Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Juliet Sutherland, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net







                         Transcriber's Note:

    The source of the Greek quote and its meaning are from the
    1914 edition.


                                 THE

                           GOLDEN TREASURY

               SELECTED FROM THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL
                    POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
                       AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES


                                  BY

                         FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE

         LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD




                        _REVISED AND ENLARGED_







                                London

                      MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

                   NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

                                 1902

       *       *       *       *       *




TO

ALFRED TENNYSON

POET LAUREATE


This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with
whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English
Literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts
of Nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the
rarest,--just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been
hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have
endeavoured to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to
Henry Hallam. But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love
and reverence; and I desire therefore to place before it a name united
with his by associations which, while Poetry retains her hold on the
minds of Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.

Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn
Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your
advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second
reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet,
and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common
value.

Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be
found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a
source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten
solitude itself with best society,--with the companionship of the wise
and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music
only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of
delight to Labour and to Poverty,--if it teaches those indifferent to
the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the
aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully
accomplished.

F.T.P.

MAY: 1861

       *       *       *       *       *




PREFACE


This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the
attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and
Songs in our language (save a very few regretfully omitted on account
of length), by writers not living,--and none beside the best. Many
familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be
familiar:--the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who
love Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known
and valued.

The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of
Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision
increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work,
whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here
held essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single
thought, feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative,
descriptive, and didactic poems,--unless accompanied by rapidity of
movement, brevity, and the colouring of human passion,--have been
excluded. Humourous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances
where a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly
personal, occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to
the idea of the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with
all pieces markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is
commonly understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical
conditions in treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it
possible, that all readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some
poems, as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and Penseroso, Wordsworth's Ruth
or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice
for a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference
especially to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he
has taken his utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.

This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to
question;--what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That
a poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,--that it shall reach a
perfection commensurate with its aim,--that we should require finish
in proportion to brevity,--that passion, colour, and originality
cannot atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity or
truth,--that a few good lines do not make a good poem, that popular
estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,--above
all, that excellence should be looked for rather in the whole than in
the parts,--such and other such canons have been always steadily
regarded. He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger
number rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and
that he has been aided throughout by two friends of independent and
exercised judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the
Dedication. It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been
freed from that one-sidedness which must beset individual
decisions:--but for the final choice the Editor is alone responsible.

Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible
poets not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different
periods, have been twice systematically read through: and it is hence
improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are due to
oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a very few
instances where a stanza or passage has been omitted. These omissions
have been risked only when the piece could be thus brought to a closer
lyrical unity: and, as essentially opposed to this unity, extracts,
obviously such, are excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of
the book has appeared to justify the choice of the most poetical
version, wherever more than one exists; and much labour has been given
to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to
the greatest advantage.

In the arrangement, the most poetically-effective order has been
attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and
cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of
Poetry, that a rapid passage between old and new, like rapid
alteration of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always
be wearisome and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been
therefore distributed into Books corresponding, I to the ninety years
closing about 1616, II thence to 1700, III to 1800, IV to the half
century just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give
each portion its distinctive character, they might be called the Books
of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this
respect, so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately
reflects the natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly
chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at
instruction than at pleasure, and the wisdom which comes through
pleasure:--within each book the pieces have therefore been arranged in
gradations of feeling or subject. And it is hoped that the contents of
this Anthology will thus be found to present a certain unity, 'as
episodes,' in the noble language of Shelley, 'to that great Poem which
all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have
built up since the beginning of the world.'

As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without
egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame
more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism,
would confine judgments on Poetry to 'the selected few of many
generations.' Not many appear to have gained reputation without some
gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses
by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more
thought than mastery of expression, are printed in this volume, it
should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much
hesitation and regret,--far less that they have been slighted.
Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few
have been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill
in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or
seriousness in reflection, which render their works, although never
perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence here
required,--better worth reading than much of what fills the scanty
hours that most men spare for self-improvement, or for pleasure in any
of its more elevated and permanent forms.--And if this be true of even
mediocre poetry, for how much more are we indebted to the best! Like
the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a more various power, the
magic of this Art can confer on each period of life its appropriate
blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity Calm, on age,
Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures 'more golden than gold,' leading
us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world, and
interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for
herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success,
may be heard throughout the following pages:--wherever the Poets of
England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is
spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.

