be married the night, + And have neither blankets nor sheets; + Have neither blankets nor sheets, + Nor scarce a coverlet too; + The bride that has a' thing to borrow, + Has e'en right muckle ado.' + Woo'd, and married, and a', + Married, and woo'd, and a'! + And was she nae very weel off, + That was woo'd, and married, and a'? + +2 Out spake the bride's father, + As he cam' in frae the pleugh: + 'O, haud your tongue my dochter, + And ye'se get gear eneugh; + The stirk stands i' the tether, + And our braw bawsint yade, + Will carry ye hame your corn-- + What wad ye be at, ye jade?' + +3 Out spake the bride's mither: + 'What deil needs a' this pride? + I had nae a plack in my pouch + That night I was a bride; + My gown was linsey-woolsey, + And ne'er a sark ava; + And ye hae ribbons and buskins, + Mae than ane or twa.' + * * * * * + +4 Out spake the bride's brither, + As he cam' in wi' the kye: + 'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, + Had he kent ye as weel as I; + For ye're baith proud and saucy, + And no for a poor man's wife; + Gin I canna get a better, + I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' + * * * * * + + +THE ROCK AN' THE WEE PICKLE TOW. + +1 There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow, + And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't; + But lootin' her doun, her rock took a-lowe, + And that was an ill beginnin' o't. + She spat on 't, she flat on 't, and tramped on its pate, + But a' she could do it wad ha'e its ain gate; + At last she sat down on't and bitterly grat, + For e'er ha'in' tried the spinnin' o't. + +2 Foul fa' them that ever advised me to spin, + It minds me o' the beginnin' o't; + I weel might ha'e ended as I had begun, + And never ha'e tried the spinnin' o't. + But she's a wise wife wha kens her ain weird, + I thought ance a day it wad never be spier'd, + How let ye the lowe tak' the rock by the beard, + When ye gaed to try the spinnin' o't? + +3 The spinnin', the spinnin', it gars my heart sab + To think on the ill beginnin' o't; + I took't in my head to mak' me a wab, + And that was the first beginnin' o't. + But had I nine daughters, as I ha'e but three, + The safest and soundest advice I wad gi'e, + That they wad frae spinnin' aye keep their heads free, + For fear o' an ill beginnin' o't. + +4 But if they, in spite o' my counsel, wad run + The dreary, sad task o' the spinnin' o't; + Let them find a lown seat by the light o' the sun, + And syne venture on the beginnin' o't. + For wha's done as I've done, alake and awowe! + To busk up a rock at the cheek o' a lowe; + They'll say that I had little wit in my pow-- + O the muckle black deil tak' the spinnin' o't. + + + + +RICHARD GLOVER. + + +Glover was a man so remarkable as to be thought capable of having written +the letters of Junius, although no one now almost names his name or reads +his poetry. He was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in London, and born +(1712) in St Martin's Lane, Cannon Street. He was educated at a private +school in Surrey, but being designed for trade, was never sent to a +university, yet by his own exertions he became an excellent classical +scholar. At sixteen he wrote a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, +and at twenty-five produced nine books of his 'Leonidas.' Partly through +its own merits, partly through its liberal political sentiments, and +partly through the influence of Lord Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, +and the praise of Fielding and Chatham, it became very popular. In 1739, +he produced a poem entitled 'London; or, The Progress of Commerce,' and a +spirited ballad entitled 'Admiral Hosier's Ghost,' which we have given, +both designed to rouse the national spirit against the Spaniards. + +Glover was a merchant, and very highly esteemed among his commercial +brethren, although at one time unfortunate in business. When forced by +his failure to seek retirement, he produced a tragedy on the subject of +Boadicea, which ran the usual nine nights, although it has long since +ceased to be acted or read. In his later years his affairs improved; he +returned again to public life, was elected to Parliament, and approved +himself a painstaking and popular M.P. In 1770, he enlarged his +'Leonidas' from nine books to twelve, and afterwards wrote a sequel to +it, entitled 'The Athenais.' Glover spent his closing years in opulent +retirement, enjoying the intimacy and respect of the most eminent men of +the day, and died in 1785. + +'Leonidas' may be called the epic of the eighteenth century, and betrays +the artificial genius of its age. The poet rises to his flight like a +heavy heron--not a hawk or eagle. Passages in it are good, but the effect +of the whole is dulness. It reminds you of Cowper's 'Homer,' in which all +is accurate, but all is cold, and where even the sound of battle lulls +to slumber--or of Edwin Atherstone's 'Fall of Nineveh,' where you are +fatigued with uniform pomp, and the story struggles and staggers under a +load of words. Thomson exclaimed when he heard of the work of Glover, 'He +write an epic, who never saw a mountain!' And there was justice in the +remark. The success of 'Leonidas' was probably one cause of the swarm of +epics which appeared in the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of +the nineteenth century.--Cottle himself being, according to De Quincey, +'the author of four epic poems, _and_ a new kind of blacking.' Their day +seems now for ever at an end. + + +FROM BOOK XII + + Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen band after their + return from the inroad into the Persian camp, on the night before + the Battle of Thermopylae. + +Back to the pass in gentle march he leads +The embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs, +Where Medon sent such numbers to the shades, +In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown. +Soft breezes only from the Malian wave +O'er each grim face, besmeared with smoke and gore, +Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale, +A crystal rill near Oeta's verdant feet, +Dispel the languor from their harassed nerves, +Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their heads +Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears +Melissa, bearing in her hand divine +The eternal guardian of illustrious deeds, +The sweet Phoebean lyre. Her graceful train +Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range +Half down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks, +All with concordant strings, and accents clear, +A torrent pour of melody, and swell +A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, +Anticipating fame. Of endless joys +In blessed Elysium was the song. Go, meet +Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage, +Let them salute the children of their laws. +Meet Homer, Orpheus, and the Ascraean bard, +Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food +Refined, and more exalted, shall contend +Your splendid fate to warble through the bowers +Of amaranth and myrtle ever young, +Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. +In yonder fane deposited, your urns, +Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire. +Whatever offerings, genius, science, art +Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours, +The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit +You on the enlivened canvas, marble, brass, +In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song, +In every tongue, through every age and clime, +You of this earth the brightest flowers, not cropt, +Transplanted only to immortal bloom +Of praise with men, of happiness with gods. + + + +ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. + +ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS +BY ADMIRAL VERNON--Nov. 22, 1739. + +1 As near Porto-Bello lying + On the gently swelling flood, + At midnight with streamers flying, + Our triumphant navy rode: + There while Vernon sat all-glorious + From the Spaniards' late defeat; + And his crews, with shouts victorious, + Drank success to England's fleet: + +2 On a sudden shrilly sounding, + Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; + Then each heart with fear confounding, + A sad troop of ghosts appeared, + All in dreary hammocks shrouded, + Which for winding-sheets they wore, + And with looks by sorrow clouded, + Frowning on that hostile shore. + +3 On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, + When the shade of Hosier brave + His pale bands was seen to muster, + Rising from their watery grave: + O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, + Where the Burford[1] reared her sail, + With three thousand ghosts beside him, + And in groans did Vernon hail: + +4 'Heed, O heed, our fatal story, + I am Hosier's injured ghost, + You, who now have purchased glory + At this place where I was lost; + Though in Porto-Bello's ruin + You now triumph free from fears, + When you think on our undoing, + You will mix your joy with tears. + +5 'See these mournful spectres, sweeping + Ghastly o'er this hated wave, + Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; + These were English captains brave: + Mark those numbers pale and horrid, + Those were once my sailors bold, + Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, + While his dismal tale is told. + +6 'I, by twenty sail attended, + Did this Spanish town affright: + Nothing then its wealth defended + But my orders not to fight: + Oh! that in this rolling ocean + I had cast them with disdain, + And obeyed my heart's warm motion, + To have quelled the pride of Spain. + +7 'For resistance I could fear none, + But with twenty ships had done + What thou, brave and happy Vernon, + Hast achieved with six alone. + Then the Bastimentos never + Had our foul dishonour seen, + Nor the sea the sad receiver + Of this gallant train had been. + +8 'Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, + And her galleons leading home, + Though condemned for disobeying, + I had met a traitor's doom; + To have fallen, my country crying, + He has played an English part, + Had been better far than dying + Of a grieved and broken heart. + +9 'Unrepining at thy glory, + Thy successful arms we hail; + But remember our sad story, + And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. + Sent in this foul clime to languish, + Think what thousands fell in vain, + Wasted with disease and anguish, + Not in glorious battle slain. + +10 'Hence, with all my train attending + From their oozy tombs below, + Through the hoary foam ascending, + Here I feed my constant woe: + Here the Bastimentos viewing, + We recall our shameful doom, + And our plaintive cries renewing, + Wander through the midnight gloom. + +11 'O'er these waves for ever mourning + Shall we roam deprived of rest, + If to Britain's shores returning, + You neglect my just request. + After this proud foe subduing, + When your patriot friends you see, + Think on vengeance for my ruin, + And for England shamed in me.' + +[1] 'The Burford:' Admiral Vernon's ship. + + + + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. + + +There was also a Paul Whitehead, who wrote a satire entitled 'Manners,' +which is highly praised by Boswell, and mentioned contemptuously by +Campbell, and who lives in the couplet of Churchill-- + + 'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) + Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul.' + +William Whitehead was the son of a baker in Cambridge, was born in 1715, +and studied first at Winchester, and then in Clare Hall, in his own +city. He became tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey, wrote one or two +poor plays, and in 1757, on the death of Colley Cibber, was appointed +Poet-Laureate--the office having previously been refused by Gray. This +roused against him a large class of those 'beings capable of envying +even a poet-laureate,' to use Gray's expression, and especially the +wrath of Churchill, then the man-mountain of satiric literature, who, in +his 'Ghost,' says-- + + 'But he who in the laureate chair, + By grace, not merit, planted there, + In awkward pomp is seen to sit, + And by his patent proves his wit,' &c. + +To these attacks Whitehead, who was a good-natured and modest man, made +no reply. In his latter years the Laureate resided in the family of Lord +Jersey, and died in 1785. His poem called 'Variety' is light and pleasant, +and deserves a niche in our 'Specimens.' + + +VARIETY. + +A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE. + +A gentle maid, of rural breeding, +By Nature first, and then by reading, +Was filled with all those soft sensations +Which we restrain in near relations, +Lest future husbands should be jealous, +And think their wives too fond of fellows. + +The morning sun beheld her rove +A nymph, or goddess of the grove! +At eve she paced the dewy lawn, +And called each clown she saw, a faun! +Then, scudding homeward, locked her door, +And turned some copious volume o'er. +For much she read; and chiefly those +Great authors, who in verse, or prose, +Or something betwixt both, unwind +The secret springs which move the mind. +These much she read; and thought she knew +The human heart's minutest clue; +Yet shrewd observers still declare, +(To show how shrewd observers are,) +Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, +And novels, in profusion, came, +Imported fresh-and-fresh from France, +She only read the heart's romance. + +The world, no doubt, was well enough +To smooth the manners of the rough; +Might please the giddy and the vain, +Those tinselled slaves of folly's train: +But, for her part, the truest taste +She found was in retirement placed, +Where, as in verse it sweetly flows, +'On every thorn instruction grows.' + +Not that she wished to 'be alone,' +As some affected prudes have done; +She knew it was decreed on high +We should 'increase and multiply;' +And therefore, if kind Fate would grant +Her fondest wish, her only want, +A cottage with the man she loved +Was what her gentle heart approved; +In some delightful solitude +Where step profane might ne'er intrude; +But Hymen guard the sacred ground, +And virtuous Cupids hover round. +Not such as flutter on a fan +Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, +(Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses, +And hold their fingers to their noses,) +But simpering, mild, and innocent, +As angels on a monument. + +Fate heard her prayer: a lover came, +Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame; +One who had trod, as well as she, +The flowery paths of poesy; +Had warmed himself with Milton's heat, +Could every line of Pope repeat, +Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains, +'The lover's hopes,' 'the lover's pains.' + +Attentive to the charmer's tongue, +With him she thought no evening long; +With him she sauntered half the day; +And sometimes, in a laughing way, +Ran o'er the catalogue by rote +Of who might marry, and who not; +'Consider, sir, we're near relations--' +'I hope so in our inclinations.'-- +In short, she looked, she blushed consent; +He grasped her hand, to church they went; +And every matron that was there, +With tongue so voluble and supple, +Said for her part, she must declare, +She never saw a finer couple. +halcyon days! 'Twas Nature's reign, +'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain, +The fields assumed unusual bloom, +And every zephyr breathed perfume, +The laughing sun with genial beams +Danced lightly on the exulting streams; +And the pale regent of the night +In dewy softness shed delight. +'Twas transport not to be expressed; +'Twas Paradise!--But mark the rest. + +Two smiling springs had waked the flowers +That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers, +(Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears, +Who count by months, and not by years,) +Two smiling springs had chaplets wove +To crown their solitude, and love: +When lo, they find, they can't tell how, +Their walks are not so pleasant now. +The seasons sure were changed; the place +Had, somehow, got a different face. +Some blast had struck the cheerful scene; +The lawns, the woods, were not so green. +The purling rill, which murmured by, +And once was liquid harmony, +Became a sluggish, reedy pool: +The days grew hot, the evenings cool. +The moon, with all the starry reign, +Were melancholy's silent train. +And then the tedious winter night-- +They could not read by candle-light. + +Full oft, unknowing why they did, +They called in adventitious aid. +A faithful, favourite dog ('twas thus +With Tobit and Telemachus) +Amused their steps; and for a while +They viewed his gambols with a smile. +The kitten too was comical, +She played so oddly with her tail, +Or in the glass was pleased to find +Another cat, and peeped behind. + +A courteous neighbour at the door +Was deemed intrusive noise no more. +For rural visits, now and then, +Are right, as men must live with men. +Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town, + +A new recruit, a dear delight! +Made many a heavy hour go down, +At morn, at noon, at eve, at night: +Sure they could hear her jokes for ever, +She was so sprightly, and so clever! + +Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; +What joy, alas! could converse bring +With awkward creatures bred at home?-- +The dog grew dull, or troublesome. +The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit, +And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. +And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, +Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. +--'And then, my dear, I can't abide +This always sauntering side by side.' +'Enough!' he cries, 'the reason's plain: +For causes never rack your brain. +Our neighbours are like other folks, +Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, +Are still delightful, still would please, +Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. +Look round, with an impartial eye, +On yonder fields, on yonder sky; +The azure cope, the flowers below, +With all their wonted colours glow. +The rill still murmurs; and the moon +Shines, as she did, a softer sun. +No change has made the seasons fail, +No comet brushed us with his tail. +The scene's the same, the same the weather-- +We live, my dear, too much together.' + +Agreed. A rich old uncle dies, +And added wealth the means supplies. +With eager haste to town they flew, +Where all must please, for all was new. + +But here, by strict poetic laws, +Description claims its proper pause. + +The rosy morn had raised her head +From old Tithonus' saffron bed; +And embryo sunbeams from the east, +Half-choked, were struggling through the mist, +When forth advanced the gilded chaise; +The village crowded round to gaze. +The pert postilion, now promoted +From driving plough, and neatly booted, +His jacket, cap, and baldric on, +(As greater folks than he have done,) +Looked round; and, with a coxcomb air, +Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair +Bowed graceful, from a separate door, +And Jenny, from the stool before. + +Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes +New objects every moment rise. +Each carriage passing on the road, +From the broad waggon's ponderous load +To the light car, where mounted high +The giddy driver seems to fly, +Were themes for harmless satire fit, +And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit. +Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful, +No noise was harsh, no danger frightful. +The dash and splash through thick and thin, +The hairbreadth 'scapes, the bustling inn, +(Where well-bred landlords were so ready +To welcome in the 'squire and lady,) +Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, +Determined to be pleased, and please. + +Now nearer town, and all agog, +They know dear London by its fog. +Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, +Leave Hounslow's dangerous heath behind, +Through Brentford win a passage free +By roaring, 'Wilkes and Liberty!' +At Knightsbridge bless the shortening way, +Where Bays's troops in ambush lay, +O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, +With palaces to grace its side, +Till Bond Street with its lamps a-blaze +Concludes the journey of three days. + +Why should we paint, in tedious song, +How every day, and all day long, +They drove at first with curious haste +Through Lud's vast town; or, as they passed +'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs +Of streets on streets, and squares on squares, +Describe how strong their wonder grew +At buildings--and at builders too? + +Scarce less astonishment arose +At architects more fair than those-- +Who built as high, as widely spread +The enormous loads that clothed their head. +For British dames new follies love, +And, if they can't invent, improve. +Some with erect pagodas vie, +Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry, +Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest, +Convolved, contorted, and compressed; +With intermingling trees, and flowers, +And corn, and grass, and shepherd's bowers, +Stage above stage the turrets run, +Like pendent groves of Babylon, +Till nodding from the topmost wall +Otranto's plumes envelop all! +Whilst the black ewes, who owned the hair, +Feed harmless on, in pastures fair, +Unconscious that their tails perfume, +In scented curls, the drawing-room. + +When Night her murky pinions spread, +And sober folks retire to bed, +To every public place they flew, +Where Jenny told them who was who. +Money was always at command, +And tripped with pleasure hand in hand. +Money was equipage, was show, +Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho; +The _passe-partout_ through every vein +Of dissipation's hydra reign. + +O London, thou prolific source, +Parent of vice, and folly's nurse! +Fruitful as Nile, thy copious springs +Spawn hourly births--and all with stings: +But happiest far the he, or she, + +I know not which, that livelier dunce +Who first contrived the coterie, + +To crush domestic bliss at once. +Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames, +As Nero fiddled to the flames. + +Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak +With reverence, though in numbers weak; +Thy beauties satire's frown beguile, +We spare the follies for the pile. +Flounced, furbelowed, and tricked for show, +With lamps above, and lamps below, +Thy charms even modern taste defied, +They could not spoil thee, though they tried. + +Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings +Must sweep thee off with vulgar things! +Let architects of humbler name +On frail materials build their fame, +Their noblest works the world might want, +Wyatt should build in adamant. + +But what are these to scenes which lie +Secreted from the vulgar eye, +And baffle all the powers of song?-- +A brazen throat, an iron tongue, +(Which poets wish for, when at length +Their subject soars above their strength,) +Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, +Who only reads the public news +And idly utters what she gleans +From chronicles and magazines, +Recoiling feels her feeble fires, +And blushing to her shades retires, +Alas! she knows not how to treat +The finer follies of the great, +Where even, Democritus, thy sneer +Were vain as Heraclitus' tear. + +Suffice it that by just degrees +They reached all heights, and rose with ease; +(For beauty wins its way, uncalled, +And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.) +Each gambling dame she knew, and he +Knew every shark of quality; +From the grave cautious few who live +On thoughtless youth, and living thrive, +To the light train who mimic France, +And the soft sons of _nonchalance_. +While Jenny, now no more of use, +Excuse succeeding to excuse, +Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew +To shilling whist, and chicken loo. + +Advanced to fashion's wavering head, +They now, where once they followed, led. +Devised new systems of delight, +A-bed all day, and up all night, +In different circles reigned supreme. +Wives copied her, and husbands him; +Till so divinely life ran on, +So separate, so quite _bon-ton_, +That meeting in a public place, +They scarcely knew each other's face. + +At last they met, by his desire, +A _tête-a-tête_ across the fire; +Looked in each other's face awhile, +With half a tear, and half a smile. +The ruddy health, which wont to grace +With manly glow his rural face, +Now scarce retained its faintest streak; +So sallow was his leathern cheek. +She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed, +With rouge had striven in vain to hide +What once was beauty, and repair +The rapine of the midnight air. + +Silence is eloquence, 'tis said. +Both wished to speak, both hung the head. +At length it burst.----''Tis time,' he cries, +'When tired of folly, to be wise. +Are you too tired?'--then checked a groan. +She wept consent, and he went on: + +'How delicate the married life! +You love your husband, I my wife! +Not even satiety could tame, +Nor dissipation quench the flame. + +'True to the bias of our kind, +'Tis happiness we wish to find. +In rural scenes retired we sought +In vain the dear, delicious draught, +Though blest with love's indulgent store, +We found we wanted something more. +'Twas company, 'twas friends to share +The bliss we languished to declare. +'Twas social converse, change of scene, +To soothe the sullen hour of spleen; +Short absences to wake desire, +And sweet regrets to fan the fire. + +'We left the lonesome place; and found, +In dissipation's giddy round, +A thousand novelties to wake +The springs of life and not to break. +As, from the nest not wandering far, +In light excursions through the air, +The feathered tenants of the grove +Around in mazy circles move, +Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, +Or taste the blossom on the bough. +We sported freely with the rest; +And still, returning to the nest, +In easy mirth we chatted o'er +The trifles of the day before. + +'Behold us now, dissolving quite +In the full ocean of delight; +In pleasures every hour employ, +Immersed in all the world calls joy; +Our affluence easing the expense +Of splendour and magnificence; +Our company, the exalted set +Of all that's gay, and all that's great: +Nor happy yet!--and where's the wonder!-- +We live, my dear, too much asunder.' + +The moral of my tale is this, +Variety's the soul of bless; +But such variety alone +As makes our home the more our own. +As from the heart's impelling power +The life-blood pours its genial store; +Though taking each a various way, +The active streams meandering play +Through every artery, every vein, +All to the heart return again; +From thence resume their new career, +But still return and centre there: +So real happiness below +Must from the heart sincerely flow; +Nor, listening to the syren's song, +Must stray too far, or rest too long. +All human pleasures thither tend; +Must there begin, and there must end; +Must there recruit their languid force, +And gain fresh vigour from their source. + + + + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. + + +This poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, in 1734. His father was +minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after +attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately +a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he +repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his +patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of +view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the +Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his 'Pollio,' his 'Concubine,' +--a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, +which became popular,--and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of +the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, +was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and +established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the +press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near +Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore +Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much +distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins' +daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at +Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788. + +His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, +and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to +Homer. 'Cumnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of +'Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful +locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a +song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, +as Burns says, of 'the first poet.' + + +CUMNOR HALL. + +1 The dews of summer night did fall, + The moon, sweet regent of the sky, + Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, + And many an oak that grew thereby. + +2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies, + The sounds of busy life were still, + Save an unhappy lady's sighs, + That issued from that lonely pile. + +3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love + That thou so oft hast sworn to me, + To leave me in this lonely grove, + Immured in shameful privity? + +4 'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, + Thy once beloved bride to see; + But be she alive, or be she dead, + I fear, stern Earl,'s the same to thee. + +5 'Not so the usage I received + When happy in my father's hall; + No faithless husband then me grieved, + No chilling fears did me appal. + +6 'I rose up with the cheerful morn, + No lark so blithe, no flower more gay; + And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, + So merrily sung the livelong day. + +7 'If that my beauty is but small, + Among court ladies all despised, + Why didst thou rend it from that hall, + Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? + +8 'And when you first to me made suit, + How fair I was, you oft would say! + And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, + Then left the blossom to decay. + +9 'Yes! now neglected and despised, + The rose is pale, the lily's dead; + But he that once their charms so prized, + Is sure the cause those charms are fled. + +10 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey, + And tender love's repaid with scorn, + The sweetest beauty will decay: + What floweret can endure the storm? + +11 'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, + Where every lady's passing rare, + That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, + Are not so glowing, not so fair. + +12 'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds + Where roses and where lilies vie, + To seek a primrose, whose pale shades + Must sicken when those gauds are by? + +13 ''Mong rural beauties I was one; + Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; + Some country swain might me have won, + And thought my passing beauty rare. + +14 'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, + It is not beauty lures thy vows; + Rather ambition's gilded crown + Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. + +15 'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, + The injured surely may repine, + Why didst thou wed a country maid, + When some fair princess might be thine? + +16 'Why didst thou praise my humble charms, + And, oh! then leave them to decay? + Why didst thou win me to thy arms, + Then leave me to mourn the livelong day? + +17 'The village maidens of the plain + Salute me lowly as they go: + Envious they mark my silken train, + Nor think a countess can have woe. + +18 'The simple nymphs! they little know + How far more happy's their estate; + To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; + To be content, than to be great. + +19 'How far less blessed am I than them, + Daily to pine and waste with care! + Like the poor plant, that, from its stem + Divided, feels the chilling air. + +20 'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy + The humble charms of solitude; + Your minions proud my peace destroy, + By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. + +21 'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, + The village death-bell smote my ear; + They winked aside, and seemed to say, + "Countess, prepare--thy end is near." + +22 'And now, while happy peasants sleep, + Here I sit lonely and forlorn; + No one to soothe me as I weep, + Save Philomel on yonder thorn. + +23 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay; + Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; + And many a body seems to say, + "Countess, prepare--thy end is near."' + +24 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; + And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, + And let fall many a bitter tear. + +25 And ere the dawn of day appeared, + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, + Full many a piercing scream was heard, + And many a cry of mortal fear. + +26 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, + An aërial voice was heard to call, + And thrice the raven flapped his wing + Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. + +27 The mastiff howled at village door, + The oaks were shattered on the green; + Woe was the hour, for never more + That hapless Countess e'er was seen. + +28 And in that manor, now no more + Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball; + For ever since that dreary hour + Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. + +29 The village maids, with fearful glance, + Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; + Nor never lead the merry dance + Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. + +30 Full many a traveller has sighed, + And pensive wept the Countess' fall, + As wandering onwards they've espied + The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. + + + +THE MARINER'S WIFE. + +1 But are ye sure the news is true? + And are ye sure he's weel? + Is this a time to think o' wark? + Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck at a', + There's nae luck about the house, + When our gudeman's awa. + +2 Is this a time to think o' wark, + When Colin's at the door? + Rax down my cloak--I'll to the quay, + And see him come ashore. + +3 Rise up and mak a clean fireside, + Put on the mickle pat; + Gie little Kate her cotton goun, + And Jock his Sunday's coat. + +4 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, + Their stocking white as snaw; + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-- + He likes to see them braw. + +5 There are twa hens into the crib, + Hae fed this month and mair; + Mak haste and thraw their necks about, + That Colin weel may fare. + +6 My Turkey slippers I'll put on, + My stocking pearl blue-- + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, + For he's baith leal and true. + +7 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; + His breath's like caller air; + His very fit has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + +8 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. + + + + +LORD NUGENT. + + +Robert Craggs, afterwards created Lord Nugent, was an Irishman, a younger +son of Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Robert, Lord Trimlestown, and +born in 1709. He was in 1741 elected M.P. for St Mawes, in Cornwall, and +became in 1747 comptroller to the Prince of Wales' household. He after- +wards made peace with the Court, and received various promotions and +marks of favour besides the peerage. In 1739, he published anonymously +a volume of poems possessing considerable merit. He was converted from +Popery, and wrote some vigorous verses on the occasion. Unfortunately, +however, he relapsed, and again celebrated the event in a very weak poem, +entitled 'Faith.' He died in 1788. Although a man of decided talent, as +his 'Ode to Mankind' proves, Nugent does not stand very high either in +the catalogue of Irish patriots or of 'royal and noble authors.' + + +ODE TO MANKIND. + +1 Is there, or do the schoolmen dream? + Is there on earth a power supreme, + The delegate of Heaven, + To whom an uncontrolled command, + In every realm o'er sea and land, + By special grace is given? + +2 Then say, what signs this god proclaim? + Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame, + A throne his hallowed shrine? + The borrowed pomp, the armed array, + Want, fear, and impotence, betray + Strange proofs of power divine! + +3 If service due from human kind, + To men in slothful ease reclined, + Can form a sovereign's claim: + Hail, monarchs! ye, whom Heaven ordains, + Our toils unshared, to share our gains, + Ye idiots, blind and lame! + +4 Superior virtue, wisdom, might, + Create and mark the ruler's right, + So reason must conclude: + Then thine it is, to whom belong + The wise, the virtuous, and the strong, + Thrice sacred multitude! + +5 In thee, vast All! are these contained, + For thee are those, thy parts ordained, + So nature's systems roll: + The sceptre's thine, if such there be; + If none there is, then thou art free, + Great monarch! mighty whole! + +6 Let the proud tyrant rest his cause + On faith, prescription, force, or laws, + An host's or senate's voice! + His voice affirms thy stronger due, + Who for the many made the few, + And gave the species choice. + +7 Unsanctified by thy command, + Unowned by thee, the sceptred hand + The trembling slave may bind; + But loose from nature's moral ties, + The oath by force imposed belies + The unassenting mind. + +8 Thy will's thy rule, thy good its end; + You punish only to defend + What parent nature gave: + And he who dares her gifts invade, + By nature's oldest law is made + Thy victim or thy slave. + +9 Thus reason founds the just degree + On universal liberty, + Not private rights resigned: + Through various nature's wide extent, + No private beings e'er were meant + To hurt the general kind. + +10 Thee justice guides, thee right maintains, + The oppressor's wrongs, the pilferer's gains, + Thy injured weal impair. + Thy warmest passions soon subside, + Nor partial envy, hate, nor pride, + Thy tempered counsels share. + +11 Each instance of thy vengeful rage, + Collected from each clime and age, + Though malice swell the sum, + Would seem a spotless scanty scroll, + Compared with Marius' bloody roll, + Or Sylla's hippodrome. + +12 But thine has been imputed blame, + The unworthy few assume thy name, + The rabble weak and loud; + Or those who on thy ruins feast, + The lord, the lawyer, and the priest; + A more ignoble crowd. + +13 Avails it thee, if one devours, + Or lesser spoilers share his powers, + While both thy claim oppose? + Monsters who wore thy sullied crown, + Tyrants who pulled those monsters down, + Alike to thee were foes. + +14 Far other shone fair Freedom's band, + Far other was the immortal stand, + When Hampden fought for thee: + They snatched from rapine's gripe thy spoils, + The fruits and prize of