1861

Some poems, especially in Book I, have been added:--either on better
acquaintance;--in deference to critical suggestions;--or unknown to
the Editor when first gathering his harvest. For aid in these
after-gleanings he is specially indebted to the excellent reprints of
rare early verse given us by Dr. Hannah, Dr. Grosart, Mr. Arber, Mr.
Bullen, and others,--and (in regard to the additions of 1883) to the
advice of that distinguished Friend, by whom the final choice has been
so largely guided. The text has also been carefully revised from
authoritative sources. It has still seemed best, for many reasons, to
retain the original limit by which the selection was confined to those
then no longer living. But the editor hopes that, so far as in him
lies, a complete and definitive collection of our best Lyrics, to the
central year of this fast-closing century, is now offered.

1883-1890-1891

       *       *       *       *       *




Contents

DEDICATION

PREFACE                   PAGE

BOOK I.                     1

BOOK II.                   56

BOOK III.                 133

BOOK IV.                  197

NOTES                     349

INDEX OF WRITERS          371

INDEX OF FIRST LINES      375

       *       *       *       *       *

                    Εἰς τὸν λειμῶνα καθίσας,
                    ἔδρεπεν ἕτερον ἐφ' ἑτέρῳ
                    αἰρόμενος ἄγρευμ' ἀνθέων
                    ἁδομένᾳ ψυχᾷ -- --

                            [Eurip. frag. 754.]

         ['He sat in the meadow and plucked
           with glad heart the spoil of the
           flowers, gathering them one by one.']

       *       *       *       *       *




The Golden Treasury

Book First


I

_SPRING_


    Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
    Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
    Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

    The palm and may make country houses gay,
    Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
    And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

    The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
    Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
    In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
          Spring! the sweet Spring!

_T. Nash._


II

_THE FAIRY LIFE_

1

    Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
    In a cowslip's bell I lie;
    There I couch, when owls do cry:
    On the bat's back I do fly
    After summer merrily.
        Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
        Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!


III

2

    Come unto these yellow sands,
        And then take hands:
    Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd
        The wild waves whist,
    Foot it featly here and there;
    And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.
          Hark, hark!
              Bow-bow.
          The watch-dogs bark:
              Bow-wow.
          Hark, hark! I hear
    The strain of strutting chanticleer
          Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

_W. Shakespeare_


IV

_SUMMONS TO LOVE_

    Phoebus, arise!
    And paint the sable skies
    With azure, white, and red:
    Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
    That she may thy career with roses spread:
    The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
    Make an eternal Spring!
    Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
    Spread forth thy golden hair
    In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
    And emperor-like decore
    With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
    Chase hence the ugly night
    Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

    --This is that happy morn,
    That day, long-wishéd day
    Of all my life so dark,
    (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
    And fates my hopes betray),
    Which, purely white, deserves
    An everlasting diamond should it mark.
    This is the morn should bring unto this grove
    My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
    Fair King, who all preserves,
    But show thy blushing beams,
    And thou two sweeter eyes
    Shalt see than those which by Penéus' streams
    Did once thy heart surprize.
    Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
    If that ye winds would hear
    A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
    Your furious chiding stay;
    Let Zephyr only breathe,
    And with her tresses play.
    --The winds all silent are,
    And Phoebus in his chair
    Ensaffroning sea and air
    Makes vanish every star:
    Night like a drunkard reels
    Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
    The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
    The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
    Here is the pleasant place--
    And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!

_W. Drummond of Hawthornden_


V

_TIME AND LOVE_

1

    When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
    The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
    When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
    And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;

    When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
    Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
    And the firm soil win of the watery main,
    Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;

    When I have seen such interchange of state,
    Or state itself confounded to decay,
    Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate--
    That Time will come and take my Love away:

    --This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
    But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

_W. Shakespeare_


VI

2

    Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
    But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
    How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
    Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

    O how shall summer's honey breath hold out
    Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
    When rocks impregnable are not so stout
    Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

    O fearful meditation! where, alack!
    Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
    Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
    Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

    O! none, unless this miracle have might,
    That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

_W. Shakespeare._


VII

_THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE_

    Come live with me and be my Love,
    And we will all the pleasures prove
    That hills and valleys, dale and field,
    And all the craggy mountains yield.