glorious toils, + Of arts and industry. + +15 On thee yet foams the preacher's rage, + On thee fierce frowns the historian's page, + A false apostate train: + Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb; + Unpitied in their harder doom, + Thy thousands strow the plain. + +16 These had no charms to please the sense, + No graceful port, no eloquence, + To win the Muse's throng: + Unknown, unsung, unmarked they lie; + But Caesar's fate o'ercasts the sky, + And Nature mourns his wrong. + +17 Thy foes, a frontless band, invade; + Thy friends afford a timid aid, + And yield up half the right. + Even Locke beams forth a mingled ray, + Afraid to pour the flood of day + On man's too feeble sight. + +18 Hence are the motley systems framed, + Of right transferred, of power reclaimed; + Distinctions weak and vain. + Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd; + For unreclaimed, and untransferred, + Her powers and rights remain. + +19 While law the royal agent moves, + The instrument thy choice approves, + We bow through him to you. + But change, or cease the inspiring choice, + The sovereign sinks a private voice, + Alike in one, or few! + +20 Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart + Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part, + And only dares betray; + With reptile wiles, alas! prevail, + Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail, + To pilfer power away? + +21 Oh! shall the bought, and buying tribe, + The slaves who take, and deal the bribe, + A people's claims enjoy! + So Indian murderers hope to gain + The powers and virtues of the slain, + Of wretches they destroy. + +22 'Avert it, Heaven! you love the brave, + You hate the treacherous, willing slave, + The self-devoted head; + Nor shall an hireling's voice convey + That sacred prize to lawless sway, + For which a nation bled.' + +23 Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource! + Directing reason, active force, + Propitious Heaven bestows. + But ne'er shall flame the thundering sky, + To aid the trembling herd that fly + Before their weaker foes. + +24 In names there dwell no magic charms, + The British virtues, British arms + Unloosed our fathers' band: + Say, Greece and Rome! if these should fail, + What names, what ancestors avail, + To save a sinking land? + +25 Far, far from us such ills shall be, + Mankind shall boast one nation free, + One monarch truly great: + Whose title speaks a people's choice, + Whose sovereign will a people's voice, + Whose strength a prosperous state. + + + + +JOHN LOGAN. + + +John Logan was born in the year 1748. He was the son of a farmer at +Soutra, in the parish of Fala, Mid-Lothian. He was educated for the +church at Edinburgh, where he became intimate with Robertson, afterwards +the historian. So, at least, Campbell asserts; but he strangely calls him +a student of the same standing, whereas, in fact, Robertson saw light in +1721, and had been a settled minister five years before Logan was born. +After finishing his studies, he became tutor in the family of Mr Sinclair +of Ulbster, and the late well-known Sir John Sinclair was one of his +pupils. When licensed to preach, Logan became popular, and was in his +twenty-fifth year appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. In 1781, +he read in Edinburgh a course of lectures on the Philosophy of History, +and in 1782, he printed one of them, on the Government of Asia. In the +same year he published a volume of poems, which were well received. In +1783, he wrote a tragedy called 'Runnymede,' which was, owing to some +imagined incendiary matter, prohibited from being acted on the London +boards, but which was produced on the Edinburgh stage, and afterwards +published. This, along with some alleged irregularities of conduct on the +part of Logan, tended to alienate his flock, and he was induced to retire +on a small annuity. He betook himself to London, where, in conjunction +with the Rev. Mr Thomson,--who had left the parish of Monzievaird, in +Perthshire, owing to a scandal,--he wrote for the _English Review_, and +was employed to defend Warren Hastings. This he did in an able manner, +although a well-known story describes him as listening to Sheridan, on +the Oude case, with intense interest, and exclaiming, after the first +hour, 'This is mere declamation without proof'--after the next two, 'This +is a man of extraordinary powers'--and ere the close of the matchless +oration, 'Of all the monsters in history, Warren Hastings is the vilest.' +Logan died in the year 1788, in his lodgings, Marlborough Street. His +sermons were published shortly after his death, and if parts of them are, +as is alleged, pilfered from a Swiss divine, (George Joachim Zollikofer,) +they have not remained exclusively with the thief, since no sermons have +been so often reproduced in Scottish pulpits as the elegant orations +issued under the name of Logan. + +We have already declined to enter on the controversy about 'The Cuckoo,' +intimating, however, our belief, founded partly upon Logan's unscrupulous +character and partly on internal evidence, that it was originally written +by Bruce, but probably polished to its present perfection by Logan, whose +other writings give us rather the impression of a man of varied +accomplishments and excellent taste, than of deep feeling or original +genius. If Logan were not the author of 'The Cuckoo,' there was a special +baseness connected with the fact, that when Burke sought him out in +Edinburgh, solely from his admiration of that poem, he owned the soft and +false impeachment, and rolled as a sweet morsel praise from the greatest +man of the age, which he knew was the rightful due of another. + + + +THE LOVERS. + +1 _Har_. 'Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, + My father's house is hushed in sleep; + In dreams the lover meets his bride, + She sees her lover at her side; + The mourner's voice is now suppressed, + A while the weary are at rest: + 'Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep; + I only wake, and wake to weep. + +2 The window's drawn, the ladder waits, + I spy no watchman at the gates; + No tread re-echoes through the hall, + No shadow moves along the wall. + I am alone. 'Tis dreary night, + Oh, come, thou partner of my flight! + Shield me from darkness, from alarms; + Oh, take me trembling to thine arms! + +3 The dog howls dismal in the heath, + The raven croaks the dirge of death; + Ah me! disaster's in the sound! + The terrors of the night are round; + A sad mischance my fears forebode, + The demon of the dark's abroad, + And lures, with apparition dire, + The night-struck man through flood and fire. + +4 The owlet screams ill-boding sounds, + The spirit walks unholy rounds; + The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls; + The shades of hell usurp the poles; + The moon retires; the heaven departs. + From opening earth a spectre starts: + My spirit dies--Away, my fears! + My love, my life, my lord, appears! + +5 _Hen_. I come, I come, my love! my life! + And, nature's dearest name, my wife! + Long have I loved thee; long have sought: + And dangers braved, and battles fought; + In this embrace our evils end; + From this our better days ascend; + The year of suffering now is o'er, + At last we meet to part no more! + +6 My lovely bride! my consort, come! + The rapid chariot rolls thee home. + _Har_. I fear to go----I dare not stay. + Look back.----I dare not look that way. + _Hen_. No evil ever shall betide + My love, while I am at her side. + Lo! thy protector and thy friend, + The arms that fold thee will defend. + +7 _Har_. Still beats my bosom with alarms: + I tremble while I'm in thy arms! + What will impassioned lovers do? + What have I done--to follow you? + I leave a father torn with fears; + I leave a mother bathed in tears; + A brother, girding on his sword, + Against my life, against my lord. + +8 Now, without father, mother, friend, + On thee my future days depend; + Wilt thou, for ever true to love, + A father, mother, brother, prove? + O Henry!----to thy arms I fall, + My friend! my husband! and my all! + Alas! what hazards may I run? + Shouldst thou forsake me--I'm undone. + +9 _Hen_. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, + And let a husband wipe thy tears; + For ever joined our fates combine, + And I am yours, and you are mine. + The fires the firmament that rend, + On this devoted head descend, + If e'er in thought from thee I rove, + Or love thee less than now I love! + +10 Although our fathers have been foes, + From hatred stronger love arose; + From adverse briars that threatening stood, + And threw a horror o'er the wood, + Two lovely roses met on high, + Transplanted to a better sky; + And, grafted in one stock, they grow. + In union spring, in beauty blow. + +11 _Har_. My heart believes my love; but still + My boding mind presages ill: + For luckless ever was our love, + Dark as the sky that hung above. + While we embraced, we shook with fears, + And with our kisses mingled tears; + We met with murmurs and with sighs, + And parted still with watery eyes. + +12 An unforeseen and fatal hand + Crossed all the measures love had planned; + Intrusion marred the tender hour, + A demon started in the bower; + If, like the past, the future run, + And my dark day is but begun, + What clouds may hang above my head? + What tears may I have yet to shed? + +13 _Hen_. Oh, do not wound that gentle breast, + Nor sink, with fancied ills oppressed; + For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, + And love is virtue in thy heart. + That bosom ne'er shall heave again + But to the poet's tender strain; + And never more these eyes o'erflow + But for a hapless lover's woe. + +14 Long on the ocean tempest-tossed, + At last we gain the happy coast; + And safe recount upon the shore + Our sufferings past, and dangers o'er: + Past scenes, the woes we wept erewhile, + Will make our future minutes smile: + When sudden joy from sorrow springs, + How the heart thrills through all its strings! + +15 _Har_. My father's castle springs to sight; + Ye towers that gave me to the light! + O hills! O vales! where I have played; + Ye woods, that wrap me in your shade! + O scenes I've often wandered o'er! + O scenes I shall behold no more! + I take a long, last, lingering view: + Adieu! my native land, adieu! + +16 O father, mother, brother dear! + O names still uttered with a tear! + Upon whose knees I've sat and smiled, + Whose griefs my blandishments beguiled; + Whom I forsake in sorrows old, + Whom I shall never more behold! + Farewell, my friends, a long farewell, + Till time shall toll the funeral knell. + +17 _Hen_. Thy friends, thy father's house resign; + My friends, my house, my all is thine: + Awake, arise, my wedded wife, + To higher thoughts, and happier life! + For thee the marriage feast is spread, + For thee the virgins deck the bed; + The star of Venus shines above, + And all thy future life is love. + +18 They rise, the dear domestic hours! + The May of love unfolds her flowers; + Youth, beauty, pleasure spread the feast, + And friendship sits a constant guest; + In cheerful peace the morn ascends, + In wine and love the evening ends; + At distance grandeur sheds a ray, + To gild the evening of our day. + +19 Connubial love has dearer names, + And finer ties, and sweeter claims, + Than e'er unwedded hearts can feel, + Than wedded hearts can e'er reveal; + Pure as the charities above, + Rise the sweet sympathies of love; + And closer cords than those of life + Unite the husband to the wife. + +20 Like cherubs new come from the skies, + Henries and Harriets round us rise; + And playing wanton in the hall, + With accent sweet their parents call; + To your fair images I run, + You clasp the husband in the son; + Oh, how the mother's heart will bound! + Oh, how the father's joy be crowned! + + +WRITTEN IN A VISIT TO THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN. + +1 'Tis past! no more the Summer blooms! + Ascending in the rear, + Behold congenial Autumn comes, + The Sabbath of the year! + What time thy holy whispers breathe, + The pensive evening shade beneath, + And twilight consecrates the floods; + While nature strips her garment gay, + And wears the vesture of decay, + Oh, let me wander through the sounding woods! + +2 Ah! well-known streams!--ah! wonted groves, + Still pictured in my mind! + Oh! sacred scene of youthful loves, + Whose image lives behind! + While sad I ponder on the past, + The joys that must no longer last; + The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier + The dying music of the grove, + And the last elegies of love, + Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear! + +3 Alas! the hospitable hall, + Where youth and friendship played, + Wide to the winds a ruined wall + Projects a death-like shade! + The charm is vanished from the vales; + No voice with virgin-whisper hails + A stranger to his native bowers: + No more Arcadian mountains bloom, + Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume; + The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers! + +4 Companions of the youthful scene, + Endeared from earliest days! + With whom I sported on the green, + Or roved the woodland maze! + Long exiled from your native clime, + Or by the thunder-stroke of time + Snatched to the shadows of despair; + I hear your voices in the wind, + Your forms in every walk I find; + I stretch my arms: ye vanish into air! + +5 My steps, when innocent and young, + These fairy paths pursued; + And wandering o'er the wild, I sung + My fancies to the wood. + I mourned the linnet-lover's fate, + Or turtle from her murdered mate, + Condemned the widowed hours to wail: + Or while the mournful vision rose, + I sought to weep for imaged woes, + Nor real life believed a tragic tale! + +6 Alas! misfortune's cloud unkind + May summer soon o'ercast! + And cruel fate's untimely wind + All human beauty blast! + The wrath of nature smites our bowers, + And promised fruits and cherished flowers, + The hopes of life in embryo sweeps; + Pale o'er the ruins of his prime, + And desolate before his time, + In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps! + +7 Relentless power! whose fated stroke + O'er wretched man prevails! + Ha! love's eternal chain is broke, + And friendship's covenant fails! + Upbraiding forms! a moment's ease-- + O memory! how shall I appease + The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost? + What charm can bind the gushing eye, + What voice console the incessant sigh, + And everlasting longings for the lost? + +8 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood + That hides me in its gloom, + While lost in melancholy mood + I muse upon the tomb. + Their chequered leaves the branches shed; + Whirling in eddies o'er my head, + They sadly sigh that Winter's near: + The warning voice I hear behind, + That shakes the wood without a wind, + And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. + +9 Nor will I court Lethean streams, + The sorrowing sense to steep; + Nor drink oblivion of the themes + On which I love to weep. + Belated oft by fabled rill, + While nightly o'er the hallowed hill + Aërial music seems to mourn; + I'll listen Autumn's closing strain; + Then woo the walks of youth again, + And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely urn! + + +COMPLAINT OF NATURE. + +1 Few are thy days and full of woe, + O man of woman born! + Thy doom is written, dust thou art, + And shalt to dust return. + +2 Determined are the days that fly + Successive o'er thy head; + The numbered hour is on the wing + That lays thee with the dead. + +3 Alas! the little day of life + Is shorter than a span; + Yet black with thousand hidden ills + To miserable man. + +4 Gay is thy morning, flattering hope + Thy sprightly step attends; + But soon the tempest howls behind, + And the dark night descends. + +5 Before its splendid hour the cloud + Comes o'er the beam of light; + A pilgrim in a weary land, + Man tarries but a night. + +6 Behold, sad emblem of thy state! + The flowers that paint the field; + Or trees that crown the mountain's brow, + And boughs and blossoms yield. + +7 When chill the blast of Winter blows, + Away the Summer flies, + The flowers resign their sunny robes, + And all their beauty dies. + +8 Nipt by the year the forest fades; + And shaking to the wind, + The leaves toss to and fro, and streak + The wilderness behind. + +9 The Winter past, reviving flowers + Anew shall paint the plain, + The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, + And flourish green again. + +10 But man departs this earthly scene, + Ah! never to return! + No second Spring shall e'er revive + The ashes of the urn. + +11 The inexorable doors of death + What hand can e'er unfold? + Who from the cerements of the tomb + Can raise the human mould? + +12 The mighty flood that rolls along + Its torrents to the main, + The waters lost can ne'er recall + From that abyss again. + +13 The days, the years, the ages, dark + Descending down to night, + Can never, never be redeemed + Back to the gates of light. + +14 So man departs the living scene, + To night's perpetual gloom; + The voice of morning ne'er shall break + The slumbers of the tomb. + +15 Where are our fathers? Whither gone + The mighty men of old? + The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, + In sacred books enrolled? + +16 Gone to the resting-place of man, + The everlasting home, + Where ages past have gone before, + Where future ages come, + +17 Thus nature poured the wail of woe, + And urged her earnest cry; + Her voice, in agony extreme, + Ascended to the sky. + +18 The Almighty heard: then from his throne + In majesty he rose; + And from the heaven, that opened wide, + His voice in mercy flows: + +19 'When mortal man resigns his breath, + And falls a clod of clay, + The soul immortal wings its flight + To never-setting day. + +20 'Prepared of old for wicked men + The bed of torment lies; + The just shall enter into bliss + Immortal in the skies.' + + + + +THOMAS BLACKLOCK. + + +The amiable Dr Blacklock deserves praise for his character and for his +conduct under very peculiar circumstances, much more than for his +poetry. He was born at Annan, where his father was a bricklayer, in +1721. When about six months old, he lost his eyesight by small-pox. His +father used to read to him, especially poetry, and through the kindness +of friends he acquired some knowledge of the Latin tongue. His father +having been accidentally killed when Thomas was nineteen, it might +have fared hard with him, but Dr Stevenson, an eminent medical man +in Edinburgh, who had seen some verses composed by the blind youth, +took him to the capital, sent him to college to study divinity, and +encouraged him to write and to publish poetry. His volume, to which +was prefixed an account of the author, by Professor Spence of Oxford, +attracted much attention. Blacklock was licensed to preach in 1759, and +three years afterwards was married to a Miss Johnstone of Dumfries, an +exemplary but plain-looking lady, whose beauty her husband was wont to +praise so warmly that his friends were thankful that his infirmity was +never removed, and thought how justly Cupid had been painted blind. He +was even, through the influence of the Earl of Selkirk, appointed to the +parish of Kirkcudbright, but the parishioners opposed his induction on +the plea of his want of sight, and, in consideration of a small annuity, +he withdrew his claims. He finally settled down in Edinburgh, where he +supported himself chiefly by keeping young gentlemen as boarders in his +house. His chief amusements were poetry and music. His conduct to (1786) +and correspondence with Burns are too well known to require to be +noticed at length here. He published a paper of no small merit in the +'Encyclopaedia Britannica' on Blindness, and is the author of a work +entitled 'Paraclesis; or, Consolations of Religion,'--which surely none +require more than the blind. He died of a nervous fever on the 7th of +July 1791, so far fortunate that he did not live to see the ruin of his +immortal _protégé_. + +Blacklock was a most amiable, genial, and benevolent being. He was +sometimes subject to melancholy--_un_like many of the blind, and one +especially, whom we name not, but who, still living, bears a striking +resemblance to Blacklock in fineness of mind, warmth of heart, and high- +toned piety, but who is cheerful as the day. As to his poetry, it is +undoubtedly wonderful, considering the circumstances of its production, +if not _per se_. Dr Johnson says to Boswell,--'As Blacklock had the +misfortune to be blind, we may be absolutely sure that the passages in +his poems descriptive of visible objects are combinations of what he +remembered of the works of other writers who could see. That foolish +fellow Spence has laboured to explain philosophically how Blacklock may +have done, by his own faculties, what it is impossible he should do. The +solution, as I have given it, is plain. Suppose I know a man to be so +lame that he is absolutely incapable to move himself, and I find him in a +different room from that in which I left him, shall I puzzle myself with +idle conjectures that perhaps his nerves have, by some unknown change, +all at once become effective? No, sir; it is clear how he got into a +different room--he was CARRIED.' + +Perhaps there is a fallacy in this somewhat dogmatic statement. Perhaps +the blind are not so utterly dark but they may have certain dim +_simulacra_ of external objects before their eyes and minds. Apart from +this, however, Blacklock's poetry endures only from its connexion with +the author's misfortune, and from the fact that through the gloom he +groped greatly to find and give the burning hand of the peasant poet the +squeeze of a kindred spirit,--kindred, we mean, in feeling and heart, +although very far removed in strength of intellect and genius. + + +THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE. + +While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, +And touch each feature with a trembling hand; +Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride, +To mix the colours, and the pencil guide. + +Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind; +How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind! +By self the fop in magic colours shown, +Though, scorned by every eye, delights his own: +When age and wrinkles seize the conquering maid, +Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade. +Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay; +Thy charms to others as to me display. + +Straight is my person, but of little size; +Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes; +My youthful down is, like my talents, rare; +Politely distant stands each single hair. +My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear; +So smooth, a child may listen without fear; +Not formed in cadence soft and warbling lays, +To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways. +My form so fine, so regular, so new, +My port so manly, and so fresh my hue; +Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say, +'See, see _Memento Mori_ cross the way.' +The ravished Proserpine at last, we know, +Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau; +But, thanks to nature! none from me need fly; +One heart the devil could wound--so cannot I. + +Yet, though my person fearless may be seen, +There is some danger in my graceful mien: +For, as some vessel tossed by wind and tide, +Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to side; +In just vibration thus I always move: +This who can view and not be forced to love? + +Hail! charming self! by whose propitious aid +My form in all its glory stands displayed: +Be present still; with inspiration kind, +Let the same faithful colours paint the mind. + +Like all mankind, with vanity I'm blessed, +Conscious of wit I never yet possessed. +To strong desires my heart an easy prey, +Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway. +This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe; +The next, I wonder why I should do so. +Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye; +Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie. +I ne'er for satire torture common sense; +Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense. +Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown; +Wish well to all, and yet do good to none. +Unmerited contempt I hate to bear; +Yet on my faults, like others, am severe. +Dishonest flames my bosom never fire; +The bad I pity, and the good admire; +Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days, +And scribble--not for pudding, but for praise. + +These careless lines, if any virgin hears, +Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years, +She may consent a generous flame to own, +And I no longer sigh the nights alone. +But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice, +Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice; +Cry, 'Save us, Heaven! a spectre, not a man!' +Her hartshorn snatch or interpose her fan: +If I my tender overture repeat; +Oh! may my vows her kind reception meet! +May she new graces on my form bestow, +And with tall honours dignify my brow! + + +ODE TO AURORA, ON MELISSA'S BIRTHDAY. + +Of time and nature eldest born, +Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn, +Emerge, in purest dress arrayed, +And chase from heaven night's envious shade, +That I once more may, pleased, survey, +And hail Melissa's natal day. +Of time and nature eldest born, +Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn; +In order at the eastern gate +The hours to draw thy chariot wait; +Whilst zephyr, on his balmy wings +Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, +With odours sweet to strew thy way, +And grace the bland revolving day. + +But as thou leadst the radiant sphere, +That gilds its birth, and marks the year, +And as his stronger glories rise, +Diffused around the expanded skies, +Till clothed with beams serenely bright, +All heaven's vast concave flames with light; +So, when, through life's protracted day, +Melissa still pursues her way, +Her virtues with thy splendour vie, +Increasing to the mental eye: +Though less conspicuous, not less dear, +Long may they Bion's prospect cheer; +So shall his heart no more repine, +Blessed with her rays, though robbed of thine. + + + + +MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN. + + +Here we find two ladies amicably united in the composition of one of +Scotland's finest songs, the 'Flowers of the Forest.' Miss Jane Elliot of +Minto, sister of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, wrote the first and the +finest of the two versions. Mrs Cockburn, the author of the second, was a +remarkable person. Her maiden name was Alicia Rutherford, and she was the +daughter of Mr Rutherford of Fernilee, in Selkirkshire. She married Mr +Patrick Cockburn, a younger son of Adam Cockburn of Ormiston, Lord +Justice-Clerk of Scotland. She became prominent in the literary circles +of Edinburgh, and an intimate friend of David Hume, with whom she carried +on a long and serious correspondence on religious subjects, in which it +is understood the philosopher opened up his whole heart, but which is +unfortunately lost. Mrs Cockburn, who was born in 1714, lived to 1794, +and saw and proclaimed the wonderful promise of Walter Scott. She wrote +a great deal, but the 'Flowers of the Forest' is the only one of her +effusions that has been published. A ludicrous story is told of her son, +who was a dissipated youth, returning one night drunk, while a large +party of _savans_ was assembled in the house, and locking himself up in +the room in which their coats and hats were deposited. Nothing would +rouse him; and the company had to depart in the best substitutes they +could find for their ordinary habiliments,--Hume (characteristically) in +a dreadnought, Monboddo in an old shabby hat, &c.--the echoes of the +midnight Potterrow resounding to their laughter at their own odd figures. +It is believed that Mrs Cockburn's song was really occasioned by the +bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, although she chose +to throw the new matter of lamentation into the old mould of song. + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. + +BY MISS JANE ELLIOT. + +1 I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, + Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; + But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- + The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + +2 At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, + The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; + Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, + Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. + +3 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, + The 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. + +4 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies 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 a' wede away. + +5 Dule 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 foucht aye the foremost, + The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. + +6 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, + Women and bairns are heartless and wae; + Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- + The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. + +BY MRS COCKBURN. + +1 I've seen the smiling + Of Fortune beguiling; +I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: + Sweet was its blessing, + Kind its caressing; +But now 'tis fled--fled far away. + +2 I've seen the forest + Adorned the foremost +With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; + Sae bonnie was their blooming! + Their scent the air perfuming! +But now they are withered and weeded away. + +3 I've seen the morning + With gold the hills adorning, +And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. + I've seen Tweed's silver streams, + Shining in the sunny beams, +Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. + +4 Oh, fickle Fortune, + Why this cruel sporting? +Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? + Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, + Nae mair your frowns can fear me; +For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM JONES. + + +This extraordinary person, the 'Justinian of India,' the master of +twenty-eight languages, who into the short space of forty-eight years +(he was born in 1746, and died 27th of April 1794) compressed such a +vast quantity of study and labour, is also the author of two volumes +of poetry, of unequal merit. We quote the best thing in the book. + + +A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. + +1 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, + And bid these arms thy neck enfold; + That rosy cheek, that lily hand, + Would give thy poet more delight + Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold, + Than all the gems of Samarcand. + +2 Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, + And bid thy pensive heart be glad, + Whate'er the frowning zealots say: + Tell them, their Eden cannot show + A stream so clear as Rocnabad, + A bower so sweet as Mosellay. + +3 Oh! when these fair perfidious maids, + Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, + Their dear destructive charms display, + Each glance my tender breast invades, + And robs my wounded soul of rest, + As Tartars seize their destined prey. + +4 In vain with love our bosoms glow: + Can all our tears, can all our sighs, + New lustre to those charms impart? + Can cheeks, where living roses blow, + Where nature spreads her richest dyes, + Require the borrowed gloss of art? + +5 Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme, + And talk of odours, talk of wine, + Talk of the flowers that round us bloom: + 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream; + To love and joy thy thoughts confine, + Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. + +6 Beauty has such resistless power, + That even the chaste Egyptian dame + Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy: + For her how fatal was the hour, + When to the banks of Nilus came + A youth so lovely and so coy! + +7 But, ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear, + (Youth should attend when those advise + Whom long experience renders sage): + While music charms the ravished ear, + While sparkling cups delight our eyes, + Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age. + +8 What cruel answer have I heard? + And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still: + Can aught be cruel from thy lip? + Yet say, how fell that bitter word + From lips which streams of sweetness fill, + Which nought but drops of honey sip? + +9 Go boldly forth, my simple lay, + Whose accents flow with artless ease, + Like orient pearls at random strung: + Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; + But, oh! far sweeter, if they please + The nymph for whom these notes are sung. + + + + +SAMUEL BISHOP. + + +This gentleman was born in 1731, and died in 1795. He was an English +clergyman, master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, and author of a +volume of Latin pieces, entitled 'Feriae Poeticae,' and of various other +poetical pieces. We give some verses to his wife, from which it appears +that he remained an ardent lover long after having become a husband. + + +TO MRS BISHOP, + +WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE. + +'A knife,' dear girl, 'cuts love,' they say! +Mere modish love, perhaps it may-- +For any tool, of any kind, +Can separate--what was never joined. + +The knife, that cuts our love in two, +Will have much tougher work to do; +Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit, +Down to the vulgar size of merit; +To level yours, with modern taste, +Must cut a world of sense to waste; +And from your single beauty's store, +Clip what would dizen out a score. + +That self-same blade from me must sever +Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever: +All memory of endearments past, +All hope of comforts long to last; +All that makes fourteen years with you, +A summer, and a short one too; +All that affection feels and fears, +When hours without you seem like years. + +Till that be done, and I'd as soon +Believe this knife will chip the moon, +Accept my present, undeterred, +And leave their proverbs to the herd. + +If in a kiss--delicious treat!-- +Your lips acknowledge the receipt, +Love, fond of such substantial fare, +And proud to play the glutton there, +'All thoughts of cutting will disdain, +Save only--'cut and come again.' + + +TO THE SAME, + +ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH +WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RING. + +'Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed'-- +So, fourteen years ago, I said.---- +Behold another ring!--'For what?' +'To wed thee o'er again?'--Why not? + +With that first ring I married youth, +Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; +Taste long admired, sense long revered, +And all my Molly then appeared. +If she, by merit since disclosed, +Prove twice the woman I supposed, +I plead that double merit now, +To justify a double vow. + +Here then to-day, with faith as sure, +With ardour as intense, as pure, +As when, amidst the rites divine, +I took thy troth, and plighted mine, +To thee, sweet girl, my second ring +A token and a pledge I bring: +With this I wed, till death us part, +Thy riper virtues to my heart; +Those virtues which, before untried, +The wife has added to the bride: +Those virtues, whose progressive claim, +Endearing wedlock's very name, +My soul enjoys, my song approves, +For conscience' sake, as well as love's. + +And why? They show me every hour, +Honour's high thought, Affection's power, +Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, +And teach me all things--but repentance. + + + + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE. + + +This lady was born at Cardew Hall, near Carlisle, and remained there +from the date of her birth (1747) till she was twenty years of age, when +she accompanied her sister--who had married Colonel Graham of Duchray, +Perthshire--to Scotland, and continued there some years. She became +enamoured of Scottish music and poetry, and thus qualified herself for +writing such sweet lyrics as 'The Nabob,' and 'What ails this heart o' +mine?' On her return to Cumberland she wrote several pieces illustrative +of Cumbrian manners. She died unmarried in 1794. Her poetical pieces, +some of which had been floating through the country in the form of +popular songs, were collected by Mr Patrick Maxwell, and published in +1842. The two we have quoted rank with those of Lady Nairne in nature +and pathos. + + +THE NABOB. + +1 When silent time, wi' lightly foot, + Had trod on thirty years, + I sought again my native land + Wi' mony hopes and fears. + Wha kens gin the dear friends I left + May still continue mine? + Or gin I e'er again shall taste + The joys I left langsyne? + +2 As I drew near my ancient pile, + My heart beat a' the way; + Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak + O' some dear former day; + Those days that followed me afar, + Those happy days o' mine, + Whilk made me think the present joys + A' naething to langsyne! + +3 The ivied tower now met my eye, + Where minstrels used to blaw; + Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand, + Nae weel-kenned face I saw; + Till Donald tottered to the door, + Wham I left in his prime, + And grat to see the lad return + He bore about langsyne. + +4 I ran to ilka dear friend's room, + As if to find them there, + I knew where ilk ane used to sit, + And hang o'er mony a chair; + Till soft remembrance throw a veil + Across these een o' mine, + I closed the door, and sobbed aloud, + To think on auld langsyne! + +5 Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, + Wad next their welcome pay, + Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's, + And wished my groves away. + 'Cut, cut,' they cried, 'those aged elms, + Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' + Na! na! our fathers' names grow there, + Memorials o' langsyne. + +6 To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, + They took me to the town; + But sair on ilka weel-kenned face + I missed the youthfu' bloom. + At balls they pointed to a nymph + Wham a' declared divine; + But sure her mother's blushing cheeks + Were fairer far langsyne! + +7 In vain I sought in music's sound + To find that magic art, + Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays + Has thrilled through a' my heart. + The sang had mony an artfu' turn; + My ear confessed 'twas fine; + But missed the simple melody + I listened to langsyne. + +8 Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, + Forgie an auld man's