    There will we sit upon the rocks
    And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
    By shallow rivers, to whose falls
    Melodious birds sing madrigals.

    There will I make thee beds of roses
    And a thousand fragrant posies,
    A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
    Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

    A gown made of the finest wool,
    Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
    Fair linéd slippers for the cold,
    With buckles of the purest gold.

    A belt of straw and ivy buds
    With coral clasps and amber studs:
    And if these pleasures may thee move,
    Come live with me and be my Love.

    Thy silver dishes for thy meat
    As precious as the gods do eat,
    Shall on an ivory table be
    Prepared each day for thee and me.

    The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
    For thy delight each May-morning:
    If these delights thy mind may move,
    Then live with me and be my Love.

_C. Marlowe_


VIII

_OMNIA VINCIT_

    Fain would I change that note
    To which fond Love hath charm'd me
    Long long to sing by rote,
    Fancying that that harm'd me:
    Yet when this thought doth come
    'Love is the perfect sum
        Of all delight,'
    I have no other choice
    Either for pen or voice
        To sing or write.

    O Love! they wrong thee much
    That say thy sweet is bitter,
    When thy rich fruit is such
    As nothing can be sweeter.
    Fair house of joy and bliss,
    Where truest pleasure is,
        I do adore thee:
    I know thee what thou art,
    I serve thee with my heart,
        And fall before thee!

_Anon._


IX

_A MADRIGAL_

    Crabbed Age and Youth
    Cannot live together:
    Youth is full of pleasance,
    Age is full of care;
    Youth like summer morn,
    Age like winter weather,
    Youth like summer brave,
    Age like winter bare:
    Youth is full of sport,
    Age's breath is short,
    Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
    Youth is hot and bold,
    Age is weak and cold,
    Youth is wild, and Age is tame:--
    Age, I do abhor thee,
    Youth, I do adore thee;
    O! my Love, my Love is young!
    Age, I do defy thee--
    O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
    For methinks thou stay'st too long.

_W. Shakespeare_


X

        Under the greenwood tree
        Who loves to lie with me,
        And turn his merry note
        Unto the sweet bird's throat--
    Come hither, come hither, come hither!
            Here shall he see
            No enemy
    But winter and rough weather.

        Who doth ambition shun
        And loves to live i' the sun,
        Seeking the food he eats
        And pleased with what he gets--
    Come hither, come hither, come hither!
            Here shall he see
            No enemy
    But winter and rough weather.

_W. Shakespeare_


XI

    It was a lover and his lass
      With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
    That o'er the green corn-field did pass
    In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
    When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
      Sweet lovers love the Spring.

    Between the acres of the rye
    These pretty country folks would lie:
    This carol they began that hour,
    How that life was but a flower:

    And therefore take the present time
      With a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!
    For love is crowned with the prime
    In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
    When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
      Sweet lovers love the Spring.

_W. Shakespeare_


XII

_PRESENT IN ABSENCE_

    Absence, hear thou this protestation
        Against thy strength,
        Distance, and length;
    Do what thou canst for alteration:
      For hearts of truest mettle
    Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.

    Who loves a mistress of such quality,
        His mind hath found
        Affection's ground
    Beyond time, place, and mortality.
      To hearts that cannot vary
    Absence is present, Time doth tarry.

    By absence this good means I gain,
        That I can catch her,
        Where none can match her,
    In some close corner of my brain:
      There I embrace and kiss her;
    And so I both enjoy and miss her.

_J. Donne_


XIII

_VIA AMORIS_

    High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,
    And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
    Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
    More oft than to a chamber-melody,--

    Now, blesséd you bear onward blesséd me
    To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
    My Muse and I must you of duty greet
    With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;

    Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;
    By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;
    Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
    And that you know I envy you no lot

    Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,--
    Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!

_Sir P. Sidney_


XIV

_ABSENCE_

    Being your slave, what should I do but tend
    Upon the hours and times of your desire?
    I have no precious time at all to spend
    Nor services to do, till you require:

    Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour
    Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
    Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
    When you have bid your servant once adieu:

    Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
    Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
    But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
    Save, where you are, how happy you make those;--

    So true a fool is love, that in your will
    Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

_W. Shakespeare_


XV

    How like a winter hath my absence been
    From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
    What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
    What old December's bareness every where!

    And yet this time removed was summer's time:
    The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
    Bearing the wanton burden of the prime
    Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

    Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
    But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
    For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
    And, thou away, the very birds are mute;

    Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
    That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

_W. Shakespeare_


XVI

_A CONSOLATION_

    When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
    I all alone beweep my outcast state,
    And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
    And look upon myself, and curse my fate;

    Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
    Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
    Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
    With what I most enjoy contented least;

    Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
    Haply I think on Thee--and then my state,
    Like to the lark at break of day arising
    From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

    For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings
    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

_W. Shakespeare_


XVII

_THE UNCHANGEABLE_

    O never say that I was false of heart,
    Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
    As easy might I from myself depart
    As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;

    That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
    Like him that travels, I return again,
    Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
    So that myself bring water for my stain.

    Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
    All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
    That it could so preposterously be stain'd
    To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:

    For nothing this wide universe I call,
    Save thou, my rose: in it thou art my all.

_W. Shakespeare_


XVIII

    To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
    For as you were when first your eye I eyed
    Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
    Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;

    Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
    In process of the seasons have I seen,
    Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
    Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

    Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
    Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
    So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
    Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:

    For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,--
    Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

_W. Shakespeare_


XIX

_ROSALINE_

    Like to the clear in highest sphere
    Where all imperial glory shines,
    Of selfsame colour is her hair
    Whether unfolded, or in twines:
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
    Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
    Resembling heaven by every wink;
    The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
    And I do tremble when I think
      Heigh ho, would she were mine!

    Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
    That beautifies Aurora's face,
    Or like the silver crimson shroud
    That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
    Her lips are like two budded roses
    Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
    Within which bounds she balm encloses
    Apt to entice a deity:
      Heigh ho, would she were mine!

    Her neck is like a stately tower
    Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
    To watch for glances every hour
    From her divine and sacred eyes:
      Heigh ho, for Rosaline!
    Her paps are centres of delight,
    Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
    Where Nature moulds the dew of light
    To feed perfection with the same:
      Heigh ho, would she were mine!

    With orient pearl, with ruby red,
    With marble white, with sapphire blue
    Her body every way is fed,
    Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
    Nature herself her shape admires;
    The Gods are wounded in her sight;
    And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
    And at her eyes his brand doth light:
      Heigh ho, would she were mine!

    Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
    The absence of fair Rosaline,
    Since for a fair there's fairer none,
    Nor for her virtues so divine:
      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

_T. Lodge_


XX

_COLIN_

    Beauty sat bathing by a spring
      Where fairest shades did hide her;
    The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
      The cool streams ran beside her.
    My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
      To see what was forbidden:
    But better memory said, fie!
      So vain desire was chidden:--
                  Hey nonny nonny O!
                  Hey nonny nonny!

    Into a slumber then I fell,
      When fond imagination
    Seemed to see, but could not tell
      Her feature or her fashion.
    But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
      And sometimes fall a-weeping,
    So I awaked, as wise this while
      As when I fell a-sleeping:---
                  Hey nonny nonny O!
                  Hey nonny nonny!

_The Shepherd Tonie_


XXI

_A PICTURE_

    Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,
    Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:
        Out of thy golden quiver
        Take thou thy strongest arrow
        That will through bone and marrow,
    And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:--
    But come behind, for if she look upon thee,
    Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!

_Anon._


XXII

_A SONG FOR MUSIC_

    Weep you no more, sad fountains:--
        What need you flow so fast?
    Look how the snowy mountains
        Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
          But my Sun's heavenly eyes
              View not your weeping,
              That now lies sleeping
        Softly, now softly lies,
                  Sleeping.

    Sleep is a reconciling,
        A rest that peace begets:--
    Doth not the sun rise smiling,
        When fair at even he sets?
            --Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!
              Melt not in weeping!
              While She lies sleeping
          Softly, now softly lies,
                  Sleeping!

_Anon._


XXIII

_TO HIS LOVE_

    Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
    And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
    And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
    By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.

    But thy eternal summer shall not fade
    Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
    Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
    When in eternal lines to time thou growest:--

    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

_W. Shakespeare_


XXIV

_TO HIS LOVE_

    When in the chronicle of wasted time
    I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
    And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
    In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;

    Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
    Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
    I see their antique pen would have exprest
    Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.