spleen, + Wha' midst your gayest scenes still mourns + The days he ance has seen. + When time has passed and seasons fled, + Your hearts will feel like mine; + And aye the sang will maist delight + That minds ye o' langsyne! + + +WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? + +1 What ails this heart o' mine? + What ails this watery ee? + What gars me a' turn pale as death + When I tak leave o' thee? + When thou art far awa', + Thou'lt dearer grow to me; + But change o' place and change o' folk + May gar thy fancy jee. + +2 When I gae out at e'en, + Or walk at morning air, + Ilk rustling bush will seem to say + I used to meet thee there. + Then I'll sit down and cry, + And live aneath the tree, + And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, + I'll ca't a word frae thee. + +3 I'll hie me to the bower + That thou wi' roses tied, + And where wi' mony a blushing bud + I strove myself to hide. + I'll doat on ilka spot + Where I ha'e been wi' thee; + And ca' to mind some kindly word + By ilka burn and tree. + + + + +JAMES MACPHERSON. + + +Now we come to one who, with all his faults, was not only a real, but a +great poet. The events of his life need not detain us long. He was born +at Kingussie, Inverness-shire, in 1738, and educated at Aberdeen. At +twenty he published a very juvenile production in verse, called 'The +Highlandman: a Heroic Poem, in six cantos.' He taught for some time the +school of Ruthven, near his native place, and became afterwards tutor +in the family of Graham of Balgowan. While attending a scion of this +family--afterwards Lord Lynedoch--at Moffat Wells, Macpherson became +acquainted with Home, the author of 'Douglas,' and shewed to him some +fragments of Gaelic poetry, translated by himself. Home was delighted +with these specimens, and the consequence was, that our poet, under the +patronage of Home, Blair, Adam Fergusson, and Dr Carlyle, (the once +famous 'Jupiter Carlyle,' minister of Inveresk--called 'Jupiter' because +he used to sit to sculptors for their statues of 'Father Jove,' and +declared by Sir Walter Scott to have been the 'grandest demigod he ever +saw,') published, in a small volume of sixty pages, his 'Fragments of +Ancient Poetry, translated from the Gaelic or Erse language.' This +_brochure_ became popular, and Macpherson was provided with a purse to +go to the Highlands to collect additional pieces. The result was, in +1762, 'Fingal: an Epic Poem;' and, in the next year, 'Temora,' another +epic poem. Their sale was prodigious, and the effect not equalled till, +twenty-four years later, the poems of Burns appeared. He realised £1200 +by these productions. In 1764 he accompanied Governor Johnston to +Pensacola as his secretary, but quarrelled with him, and returned to +London. Here he became a professional pamphleteer, always taking the +ministerial side, and diversifying these labours by publishing a +translation of Homer, in the style of his Ossian, which, as Coleridge +says of another production, was 'damned unanimously.' Our readers are +familiar with his row with Dr Johnson, who, when threatened with +personal chastisement for his obstinate and fierce incredulity in the +matter of Ossian, thus wrote the author:-- + +'To Mr JAMES MACPHERSON. + +'I received your foolish and impudent letter. Any violence offered me +I shall do the best to repel, and what I cannot do for myself, the law +shall do for me. I hope I shall not be deterred from detecting what I +think a cheat by the menaces of a ruffian. + +'What would you have me to retract? I thought your book an imposture. I +think it an imposture still. For this opinion I have given my reasons to +the public, which I dare you to refute. Your rage I defy. Your abilities, +since your Homer, are not so formidable, and what I hear of your morals +inclines me to pay regard, not to what you shall say, but to what you +shall prove. You may print this if you will. + +'SAM. JOHNSON.' + +Nothing daunted by this, and a hundred other similar rebuffs; Macpherson, +like Mallett before him, but with twenty times his abilities, pursued +his peculiar course. He was appointed agent for the Nabob of Arcot, +and became M.P. for Carnelford. In this way he speedily accumulated a +handsome fortune, and in 1789, while still a youngish man, he retired to +his native parish, where he bought the estate of Raitts, and founded a +splendid villa, called Belleville, where, in ease and affluence, he spent +his remaining days. Surviving Johnson, his ablest opponent, by twelve +years, he died on the 17th of February 1796, in the full view of Ossian's +country. One of his daughters became his heir, and another was the first +wife of Sir David Brewster. Macpherson in his will ordered that his body +should be buried in Westminster Abbey, and left a sum of money to erect a +monument to him near Belleville. He lies, accordingly, in Poets' Corner, +and a marble obelisk to his memory may be seen near Kingussie, in the +centre of some trees. + +There is nothing new that is true, or true that is new, to be said about +the questions connected with Ossian's Poems. That Macpherson is the sole +author is a theory now as generally abandoned as the other, which held +that he was simply a free translator of the old bard. To the real +fragments of Ossian, which he found in the Highlands, he acted very much +as he did to the ancient property of Raitts, in his own native parish. +This he purchased in its crude state, and beautified into a mountain +paradise. He changed, however, its name into Belleville, and it had been +better if he had behaved in a similar way with the poems, and published +them as, with some little groundwork from another, the veritable writings +of James Macpherson, Esq. The ablest opponent of his living reputation +was, as we said, Johnson; and the ablest enemy of his posthumous fame has +been Macaulay. We are at a loss to understand _his_ animosity to the +author of Ossian. Were the Macphersons and Macaulays ever at feud, and +did the historian lose his great-great-grandmother in some onslaught made +on the Hebrides by the progenitors of the pseudo-Ossian? Macpherson as +a man we respect not, and we are persuaded that the greater part of +Ossian's Poems can be traced no further than his teeming brain. Nor are +we careful to defend his poetry from the common charges of monotony, +affectation, and fustian. But we deem Macaulay grossly unjust in his +treatment of Macpherson's genius and its results, and can fortify our +judgment by that of Sir Walter Scott and Professor Wilson, two men as far +superior to the historian in knowledge of the Highlands and of Highland +song, and in genuine poetic taste, as they were confessedly in original +imagination. The former says, 'Macpherson was certainly a man of high +talents, and his poetic powers are honourable to his country.' Wilson, in +an admirable paper in _Blackwood_ for November 1839, while admitting many +faults in Ossian, eloquently proclaims the presence in his strains of +much of the purest, most pathetic, and most sublime poetry, instancing +the 'Address to the Sun' as equal to anything in Homer or Milton. Both +these great writers have paid Macpherson a higher compliment still,--they +have imitated him, and the speeches of Allan Macaulay (a far greater +genius than his namesake), Ranald MacEagh, and Elspeth MacTavish, in the +'Waverley Novels,' and such, articles by Christopher North as 'Cottages,' +'Hints for the Holidays,' and a 'Glance at Selby's Ornithology,' are all +coloured by familiarity and fellow-feeling with Ossian's style. Best of +all, the Highlanders as a nation have accepted Ossian as their bard; he +is as much the poet of Morven as Burns of Coila, and it is as hopeless to +dislodge the one from the Highland as the other from the Lowland heart. +The true way to learn to appreciate Ossian's poetry is not to hurry, as +Macaulay seems to have done, in a steamer from Glasgow to Oban, and +thence to Ballachulish, and thence through Glencoe, (mistaking a fine +lake for a 'sullen pool' on his way, and ignoring altogether its peculiar +features of grandeur,) and thence to Inverness or Edinburgh; but it is to +live for years--as Macpherson did while writing Ossian, and Wilson also +did to some extent--under the shadow of the mountains,--to wander through +lonely moors amidst drenching mists and rains,--to hold trysts with +thunder-storms on the summit of savage hills,--to bathe after nightfall +in dreary tarns,--to lie over the ledge and dip one's fingers in the +spray of cataracts,--to plough a solitary path into the heart of forests, +and to sleep and dream for hours amidst their sunless glades,--to meet +on twilight hills the apparition of the winter moon rising over snowy +wastes,--to descend by her ghastly light precipices where the eagles +are sleeping,--and, returning home, to be haunted by night-visions of +mightier mountains, wilder desolations, and giddier descents;--experience +somewhat like this is necessary to form a true 'Child of the Mist,' and +to give the full capacity for sharing in or appreciating the shadowy, +solitary, pensive, and magnificent spirit which tabernacles in Ossian's +poetry. + +Never, at least, can we forget how, in our boyhood, while feeling, but +quite unable to express, the emotions which were suggested by the bold +shapes of mountains resting against the stars, mirrored from below in +lakes and wild torrents, and quaking sometimes in concert with the +quaking couch of the half-slumbering earthquake, the poems of Ossian +served to give our thoughts an expression which they could not otherwise +have found--how they at once strengthened and consolidated enthusiasm, +and are now regarded with feelings which, wreathed around earliest +memories and the strongest fibres of the heart, no criticism can ever +weaken or destroy. + + +OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. + +I feel the sun, O Malvina!--leave me to my rest. Perhaps +they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! +The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of +Carthon: I feel it warm around. + +O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my +fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? +Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide +themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the +western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a +companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the +mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and +grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou +art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy +course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder +rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from +the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou +lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether +thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou +tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, +like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou +shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the +morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! +Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of +the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist +is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the +traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. + + +DESOLATION OF BALCLUTHA. + +I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. +The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the +people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed +from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook +there its lonely head; the moss whistled to the wind. The +fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall +waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina; +silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of +mourning, O bards! over the land of strangers. They have but +fallen before us: for one day we must fall. Why dost thou +build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from +thy towers to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the +desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles +round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert +come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm +shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the +song, send round the shell: let joy be heard in my hall. +When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if thou shalt fail, +thou mighty light! if thy brightness is but for a season, +like Fingal, our fame shall survive thy beams. Such was the +song of Fingal in the day of his joy. + + +FINGAL AND THE SPIRIT OF LODA. + +Night came down on the sea; Roma's bay received the ship. A +rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the +top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A +narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged +trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn +from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there! +the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The +flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around: but +the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief +distressed. + +The wan, cold moon, rose in the east; sleep descended on the +youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading +fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in +the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to +behold the flame of Sarno's tower. + +The flame was dim and distant, the moon hid her red face in +the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was +the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and +shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his +dark face; his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal +advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on high. + +Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou +come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy +gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of +clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls +them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my +presence, son of night! Call thy winds, and fly! + +Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. +The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of +the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my +nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the +winds: the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is +calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant. + +Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king; let Comhal's +son be forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my hills, into thy +peaceful plains? Do I meet thee, with a spear, on thy cloud, +spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why +shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled +from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the wind +frighten the king of Morven? No: he knows the weakness of +their arms! + +Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind, and +fly! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of +the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at +the storm of my power. His battle is around Carric-thura; +and he will prevail! Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel +my flaming wrath! + +He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his +dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword; the +blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel +winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into +air, like a column of smoke, which the staff of the boy +disturbs, as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace. + +The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he +rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound, the waves +heard it on the deep. They stopped in their course with +fear: the friends of Fingal started at once, and took their +heavy spears. They missed the king; they rose in rage; all +their arms resound! + + +ADDRESS TO THE MOON. + +Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face +is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars +attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in +thy presence, O moon! they brighten their dark-brown sides. +Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The +stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their +sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course, +when the darkness of thy countenance grows? hast thou thy +hall, like Ossian? dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? +have thy sisters fallen from heaven? are they who rejoiced +with thee at night no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair +light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself +shalt fail one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The +stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in +thy presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy +brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, +O wind! that the daughter of night may look forth! that the +shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white +waves in light. + + +FINGAL'S SPIRIT-HOME. + +His friends sit around the king, on mist! They hear the +songs of Ullin: he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises +the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand +meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a +blush is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown faces of her +fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. 'Art thou come so +soon?' said Fingal, 'daughter of generous Toscar. Sadness +dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the +breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It +comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is +mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy +rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises +yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The +maids are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, +mournest there!' + + +THE CAVE. + +1 The wind is up, the field is bare, + Some hermit lead me to his cell, + Where Contemplation, lonely fair, + With blessed content has chose to dwell. + +2 Behold! it opens to my sight, + Dark in the rock, beside the flood; + Dry fern around obstructs the light; + The winds above it move the wood. + +3 Reflected in the lake, I see + The downward mountains and the skies, + The flying bird, the waving tree, + The goats that on the hill arise. + +4 The gray-cloaked herd[1] drives on the cow; + The slow-paced fowler walks the heath; + A freckled pointer scours the brow; + A musing shepherd stands beneath. + +5 Curved o'er the ruin of an oak, + The woodman lifts his axe on high; + The hills re-echo to the stroke; + I see--I see the shivers fly! + +6 Some rural maid, with apron full, + Brings fuel to the homely flame; + I see the smoky columns roll, + And, through the chinky hut, the beam. + +7 Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss, + Two well-met hunters talk at ease; + Three panting dogs beside repose; + One bleeding deer is stretched on grass. + +8 A lake at distance spreads to sight, + Skirted with shady forests round; + In midst, an island's rocky height + Sustains a ruin, once renowned. + +9 One tree bends o'er the naked walls; + Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh; + By intervals a fragment falls, + As blows the blast along the sky. + +10 The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide + With labouring oars along the flood; + An angler, bending o'er the tide, + Hangs from the boat the insidious wood. + +11 Beside the flood, beneath the rocks, + On grassy bank, two lovers lean; + Bend on each other amorous looks, + And seem to laugh and kiss between. + +12 The wind is rustling in the oak; + They seem to hear the tread of feet; + They start, they rise, look round the rock; + Again they smile, again they meet. + +13 But see! the gray mist from the lake + Ascends upon the shady hills; + Dark storms the murmuring forests shake, + Rain beats around a hundred rills. + +14 To Damon's homely hut I fly; + I see it smoking on the plain; + When storms are past and fair the sky, + I'll often seek my cave again. + +[1] 'Herd': neat-herd. + + + + +WILLIAM MASON. + + +This gentleman is now nearly forgotten, except as the friend, biographer, +and literary executor of Gray. He was born in 1725, and died in 1797. +His tragedies, 'Elfrida' and 'Caractacus,' are spirited declamations +in dramatic form, not dramas. His odes have the turgidity without the +grandeur of Gray's. His 'English Garden' is too long and too formal. His +Life of Gray was an admirable innovation on the form of biography then +prevalent, interspersing, as it does, journals and letters with mere +narrative. Mason was a royal chaplain, held the living of Ashton, and +was precentor of York Cathedral. We quote the best of his minor poems. + + +EPITAPH ON MRS MASON, +IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL. + +1 Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: + Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: + To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care + Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave, + And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? + Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? + Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine: + Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. + +2 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; + Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; + And if so fair, from vanity as free; + As firm in friendship, and as fond in love; + Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, + ('Twas even to thee,) yet the dread path once trod, + Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, + And bids 'the pure in heart behold their God.' + + +AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, KNIGHT, +COMPTROLLER-GENERAL OF HIS MAJESTY'S WORKS, ETC. + +Knight of the Polar Star! by fortune placed +To shine the Cynosure of British taste; +Whose orb collects in one refulgent view +The scattered glories of Chinese virtù; +And spreads their lustre in so broad a blaze, +That kings themselves are dazzled while they gaze: +Oh, let the Muse attend thy march sublime, +And, with thy prose, caparison her rhyme; +Teach her, like thee, to gild her splendid song, +With scenes of Yven-Ming, and sayings of Li-Tsong; +Like thee to scorn dame Nature's simple fence; +Leap each ha-ha of truth and common sense; +And proudly rising in her bold career, +Demand attention from the gracious ear +Of him, whom we and all the world admit, +Patron supreme of science, taste, and wit. +Does envy doubt? Witness, ye chosen train, +Who breathe the sweets of his Saturnian reign; +Witness, ye Hills, ye Johnsons, Scots, Shebbeares, +Hark to my call, for some of you have ears. +Let David Hume, from the remotest north, +In see-saw sceptic scruples hint his worth; +David, who there supinely deigns to lie +The fattest hog of Epicurus' sty; +Though drunk with Gallic wine, and Gallic praise, +David shall bless Old England's halcyon days; +The mighty Home, bemired in prose so long, +Again shall stalk upon the stilts of song: +While bold Mac-Ossian, wont in ghosts to deal, +Bids candid Smollett from his coffin steal; +Bids Mallock quit his sweet Elysian rest, +Sunk in his St John's philosophic breast, +And, like old Orpheus, make some strong effort +To come from Hell, and warble Truth at Court. +There was a time, 'in Esher's peaceful grove, +When Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love,' +That Pope beheld them with auspicious smile, +And owned that beauty blest their mutual toil. +Mistaken bard! could such a pair design +Scenes fit to live in thy immortal line? +Hadst thou been born in this enlightened day, +Felt, as we feel, taste's oriental ray, +Thy satire sure had given them both a stab, +Called Kent a driveller, and the nymph a drab. +For what is Nature? Ring her changes round, +Her three flat notes are water, plants, and ground; +Prolong the peal, yet, spite of all your clatter, +The tedious chime is still ground, plants, and water. +So, when some John his dull invention racks, +To rival Boodle's dinners, or Almack's; +Three uncouth legs of mutton shock our eyes, +Three roasted geese, three buttered apple-pies. +Come, then, prolific Art, and with thee bring +The charms that rise from thy exhaustless spring; +To Richmond come, for see, untutored Browne +Destroys those wonders which were once thy own. +Lo, from his melon-ground the peasant slave +Has rudely rushed, and levelled Merlin's cave; +Knocked down the waxen wizard, seized his wand, +Transformed to lawn what late was fairy-land; +And marred, with impious hand, each sweet design +Of Stephen Duck, and good Queen Caroline. +Haste, bid yon livelong terrace re-ascend, +Replace each vista, straighten every bend; +Shut out the Thames; shall that ignoble thing +Approach the presence of great Ocean's king? +No! let barbaric glories feast his eyes, +August pagodas round his palace rise, +And finished Richmond open to his view, +'A work to wonder at, perhaps a Kew.' +Nor rest we here, but, at our magic call, +Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards crawl; +Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove, +Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love; +In some fair island will we turn to grass +(With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass. +Giants from Africa shall guard the glades, +Where hiss our snakes, where sport our Tartar maids; +Or, wanting these, from Charlotte Hayes we bring +Damsels, alike adroit to sport and sting. +Now to our lawns of dalliance and delight, +Join we the groves of horror and affright; +This to achieve no foreign aids we try,-- +Thy gibbets, Bagshot! shall our wants supply; +Hounslow, whose heath sublimer terror fills, +Shall with her gibbets lend her powder-mills. +Here, too, O king of vengeance, in thy fane, +Tremendous Wilkes shall rattle his gold chain; +And round that fane, on many a Tyburn tree, +Hang fragments dire of Newgate-history; +On this shall Holland's dying speech be read, +Here Bute's confession, and his wooden head: +While all the minor plunderers of the age, +(Too numerous far for this contracted page,) +The Rigbys, Calcrafts, Dysons, Bradshaws there, +In straw-stuffed effigy, shall kick the air. +But say, ye powers, who come when fancy calls, +Where shall our mimic London rear her walls? +That eastern feature, Art must next produce, +Though not for present yet for future use, +Our sons some slave of greatness may behold, +Cast in the genuine Asiatic mould: +Who of three realms shall condescend to know +No more than he can spy from Windsor's brow; +For him, that blessing of a better time, +The Muse shall deal a while in brick and lime; +Surpass the bold [Greek: ADELPHI] in design, +And o'er the Thames fling one stupendous line +Of marble arches, in a bridge, that cuts +From Richmond Ferry slant to Brentford Butts. +Brentford with London's charms will we adorn; +Brentford, the bishopric of Parson Horne. +There, at one glance, the royal eye shall meet +Each varied beauty of St James's Street; +Stout Talbot there shall ply with hackney chair, +And patriot Betty fix her fruit-shop there. +Like distant thunder, now the coach of state +Rolls o'er the bridge, that groans beneath its weight. +The court hath crossed the stream; the sports begin; +Now Noel preaches of rebellion's sin: +And as the powers of his strong pathos rise, +Lo, brazen tears fall from Sir Fletcher's eyes. +While skulking round the pews, that babe of grace, +Who ne'er before at sermon showed his face, +See Jemmy Twitcher shambles; stop! stop thief! +He's stolen the Earl of Denbigh's handkerchief, +Let Barrington arrest him in mock fury, +And Mansfield hang the knave without a jury. +But hark, the voice of battle shouts from far, +The Jews and Maccaronis are at war: +The Jews prevail, and, thundering from the stocks, +They seize, they bind, they circumcise Charles Fox. +Fair Schwellenbergen smiles the sport to see, +And all the maids of honour cry 'Te! He!' +Be these the rural pastimes that attend +Great Brunswick's leisure: these shall best unbend +His royal mind, whene'er from state withdrawn, +He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn; +These shall prolong his Asiatic dream, +Though Europe's balance trembles on its beam. +And thou, Sir William! while thy plastic hand +Creates each wonder which thy bard has planned, +While, as thy art commands, obsequious rise +Whate'er can please, or frighten, or surprise, +Oh, let that bard his knight's protection claim, +And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame. + + + + +JOHN LOWE. + + +The author of 'Mary's Dream' was born in 1750, at Kenmore, Galloway, and +was the son of a gardener. He became a student of divinity, and acted +as tutor in the family of a Mr McGhie of Airds. A daughter of Mr McGhie +was attached to a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, and on the +occasion of his death Lowe wrote his beautiful 'Mary's Dream,' the +exquisite simplicity and music of the first stanza of which has often +been admired. Lowe was betrothed to a sister of 'Mary,' but having +emigrated to America, he married another, fell into dissipated habits, +and died in a miserable plight at Fredericksburgh in 1798. He wrote many +other pieces, but none equal to 'Mary's Dream.' + + +MARY'S DREAM. + +1 The moon had climbed the highest hill + Which rises o'er the source of Dee, + And from the eastern summit shed + Her silver light on tower and tree; + When Mary laid her down to sleep, + Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, + When, soft and low, a voice was heard, + Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!' + +2 She from her pillow gently raised + Her head, to ask who there might be, + And saw young Sandy shivering stand, + With visage pale, and hollow ee. + 'O Mary dear, cold is my clay; + It lies beneath a stormy sea. + Far, far from thee I sleep in death; + So, Mary, weep no more for me! + +3 'Three stormy nights and stormy days + We tossed upon the raging main; + And long we strove our bark to save, + But all our striving was in vain. + Even then, when horror chilled my blood, + My heart was filled with love for thee: + The storm is past, and I at rest; + So, Mary, weep no more for me! + +4 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare; + We soon shall meet upon that shore, + Where love is free from doubt and care, + And thou and I shall part no more!' + Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, + No more of Sandy could she see; + But soft the passing spirit said, + 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' + + + + +JOSEPH WARTON. + + +This accomplished critic and poet was born in 1722. He was son to the +Vicar of Basingstoke, and brother to Thomas Warton. (See a former volume +for his life.) Joseph was educated at Winchester College, and became +intimate there with William Collins. He wrote when quite young some +poetry in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. He was in due time removed to Oriel +College, where he composed two poems, entitled 'The Enthusiast,' and 'The +Dying Indian.' In 1744, he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at Oxford, +and was ordained to his father's curacy at Basingstoke. He went thence +to Chelsea, but did not remain there long, owing to some disagreement +with his parishioners, and returned to Basingstoke. In 1746, he published +a volume of Odes, and in the preface expressed his hope that it might +be successful as an attempt to bring poetry back from the didactic and +satirical taste of the age, to the truer channels of fancy and description. +The motive of this attempt was, however, more praiseworthy than its success +was conspicuous. + +In 1748, Warton was presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory of +Winslade, and he straightway married a Miss Daman, to whom he had for +some time been attached. In the same year he began, and in 1753 he +finished and printed, an edition of Virgil in English and Latin. Of this +large, elaborate work, Warton himself supplied only the life of Virgil, +with three essays on pastoral, didactic, and epic poetry, and a poetical +version of the Eclogues and the Georgics, more correct but less spirited +than Dryden's. He adopted Pitt's version of the Aeneid, and his friends +furnished some of the dissertations, notes, &c. Shortly after, he +contributed twenty-four excellent papers, including some striking +allegories, and some good criticisms on Shakspeare, to the _Adventurer_. +In 1754, he was appointed to the living of Tunworth, and the next year +was elected second master of Winchester School. Soon after this he +published anonymously 'An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope,' +which, whether because he failed in convincing the public that his +estimate of Pope was the correct one, or because he stood in awe of +Warburton, he did not complete or reprint for twenty-six years. It is a +somewhat gossiping book, but full of information and interest. + +In May 1766, he was made head-master of Winchester. In 1768, he lost his +wife, and next year married a Miss Nicholas of Winchester. In 1782, he +was promoted, through Bishop Lowth, to a prebend's post in St Paul's, and +to the living of Thorley, which he exchanged for that of Wickham. Other +livings dropped in upon him, and in 1793 he resigned the mastership of +Winchester, and went to reside at Wickham. Here he employed himself in +preparing an edition of Pope, which he published in 1797. In 1800 he +died. + +Warton, like his brother, did good service in resisting the literary +despotism of Pope, and in directing the attention of the public to the +forgotten treasures of old English poetry. He was a man of extensive +learning, a very fair and candid, as well as acute critic, and his 'Ode +to Fancy' proves him to have possessed no ordinary genius. + + +ODE TO FANCY. + +O parent of each lovely Muse, +Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, +O'er all my artless songs preside, +My footsteps to thy temple guide, +To offer at thy turf-built shrine, +In golden cups no costly wine, +No murdered fatling of the flock, +But flowers and honey from the rock. +O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, +With buskined leg, and bosom bare, +Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, +Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned, +Waving in thy snowy hand +An all-commanding magic wand, +Of power to bid fresh gardens blow, +'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow, +Whose rapid wings thy flight convey +Through air, and over earth and sea, +While the vast various landscape lies +Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. +O lover of the desert, hail! +Say, in what deep and pathless vale, +Or on what hoary mountain's side, +'Mid fall of waters, you reside, +'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene, +With green and grassy dales between, +'Mid forests dark of aged oak, +Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, +Where never human art appeared, +Nor even one straw-roofed cot was reared, +Where Nature seems to sit alone, +Majestic on a craggy throne; +Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, +To thy unknown sequestered cell, +Where woodbines cluster round the door, +Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, +And on whose top a hawthorn blows, +Amid whose thickly-woven boughs +Some nightingale still builds her nest, +Each evening warbling thee to rest: +Then lay me by the haunted stream, +Rapt in some wild, poetic dream, +In converse while methinks I rove +With Spenser through a fairy grove; +Till, suddenly awaked, I hear +Strange whispered music in my ear, +And my glad soul in bliss is drowned +By the sweetly-soothing sound! +Me, goddess, by the right hand lead +Sometimes through the yellow mead, +Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, +And Venus keeps her festive court; +Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, +And lightly trip with nimble feet, +Nodding their lily-crowned heads, +Where Laughter rose-lipped Hebe leads; +Where Echo walks steep hills among, +Listening to the shepherd's song: +Yet not these flowery fields of joy +Can long my pensive mind employ; +Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, +To meet the matron Melancholy, +Goddess of the tearful eye, +That loves to fold her arms, and sigh; +Let us with silent footsteps go +To charnels and the house of woe, +To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, +Where each sad night some virgin comes, +With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, +Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek; +Or to some abbey's mouldering towers, +Where, to avoid cold wintry showers, +The naked beggar shivering lies, +While whistling tempests round her rise, +And trembles lest the tottering wall +Should on her sleeping infants fall. +Now let us louder strike the lyre, +For my heart glows with martial fire,-- +I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, +My big tumultuous bosom beat; +The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear, +A thousand widows' shrieks I hear, +Give me another horse, I cry, +Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; +Whence is this rage?