    So all their praises are but prophecies
    Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;
    And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
    They had not skill enough your worth to sing:

    For we, which now behold these present days,
    Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

_W. Shakespeare_


XXV

_BASIA_

        Turn back, you wanton flyer,
        And answer my desire
            With mutual greeting.
        Yet bend a little nearer,--
        True beauty still shines clearer
            In closer meeting!
        Hearts with hearts delighted
        Should strive to be united,
    Each other's arms with arms enchaining,--
            Hearts with a thought,
    Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.

        What harvest half so sweet is
        As still to reap the kisses
            Grown ripe in sowing?
        And straight to be receiver
        Of that which thou art giver,
            Rich in bestowing?
        There is no strict observing
        Of times' or seasons' swerving,
    There is ever one fresh spring abiding;--
        Then what we sow with our lips
        Let us reap, love's gains dividing.

_T. Campion_


XXVI

_ADVICE TO A GIRL_

    Never love unless you can
    Bear with all the faults of man!
    Men sometimes will jealous be
    Though but little cause they see,
    And hang the head as discontent,
    And speak what straight they will repent.

    Men, that but one Saint adore,
    Make a show of love to more;
    Beauty must be scorn'd in none,
    Though but truly served in one:
    For what is courtship but disguise?
    True hearts may have dissembling eyes.

    Men, when their affairs require,
    Must awhile themselves retire;
    Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
    And not ever sit and talk:--
    If these and such-like you can bear,
    Then like, and love, and never fear!

_T. Campion_


XXVII

_LOVE'S PERJURIES_

    On a day, alack the day!
    Love, whose month is ever May,
    Spied a blossom passing fair
    Playing in the wanton air:
    Through the velvet leaves the wind,
    All unseen, 'gan passage find;
    That the lover, sick to death,
    Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
    Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
    Air, would I might triumph so!
    But, alack, my hand is sworn
    Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
    Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
    Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
    Do not call it sin in me
    That I am forsworn for thee:
    Thou for whom Jove would swear
    Juno but an Ethiope were,
    And deny himself for Jove,
    Turning mortal for thy love.

_W. Shakespeare_


XXVIII

_A SUPPLICATION_

    Forget not yet the tried intent
    Of such a truth as I have meant;
    My great travail so gladly spent,
                      Forget not yet!

    Forget not yet when first began
    The weary life ye know, since whan
    The suit, the service none tell can;
                      Forget not yet!

    Forget not yet the great assays,
    The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
    The painful patience in delays,
                      Forget not yet!

    Forget not! O, forget not this,
    How long ago hath been, and is
    The mind that never meant amiss--
                      Forget not yet!

    Forget not then thine own approved
    The which so long hath thee so loved,
    Whose steadfast faith yet never moved--
                      Forget not this!

_Sir T. Wyat_


XXIX

_TO AURORA_

    O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,
    And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;
    Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast
    And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.

    O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
    What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!
    For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,
    Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;

    Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
    And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan
    Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;
    No, I would have my share in what were thine:

    And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
    This happy harmony would make them none.

_W. Alexander, Earl of Sterline_


XXX

_IN LACRIMAS_

        I saw my Lady weep,
    And Sorrow proud to be advancéd so
    In those fair eyes where all perfections keep,
        Her face was full of woe,
    But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
    Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.

        Sorrow was there made fair,
    And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;
    Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:
        She made her sighs to sing,
    And all things with so sweet a sadness move
    As made my heart at once both grieve and love.

        O fairer than aught else
    The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!
    Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:
        Tears kill the heart, believe.
    O strive not to be excellent in woe,
    Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.

_Anon._


XXXI

_TRUE LOVE_

    Let me not to the marriage of true minds
    Admit impediments. Love is not love
    Which alters when it alteration finds,
    Or bends with the remover to remove:--

    O no! it is an ever-fixéd mark
    That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
    It is the star to every wandering bark,
    Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

    Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
    Within his bending sickle's compass come;
    Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
    But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--

    If this be error, and upon me proved,
    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

_W. Shakespeare_


XXXII

_A DITTY_

    My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
    By just exchange one for another given:
    I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
    There never was a better bargain driven:
      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

    His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
    My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
    He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
    I cherish his because in me it bides:
      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

_Sir P. Sidney_


XXXIII

_LOVE'S INSIGHT_

    Though others may Her brow adore
    Yet more must I, that therein see far more
    Than any other's eyes have power to see:
          She is to me
    More than to any others she can be!
    I can discern more secret notes
    That in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes,
    Than any else besides have art to read:
          No looks proceed
    From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.