--what spirit, say, +To battle hurries me away? +'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, +Transports me to the thickest war, +There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, +Where Tumult and Destruction reign; +Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed +Tramples the dying and the dead; +Where giant Terror stalks around, +With sullen joy surveys the ground, +And, pointing to the ensanguined field, +Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! +Oh, guide me from this horrid scene, +To high-arched walks and alleys green, +Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun +The fervours of the mid-day sun; +The pangs of absence, oh, remove! +For thou canst place me near my love, +Canst fold in visionary bliss, +And let me think I steal a kiss, +While her ruby lips dispense +Luscious nectar's quintessence! +When young-eyed Spring profusely throws +From her green lap the pink and rose, +When the soft turtle of the dale +To Summer tells her tender tale; +When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, +And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; +When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, +Shakes his silver beard with cold; +At every season let my ear +Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. +O warm, enthusiastic maid, +Without thy powerful, vital aid, +That breathes an energy divine, +That gives a soul to every line, +Ne'er may I strive with lips profane +To utter an unhallowed strain, +Nor dare to touch the sacred string, +Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing. +Oh, hear our prayer! oh, hither come +From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, +On which thou lovest to sit at eve, +Musing o'er thy darling's grave; +O queen of numbers, once again +Animate some chosen swain, +Who, filled with unexhausted fire, +May boldly smite the sounding lyre, +Who with some new unequalled song +May rise above the rhyming throng, +O'er all our listening passions reign, +O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, +With terror shake, and pity move, +Rouse with revenge, or melt with love; +Oh, deign to attend his evening walk, +With him in groves and grottoes talk; +Teach him to scorn with frigid art +Feebly to touch the enraptured heart; +Like lightning, let his mighty verse +The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; +With native beauties win applause +Beyond cold critics' studied laws; +Oh, let each Muse's fame increase! +Oh, bid Britannia rival Greece! + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS. + + +SONG. + +FROM 'THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES.' DUBLIN, 1772. + +1 Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit + Do various passions raise; + And, like the lightning, yield a bright, + But momentary blaze. + +2 Eliza's milder, gentler sway, + Her conquests fairly won, + Shall last till life and time decay, + Eternal as the sun. + +3 Thus the wild flood with deafening roar + Bursts dreadful from on high; + But soon its empty rage is o'er, + And leaves the channel dry: + +4 While the pure stream, which still and slow + Its gentler current brings, + Through every change of time shall flow + With unexhausted springs. + + +VERSES, + +COPIED FROM THE WINDOW OF AN OBSCURE LODGING-HOUSE, +IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF LONDON. + +Stranger! whoe'er thou art, whose restless mind, +Like me within these walls is cribbed, confined; +Learn how each want that heaves our mutual sigh +A woman's soft solicitudes supply. +From her white breast retreat all rude alarms, +Or fly the magic circle of her arms; +While souls exchanged alternate grace acquire, +And passions catch from passion's glorious fire: +What though to deck this roof no arts combine, +Such forms as rival every fair but mine; +No nodding plumes, our humble couch above, +Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love; +No silver lamp with sculptured Cupids gay, +O'er yielding beauty pours its midnight ray; +Yet Fanny's charms could Time's slow flight beguile, +Soothe every care, and make each dungeon smile: +In her, what kings, what saints have wished, is given, +Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven. + + +THE OLD BACHELOR. + +AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER. + +1 In Phoebus' region while some bards there be + That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar; + Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me, + Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar! + Haply a scene of meaner view to scan, + Beneath their laurelled praise my verse may give, + To trace the features of unnoticed man; + Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! + Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, + From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach. + +2 A wight there was, who single and alone + Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, + Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known + His heart to captive, or his thought engage: + Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind + Might female worth or beauty give to wear, + Yet to the nobler sex he held confined + The genuine graces of the soul sincere, + And well could show with saw or proverb quaint + All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint. + +3 In plain attire this wight apparelled was, + (For much he conned of frugal lore and knew,) + Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, + From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: + But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, + Or feast, or birthday, should it chance to be, + A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore, + And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, + Gold clasped his shoon, by maiden brushed so sheen, + And his rough beard he shaved, and donned his linen clean. + +4 But in his common garb a coat he wore, + A faithful coat that long its lord had known, + That once was black, but now was black no more, + Attinged by various colours not its own. + All from his nostrils was the front embrowned, + And down the back ran many a greasy line, + While, here and there, his social moments owned + The generous signet of the purple wine. + Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appeared, + Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeared. + +5 One only maid he had, like turtle true, + But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; + For many a time her tongue bewrayed the shrew, + And in meet words unpacked her peevish mind. + Ne formed was she to raise the soft desire + That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, + Ne formed was she to light the tender fire, + By many a bard is sung in many a strain: + Hooked was her nose, and countless wrinkles told + What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old. + +6 When the clock told the wonted hour was come + When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew, + Eight patient would she watch his wending home, + His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. + If long his time was past, and leaden sleep + O'er her tired eyelids 'gan his reign to stretch, + Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep, + And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach; + Haply if potent gin had armed her tongue, + All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung. + +7 For though, the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle + O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign, + On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile, + Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign: + For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink + Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, + And for the medicine's sake, might envy think, + Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral; + Yet much the proffer did she loathe, and say + No dram might maiden taste, and often answered nay. + +8 So as in single animals he joyed, + One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed; + The first the cate-devouring mice destroyed, + Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled: + All in the sunbeams basked the lazy cat, + Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; + On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat, + And loud he barked should Puss his right invade. + The human pair oft marked them as they lay, + And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they. + +9 A room he had that faced the southern ray, + Where oft he walked to set his thoughts in tune, + Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway, + All to the music of his creeking shoon. + And at the end a darkling closet stood, + Where books he kept of old research and new, + In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood, + And rusty nails and phials not a few: + Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, + And papers squared and trimmed for use unmeet to tell. + +10 For still in form he placed his chief delight, + Nor lightly broke his old accustomed rule, + And much uncourteous would he hold the wight + That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool; + And oft in meet array their ranks he placed, + And oft with careful eye their ranks reviewed; + For novel forms, though much those forms had graced, + Himself and maiden-minister eschewed: + One path he trod, nor ever would decline + A hair's unmeasured breadth from off the even line. + +11 A Club select there was, where various talk + On various chapters passed the lingering hour, + And thither oft he bent his evening walk, + And warmed to mirth by wine's enlivening power. + And oft on politics the preachments ran, + If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume: + And oft important matters would they scan, + And deep in council fix a nation's doom: + And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer, + Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved to hear. + +12 For men like him they were of like consort, + Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn, + Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport, + And blessed their stars that kept the curse from them! + No honest love they knew, no melting smile + That shoots the transports to the throbbing heart! + Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile + Lascivious smiling through the mask of art: + And so of women deemed they as they knew, + And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew. + +13 But most abhorred they hymeneal rites, + And boasted oft the freedom of their fate: + Nor 'vailed, as they opined, its best delights + Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait; + And often would they tell of henpecked fool + Snubbed by the hard behest of sour-eyed dame. + And vowed no tongue-armed woman's freakish rule + Their mirth should quail, or damp their generous flame: + Then pledged their hands, and tossed their bumpers o'er, + And Io! Bacchus! sung, and owned no other power. + +14 If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose + Within some breast of less obdurate frame, + Lo! where its hideous form a phantom shows + Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name. + Him Scorn attended with a glance askew, + And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, + Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew, + And vexed the region round the Cupid's throne: + 'Far be from us,' they cried, 'the treacherous bane, + Far be the dimply guile, and far the flowery chain!' + + +CARELESS CONTENT. + +1 I am content, I do not care, + Wag as it will the world for me; + When fuss and fret was all my fare, + It got no ground as I could see: + So when away my caring went, + I counted cost, and was content. + +2 With more of thanks and less of thought, + I strive to make my matters meet; + To seek what ancient sages sought, + Physic and food in sour and sweet: + To take what passes in good part, + And keep the hiccups from the heart. + +3 With good and gentle-humoured hearts, + I choose to chat where'er I come, + Whate'er the subject be that starts; + But if I get among the glum, + I hold my tongue to tell the truth, + And keep my breath to cool my broth. + +4 For chance or change of peace or pain, + For Fortune's favour or her frown, + For lack or glut, for loss or gain, + I never dodge, nor up nor down: + But swing what way the ship shall swim, + Or tack about with equal trim. + +5 I suit not where I shall not speed, + Nor trace the turn of every tide; + If simple sense will not succeed, + I make no bustling, but abide: + For shining wealth, or scaring woe, + I force no friend, I fear no foe. + +6 Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, + Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right, + I shun the rancours and the routs; + And wishing well to every wight, + Whatever turn the matter takes, + I deem it all but ducks and drakes. + +7 With whom I feast I do not fawn, + Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; + If wonted welcome be withdrawn, + I cook no kind of a complaint: + With none disposed to disagree, + But like them best who best like me. + +8 Not that I rate myself the rule + How all my betters should behave + But fame shall find me no man's fool, + Nor to a set of men a slave: + I love a friendship free and frank, + And hate to hang upon a hank. + +9 Fond of a true and trusty tie, + I never loose where'er I link; + Though if a business budges by, + I talk thereon just as I think; + My word, my work, my heart, my hand, + Still on a side together stand. + +10 If names or notions make a noise, + Whatever hap the question hath, + The point impartially I poise, + And read or write, but without wrath; + For should I burn, or break my brains, + Pray, who will pay me for my pains? + +11 I love my neighbour as myself, + Myself like him too, by his leave; + Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, + Came I to crouch, as I conceive: + Dame Nature doubtless has designed + A man the monarch of his mind. + +12 Now taste and try this temper, sirs, + Mood it and brood it in your breast; + Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, + That man does right to mar his rest, + Let me be deft, and debonair, + I am content, I do not care. + + +A PASTORAL. + +1 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, + When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; + Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: + Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! + But now she is gone, and has left me behind, + What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! + When things were as fine as could possibly be, + I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she. + +2 With such a companion to tend a few sheep, + To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep: + I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay, + My heart was as light as a feather all day; + But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, + So strangely uneasy, as never was known. + My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, + And my heart--I am sure it weighs more than a pound. + +3 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, + And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; + Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, + 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: + But now she is absent, I walk by its side, + And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; + Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? + Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. + +4 My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, + And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; + How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, + When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime! + But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, + I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass: + Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, + To see you so merry while I am so sad. + +5 My dog I was ever well pleased to see + Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; + And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, + 'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. + But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look + Cry 'Sirrah;' and give him a blow with my crook: + And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray + Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away? + +6 When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, + How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! + What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, + The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! + But now she has left me, though all are still there, + They none of them now so delightful appear: + 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, + Made so many beautiful prospects arise. + +7 Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, + The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; + Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, + And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. + But now she is absent, though still they sing on, + The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: + Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, + Gave everything else its agreeable sound. + +8 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? + And where is the violet's beautiful blue? + Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile? + That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? + Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed, + And made yourselves fine for--a place in her breast: + You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, + To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. + +9 How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! + While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: + Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, + I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. + Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, + And rest so much longer for't when she is here. + Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, + Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. + +10 Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, + Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? + To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; + But what swain is so silly to live without love! + No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, + For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. + Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair; + Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. + + +ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE. + +Little tube of mighty power, +Charmer of an idle hour, +Object of my warm desire, +Lip of wax and eye of fire; +And thy snowy taper waist, +With my finger gently braced; +And thy pretty swelling crest, +With my little stopper pressed; +And the sweetest bliss of blisses, +Breathing from thy balmy kisses. +Happy thrice, and thrice again, +Happiest he of happy men; +Who when again the night returns, +When again the taper burns, +When again the cricket's gay, +(Little cricket full of play,) +Can afford his tube to feed +With the fragrant Indian weed: +Pleasure for a nose divine, +Incense of the god of wine. +Happy thrice, and thrice again, +Happiest he of happy men. + + +AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. + +1 Away! let nought to love displeasing, + My Winifreda, move your care; + Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, + Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. + +2 What though no grants of royal donors, + With pompous titles grace our blood; + We'll shine in more substantial honours, + And, to be noble, we'll be good. + +3 Our name while virtue thus we tender, + Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; + And all the great ones, they shall wonder + How they respect such little folk. + +4 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, + No mighty treasures we possess; + We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, + And be content without excess. + +5 Still shall each kind returning season + Sufficient for our wishes give; + For we will live a life of reason, + And that's the only life to live. + +6 Through youth and age, in love excelling, + We'll hand in hand together tread; + Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, + And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. + +7 How should I love the pretty creatures, + While round my knees they fondly clung! + To see them look their mother's features, + To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! + +8 And when with envy Time transported, + Shall think to rob us of our joys; + You'll in your girls again be courted, + And I'll go wooing in my boys. + + +RICHARD BENTLEY'S SOLE POETICAL COMPOSITION. + +1 Who strives to mount Parnassus' hill, + And thence poetic laurels bring, + Must first acquire due force and skill, + Must fly with swan's or eagle's wing. + +2 Who Nature's treasures would explore, + Her mysteries and arcana know, + Must high as lofty Newton soar, + Must stoop as delving Woodward low. + +3 Who studies ancient laws and rites, + Tongues, arts, and arms, and history; + Must drudge, like Selden, days and nights, + And in the endless labour die. + +4 Who travels in religious jars, + (Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,) + Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars, + In ocean wide or sinks or strays. + +5 But grant our hero's hope, long toil + And comprehensive genius crown, + All sciences, all arts his spoil, + Yet what reward, or what renown? + +6 Envy, innate in vulgar souls, + Envy steps in and stops his rise; + Envy with poisoned tarnish fouls + His lustre, and his worth decries. + +7 He lives inglorious or in want, + To college and old books confined: + Instead of learned, he's called pedant; + Dunces advanced, he's left behind: + Yet left content, a genuine Stoic he, + Great without patron, rich without South Sea. + + +LINES ADDRESSED TO POPE.[1] + +1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page + Its own celestial fire; + While critics and while bards in rage + Admiring, won't admire: + +2 While wayward pens thy worth assail, + And envious tongues decry; + These times, though many a friend bewail, + These times bewail not I. + +3 But when the world's loud praise is thine, + And spleen no more shall blame; + When with thy Homer thou shalt shine + In one unclouded fame: + +4 When none shall rail, and every lay + Devote a wreath to thee; + That day (for come it will) that day + Shall I lament to see. + +[1] Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by +Johnson.--_See_ Boswell. + + + +THE END. + + + + +INDEX + + VOL. +A Ballad upon a Wedding, SUCKLING, i. +Abel's Blood, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the + Legion Club, SWIFT, iii. +A Cradle Hymn, WATTS, iii. +Address to the Nightingale, BARNFIELD, i. +A Description of Castara, HABINGTON, ii. +A Distempered Fancy, MORE, ii. +Admiral Hosier's Ghost, GLOVER, iii. +Address to the Moon, MACPHERSON, iii. +A Friend, PHILLIPS, ii. +A Fragment of Sappho, PHILIPS, iii. +Allegorical Characters from 'The Mirror for +Magistrates,' SACKVILLE, i. +ALEXANDER, WILLIAM, EARL OF STIRLING, i. +A Loose Saraband, LOVELACE, ii. +A Meditation, WOTTON, i. +An Epitaph, BEAUMONT, i. +An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers, MASON, iii. +An Ode to the Right Hon. Lord Gower, FENTON, iii. +An American Love Ode, WARTON THE ELDER, iii. +Apostrophe to Freedom, BARBOUR, i. +A Praise to his Lady, ANONYMOUS, i. +A Pastoral Dialogue, CAREW, i. +A Pastoral, iii. +Apostrophe to Fletcher the Dramatist, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Persian Song of Hafiz, JONES, iii. +Arcadia, CHALKHILL, ii. +Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks, CHAMBERLAYNE, ii. +Ascension-Day, VAUGHAN, ii. +A Vision upon the "Fairy Queen," RALEIGH, i. +A Valediction, BROWNE, i. +A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque, COTTON, ii. +Away! Let nought to Love Displeasing, iii. + +BAMPFYLDE, JOHN, iii. +BARBOUR, JOHN, i. +BARCLAY, ALEXANDER i. +BARNFIELD, RICHARD i. +Battle of Black Earnside BLIND HARRY, i. +Baucis and Philemon SWIFT, iii. +BEAUMONT, FRANCIS i. +BEAUMONT, DR JOSEPH ii. +BISHOP, SAMUEL iii. +BLACKMORE, SIR RICHARD iii. +BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM iii. +BLACKLOCK, THOMAS iii. +BLAMIRE, SUSANNA iii. +BLIND HARRY i. +Breathing toward the Heavenly Country WATTS, iii. +Bristowe Tragedy CHATTERTON, iii. +BROWN, JOHN iii. +BROWNE, ISAAC HAWKINS iii. +BROWNE, WILLIAM i. +BROOKE, HENRY iii. +BRUCE, MICHAEL iii. +BURTON, ROBERT i. +Burial VAUGHAN, ii. +BOOTH, BARTON iii. +BRAMSTON iii. + +Canace Condemned to Death by her Father LYDGATE, i. +Careless Content iii. +CAREW, THOMAS i. +CARTWRIGHT, WILLIAM i. +CAREY, HENRY iii. +Celia Singing STANLEY, ii. +CHALKHILL, JOHN ii. +CHAMBERLAYNE, WILLIAM ii. +CHATTERTON, THOMAS iii. +Cherry Ripe HERRICK, ii. +Cheerfulness VAUGHAN, ii. +CHESTERFIELD, LORD iii. +Childhood VAUGHAN, ii. +Close of 'Christ's Victory and Triumph' FLETCHER, i. +Cock-crowing VAUGHAN, ii. +COCKBURN, MRS iii. +Complaint of Nature LOGAN, iii. +CORBET, RICHARD i. +Corinna's Going a-Maying HERRICK, ii. +COOPER, JOHN GILBERT iii. +COTTON, CHARLES ii. +COTTON, NATHANIEL iii. +COWLEY, ABRAHAM ii. +CRAWFORD, ROBERT iii. +Creation, BLACKMORE, iii. +Cumnor Hall, MICKLE, iii. +CUNNINGHAM, JOHN, iii. + +DANIEL, SAMUEL, i. +DAVIES, SIR JOHN, i. +Davideis--Book II., COWLEY, ii. +DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM, ii. +Description of King's Mistress, JAMES I., i. +Death of Sir Henry de Bohun, BARBOUR, i. +Description of Morning, DRAYTON, i. +Description of Parthenia, FLETCHER, i. +Destruction and Renovation of all Things, DR H. MORE, ii. +Desolation of Balclutha, MACPHERSON, iii. +Dinner given by the Town Mouse to the Country + Mouse, HENRYSON, i. +Directions for Cultivating a Hop Garden, TUSSER, i. +DODSLEY, ROBERT, iii. +DONNE, JOHN, i. +DOUGLAS, GAVIN, i. +DRAYTON, MICHAEL, i. +DRUMMOND, WILLIAM, i. +DU BARTAS, i. +DUNBAR, WILLIAM, i. +Dwelling of the Witch Orandra, CHALKHILL, ii. + +Early Love, DANIEL, i. +EDWARDS, RICHARD, i. +Elegy XIII., HAMMOND, iii. +Elegy written in Spring, BRUCE, iii. +ELLIOT, Miss JANE, iii. +End, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke, JONSON, i. +Epistle addressed to the Honourable W. E. HABINGTON, ii. +Epitaph on Mrs Mason, MASON, iii. +Evening, BROWNE, i. +Eve, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Exordium of Third Part of 'Pyschozoia', DR H. MORE, ii. + +FAIRFAX, EDWARD, i. +Farewell to the Vanities of the World, WOTTON, i. +FANSHAWE, SIR RICHARD, ii. +FAWKES, FRANCIS, iii. +FENTON, ELIJAH, iii. +Few Happy Matches, WATTS, iii. +February--an Elegy, CHATTERTON, iii. +FERGUSSON, ROBERT, iii. +Fingal and the Spirit of Loda, MACPHERSON, iii. +Fingal's Spirit-Home, MACPHERSON, iii. +FLETCHER, GILES +FLETCHER, PHINEAS +From 'The Phoenix' Nest' ANONYMOUS, i. +From the Same ANONYMOUS, i. +From 'Britannia's Pastorals' W. BROWNE, i. +From 'The Shepherd's Hunting' WITHER, i. +From the Same WITHER, ii. +From 'Gondibert,' Canto II. DAVENANT, ii. +From 'Gondibert,' Canto IV. DAVENANT, ii. +From 'An Essay on Translated Verse' EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ii. +From 'The Gentle Shepherd,' Act I., Scene II. RAMSAY, iii. +From 'The Monody' LYTTELTON, iii. +From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii. +From the Same LANGHORNE, iii. +From 'Leonidas,' Book XII. GLOVER, iii. + +GARTH, SIR SAMUEL iii. +GASCOIGNE, GEORGE i. +Gipsies--From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii. +GLOVER, RICHARD iii. +Good-morrow GASCOIGNE, i. +Good-night GASCOIGNE, i. +GOULD iii. +GOWER, JOHN i. +Gratification which the Lover's Passion receives + from the Sense of Hearing GOWER, i. +GRAINGER, DR JAMES iii. +GREVILLE, MRS iii. + +HABINGTON, WILLIAM ii. +HALL, JOSEPH, BISHOP OF NORWICH ii. +Hallo, my Fancy ii. +HAMMOND, JAMES iii. +HAMILTON, WILLIAM iii. +Happiness of the Shepherd's Life P. FLETCHER, i. +HARDING, JOHN i. +HARRINGTON, JOHN i. +Harpalus' Complaint of Phillida's Love + bestowed on Corin i. +HARTE, DR WALTER iii. +HAWES, STEPHEN i. +HENRYSON, ROBERT i. +Henry, Duke of Buckingham, in the Infernal + Regions T. SACKVILLE, i. +HERRICK, ROBERT ii. +Hell DR J. BEAUMONT, ii. +HEATH, ROBERT ii. +HEADLEY, HENRY iii. +Holy Sonnets, DONNE, i. +Housewifely Physic, TUSSER, i. +HUME, ALEXANDER, i. + +Image of Death, SOUTHWELL, i. +Imperial Rome Personified, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +Imitation of Thomson, ISAAC BROWNE, iii. +Imitation of Pope, ISAAC BBOWNE, iii. +Imitation of Swift, ISAAC BROWNE, iii. +Instability of Human Greatness, P. FLETCHER, i. +Introduction to the Poem on the Soul of Man, DAVIES, i. +Invitation to Izaak Walton, COTTON, ii. +In praise of the renowned Lady Anne, Countess + of Warwick, TURBERVILLE, i. +Isaac's Marriage, VAUGHAN, ii. + +JAGO, REV. RICHARD, iii. +JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND, i. +Jacob's Pillow and Pillar, VAUGHAN, ii. +Jephthah's Daughter, HERRICK, ii. +JOHN THE CHAPLAIN, i. +JONSON, BEN, i. +JONES, SIR WILLIAM, iii. +Joseph's Dream, DE BEAUMONT, ii. +Journey into France, CORBET, i. + +KAY, JOHN, i. +Kenrick--translated from the Saxon, CHATTERTON, iii. +KING, DE HENRY, ii. + +La Belle Confidante, STANLEY, ii. +LANGHORNE, JOHN, iii. +Life, COWLEY, ii. +Life, KING, ii. +Lines addressed to Pope, LEWIS, iii. +LLOYD, ROBERT, iii. +Lochaber no more, RAMSAY, iii. +LOGAN, JOHN, iii. +London Lyckpenny, The LYDGATE, i. +Look Home, SOUTHWELL, i. +Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i. +Love admits no Rival, RALEIGH, i. +Love's Darts, CARTWRIGHT, i. +LOVELACE, RICHARD, ii. +Love-Sick, VAUGHAN, ii. +LOVIBOND, EDWARD, iii. +LOWE, JOHN, iii. +LYDGATE, JOHN, i. +LYNDSAY, SIR DAVID, i. +LYTTELTON, LORD, iii. + +MACPHERSON, JAMES iii. +MAITLAND, SIR RICHARD, OF LETHINGTON i. +MALLETT, DAVID iii. +Man's Fall and Recovery VAUGHAN, ii. +Marriage of Christ and the Church P. FLETCHER, i. +MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE ii. +Mary's Dream LOWE, iii. +MARVELL, ANDREW ii. +MASON, WILLIAM iii. +May-Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen CUNNINGHAM, iii. +Meldrum's Duel with the English Champion + Talbert LYNDSAY, i. +Melancholy described by Mirth DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii. +Melancholy describing herself DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii. +MERRICK, JAMES iii. +MESTON, WILLIAM iii. +MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS iii. +Misery VAUGHAN, ii. +MONTGOMERY, ALEXANDER i. +MOORE, EDWARD iii. +MOORE, SIR JOHN HENRY iii. +MORE, DR HENRY ii. +Morning in May DOUGLAS, i. +Moral Reflections on the Wind TUSSER, i. +Mount of Olives VAUGHAN, ii. +My Mind to me a Kingdom is ii. + +Note on Anacreon STANLEY ii. +NUGENT, LORD (ROBERT CRAGGS) iii. + +Oberon's Palace HERRICK, ii. +Oberon's Feast HERRICK, ii. +OCCLEVE, THOMAS i. +Ode to Solitude GRAINGER, iii. +Ode on hearing the Drum JOHN SCOTT, iii. +Ode to Mankind NUGENT, iii. +Ode to Aurora BLACKLOCK, iii. +Ode to Fancy JOSEPH WARTON, iii. +Ode to a Tobacco-pipe iii. +Of Wit COWLEY, ii. +Of Solitude COWLEY, ii. +OLDYS, WILLIAM iii. +On Tombs in Westminster BEAUMONT, i. +On Man's Resemblance to God DU BARTAS, i. +On the Portrait of Shakspeare JONSON, i. +On Melancholy BURTON, i. +On the Death of Sir Bevil Granville CARTWRIGHT, i. +On the Praise of Poetry COWLEY, ii. +On Paradise Lost MARVELL, ii. +Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i. + +On a Charnel-house, VAUGHAN, ii. +On Gombauld's 'Endymion,' VAUGHAN, ii. +On Poetry, SWIFT, iii. +On the Death of Dr Swift, SWIFT, iii. +Opening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia,' DR MORE, ii. +Ossian's Address to the Sun, MACPHERSON, iii. + +Palm-Sunday, VAUGHAN, ii. +Paradise, DR BEAUMONT, ii. +PENROSE, THOMAS, iii. +Persuasions to Love, CAREW, i. +PHILIPS, AMBROSE, iii. +PHILIPS, JOHN, iii. +PHILLIPS, CATHERINE, ii. +Picture of the Town, VAUGHAN, ii. +POMFRET, JOHN, iii. +POPE, DR WALTER, iii. +Power of Genius over Envy, W. BROWNE, i. +Priestess of Diana, CHALKHILL, ii. +Protest of Love, HEATH, ii. +Providence, VAUGHAN, ii. +Psalm CIV., VAUGHAN, ii. + +RALEIGH, SIR WALTER, i. +RAMSAY, ALLAN, iii. +RANDOLPH, THOMAS, i. +Regeneration, VAUGHAN, ii. +Repentance, VAUGHAN, ii. +Resurrection and Immortality, VAUGHAN, ii. +Richard II. the Morning before his Murder + in Pomfret Castle, DANIEL, i. +Richard Bentley's Sole Poetical Composition, iii. +Righteousness, VAUGHAN, ii. +Rinaldo at Mount Olivet, FAIRFAX, i. +ROBERTS, WILLIAM HAYWARD, iii. +ROSCOMMON, THE EARL OF, ii. +ROSS, ALEXANDER, iii. +Rules and Lessons, VAUGHAN, ii. + +SACKVILLE, THOMAS, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET, i. +SACKVILLE, CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET, iii. +Sally in our Alley, CAREY, iii. +Satire I., HALL, ii. +Satire VII., HALL, ii. +Satire on Holland, MARVELL, ii. +SAVAGE, RICHARD, iii. +SCOTT, JOHN, iii. +SCOTT, THOMAS, iii. +Selections from Sonnets, DANIEL, i. +SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES, iii. +SEWELL, DR GEORGE, iii. +SHAW, CUTHBERT, iii. +Sic Vita, KING, ii. +SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP, i. +SKELTON, JOHN, i. +SMART, CHRISTOPHER, iii. +Song of Sorceress seeking to Tempt + Jesus, G. FLETCHER, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, CAREW, i. +Song, SUCKLING, i. +Song, SUCKLING, i. +Song, W. BROWNE, i. +Song, W. BROWNE, i. +Song to Althea from Prison, LOVELACE, ii. +Song, LOVELACE, ii. +Song, HERRICK, ii. +Song, KING, ii. +Song, WILMOT, ii. +Song, WILMOT, ii. +Song, C. SACKVILLE, iii. +Song, SEDLEY, iii. +Song to David, SMART, iii. +Song, ANONYMOUS, iii. +Sonnet on Isabella Markham, HARRINGTON, i. +Sonnet, WATSON, i. +Sonnet, ALEXANDER, i. +Sonnets, SIDNEY, i. +Sonnets, DRUMMOND, i. +Soul compared to a Lantern, DR H. MORE, ii. +SOUTHWELL, EGBERT, i. +Spiritual Poems, DRUMMOND, i. +Spirituality of the Soul, DAVIES, i. +St Mary Magdalene, VAUGHAN, ii. +STANLEY, THOMAS, ii. +STEVENS, GEORGE ALEXANDER, iii. +STORRER, THOMAS, i. +SUCKLING, SIR JOHN, i. +Supplication in Contemption of Side-tails, LYNDSAY, i. +SYLVESTER, JOSHUA, i. +SWIFT, JONATHAN, iii. +SCOTT, ALEXANDER, i. + +That all things sometimes find Ease of their + Pain save only the Lover, UNKNOWN, i. +Thanks for a Summer's Day, HUME, i. +The Angler's Wish, WALTON, ii. +The Author's Picture BLACKLOCK, iii. +The Birks of Invermay MALLETT, iii. +The Bastard SAVAGE, iii. +The Braes of Yarrow HAMILTON, iii. +The Bush aboon Traquair CRAWFORD, iii. +The Brown Jug FAWKES, iii. +The Cave MACPHERSON, iii. +The Choice POMFRET, iii. +The Chameleon MERRICK, iii. +The Chariot of the Sun DU BARTAS, i. +The Chariot of the Sun GOWER, i. +The Chronicle: A Ballad COWLEY, ii. +The Country's Recreations RALEIGH, i. +The Country Life HERRICK, ii. +The Complaint COWLEY, ii. +The Constellation VAUGHAN, ii. +The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell DUNBAR, i. +The Dawning VAUGHAN, ii. +The Death of Wallace BLIND HARRY, i. +The Despair COWLEY, ii. +The Dispensary GARTH, iii. +The Emigrants MARVELL, ii. +The Farmer's Ingle FERGUSSON, iii. +The Feast VAUGHAN, ii. +The Flowers of the Forest MISS ELLIOT, iii. +The Same MRS COCKBURN, iii. +The Fairy Queen ii. +The Garland VAUGHAN, ii. +The Garment of Good Ladies HENRYSON, i. +The Golden Age VAUGHAN, ii. +The Inquiry C. PHILLIPS, ii. +The Jews VAUGHAN, ii. +The Kiss: A Dialogue HERRICK, ii. +The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse BLACKSTONE, iii. +The Last Time I came o'er the Moor RAMSAY, iii. +The Loss STANLEY, ii. +The Lovers LOGAN, iii. +The Mad Maid's Song HERRICK, ii. +The Mariner's Wife MICKLE, iii. +The Merle and the Nightingale DUNBAR, i. +The Miseries of a Poet's Life LLOYD, iii. +The Motto--'Tentanda via est,' &c. COWLEY, ii. +The Nativity G. FLETCHER, i. +The Nabob BLAMIRE, iii. +The Nymph complaining of the Death of her Fawn MARVELL, ii. +The Nymphs to their May Queen WATSON, i. +The Old Bachelor, ANONYMOUS, iii. +The Old and Young Courtier, ii. +The Palm-Tree, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Passion, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Picture of the Body, JONSON, i. +The Plagues of Egypt, COWLEY, ii. +The Praise of Woman, RANDOLPH, i. +The Progress of the Soul, DONNE, i. +The Rainbow, VAUGHAN, ii. +The River Forth Feasting, DRUMMOND, i. +The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow, A. ROSS, iii. +The Rose, WATTS, iii. +The Seed growing secretly (Mark iv. 26), VAUGHAN, ii. +The Search, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Self-subsistence of the Soul, DAVIES, i. +The Shepherd's Resolution, WITHER, ii. +The Steadfast Shepherd, WITHER, ii. +The Silent Lover, RALEIGH, i. +The Sluggard, WATTS, iii. +The Shower, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Story of William Canynge, CHATTERTON, iii. +The Splendid Shilling, J. PHILIPS, iii. +The Spring: A Sonnet from the Spanish, FANSHAWE, ii. +The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets, &c., GOWER, i. +The Tears of Old May-day, LOVIBOND, iii. +The Tempest, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Tempestuous Evening: An Ode, J. SCOTT, iii. +The Timber, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Waterfall, VAUGHAN, ii. +The Wish, COWLEY, ii. +The World, VAUGHAN, ii. +Thealma: A Deserted Shepherdess, CHALKHILL, ii. +Thealma in Full Dress, CHALKHILL, ii. +There is a Garden in her Face, ii. +TICKELL, THOMAS, iii. +Times go by Turns, SOUTHWELL, i. +THOMPSON, EDWARD, iii. +Thoughts in a Garden, MARVELL, ii. +To a Lady admiring herself in a + Looking-glass, RANDOLPH, i. +To a very young Lady, SEDLEY, iii. +To Ben Jonson, BEAUMONT, i. +To Blossoms, HERRICK, ii. +To Clarastella, HEATH, ii. +To Daffodils, HERRICK, ii. +To his noblest Friend, J. C., Esq., HABINGTON, ii. +To my Mistress, sitting by a River's side, CAREW, i. +To my Picture, RANDOLPH, i. +To Mrs Bishop, BISHOP, iii. +To the Same BISHOP, iii. +To Penshurst JONSON, i. +To Primroses HERRICK, ii. +To Religion SYLVESTER, i. +To the Cuckoo BRUCE, iii. +To the Rev. J. Howe WATTS, iii. +To the Memory of my beloved Master, William + Shakspeare, and what he left us JONSON, i. +To the Memory of his Wife DR BEAUMONT, ii. +To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr + Addison TICKELL, iii. +TUSSER, THOMAS i. +TURBERVILLE, THOMAS i. + +UNKNOWN i. +Upon the Shortness of Man's Life COWLEY, ii. + +VANBRUGH, SIR JOHN iii. +Variety WHITEHEAD, iii. +VAUX, THOMAS, LORD i. +VAUGHAN, HENRY ii. +VERE, EDWARD i. +Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden HARRINGTON, i. +Verses written after seeing Windsor Castle T. WARTON, iii. +Verses ANONYMOUS, iii. + +WALSH iii. +WALTON, IZAAK ii. +WARD, EDWARD iii. +WARTON, THOMAS, THE ELDER iii. +WARTON, JOSEPH iii. +WATSON, THOMAS i. +WATTS, ISAAC iii. +WEEKES, JAMES EYRE iii. +WEST, RICHARD iii. +What is Love? HEATH, ii. +What Ails this Heart o' mine? BLAMIRE, iii. +WHITEHEAD, WILLIAM iii. +WILMOT, JOHN, EARL OF ROCHESTER ii. +William and Margaret MALLETT, iii. +WITHER, GEORGE ii. +Woo'd, and Married, and a' A. ROSS, iii. +WOTTON, SIR HENRY i. +Written on a Visit to the Country in Autumn LOGAN, iii. +WYNTOUN, ANDREW i. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the +Less-known British Poets, Vol. 3, by George Gilfillan + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL. 3 *** + +This file should be named 8lbp310.txt or 8lbp310.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8lbp311.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8lbp310a.txt + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe +and the PG Online Distributed Proofreaders + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/8lbp310.zip b/old/8lbp310.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b6ed50 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8lbp310.zip |