_Anon._


XXXIV

_LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE_

    Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
    And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
    Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
    Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.

    Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
    And you, my Love, as humble and as low
    As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
    Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.

    Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
    My love should shine on you like to the sun,
    And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
    Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.

    Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
    Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

_J. Sylvester_


XXXV

_CARPE DIEM_

    O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
    O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
        That can sing both high and low;
    Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
    Journeys end in lovers meeting--
        Every wise man's son doth know.

    What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
    Present mirth hath present laughter;
        What's to come is still unsure:
    In delay there lies no plenty,--
    Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
        Youth's a stuff will not endure.

_W. Shakespeare_


XXXVI

_AN HONEST AUTOLYCUS_

    Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,
      Good penny-worths,--but money cannot move:
    I keep a fair but for the Fair to view;
      A beggar may be liberal of love.
    Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true--
                              The heart is true.

    Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
      My trifles come as treasures from my mind;
    It is a precious jewel to be plain;
      Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:--
    Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
                              Of me a grain!

_Anon._


XXXVII

_WINTER_

    When icicles hang by the wall
      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
    And Tom bears logs into the hall,
      And milk comes frozen home in pail;
    When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
    Then nightly sings the staring owl
                    Tu-whit!
    Tu-who! A merry note!
    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

    When all about the wind doth blow,
      And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
    And birds sit brooding in the snow,
      And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
    When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl--
    Then nightly sings the staring owl
                    Tu-whit!
    Tu-who! A merry note!
    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

_W. Shakespeare_


XXXVIII

    That time of year thou may'st in me behold
    When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
    Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
    Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:

    In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
    As after sunset fadeth in the west,
    Which by and by black night doth take away,
    Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:

    In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
    That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
    As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
    Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:

    --This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
    To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

_W. Shakespeare_


XXXIX

_MEMORY_

    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
    I summon up remembrance of things past,
    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
    And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste;

    Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
    For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
    And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
    And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.

    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
    And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
    The sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,
    Which I new pay as if not paid before:

    --But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend,
    All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

_W. Shakespeare_


XL

_SLEEP_

    Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
    The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
    The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
    Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;

    With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
    Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
    O make in me those civil wars to cease;
    I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

    Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
    A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
    A rosy garland and a weary head:
    And if these things, as being thine in right,

    Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
    Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

_Sir P. Sidney_


XLI

_REVOLUTIONS_

    Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
    So do our minutes hasten to their end;
    Each changing place with that which goes before,
    In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

    Nativity, once in the main of light,
    Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
    Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
    And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.

    Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
    And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
    Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
    And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:--

    And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
    Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

_W. Shakespeare_


XLII

    Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
    And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
    The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
    My bonds in thee are all determinate.

    For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
    And for that riches where is my deserving?
    The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
    And so my patent back again is swerving.

    Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
    Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
    So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
    Comes home again, on better judgment making.

    Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;
    In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.

_W. Shakespeare_


XLIII

_THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION_

    They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
    That do not do the thing they most do show,
    Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
    Unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,--

    They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
    And husband nature's riches from expense;
    They are the lords and owners of their faces,
    Others, but stewards of their excellence.

    The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
    Though to itself it only live and die;
    But if that flower with base infection meet,
    The basest weed outbraves his dignity:

    For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
    Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

_W. Shakespeare_


XLIV

_THE LOVER'S APPEAL_

    And wilt thou leave me thus?
    Say nay! say nay! for shame,
    To save thee from the blame
    Of all my grief and grame.
    And wilt thou leave me thus?
    Say nay! say nay!

    And wilt thou leave me thus,
    That hath loved thee so long
    In wealth and woe among:
    And is thy heart so strong
    As for to leave me thus?
    Say nay! say nay!

    And wilt thou leave me thus,
    That hath given thee my heart
    Never for to depart
    Neither for pain nor smart:
    And wilt thou leave me thus?
    Say nay! say nay!

    And wilt thou leave me thus,
    And have no more pity
    Of him that loveth thee?
    Alas! thy cruelty!
    And wilt thou leave me thus?
    Say nay! say nay!

_Sir T. Wyat_


XLV

_THE NIGHTINGALE_

    As it fell upon a day
    In the merry month of May,
    Sitting in a pleasant shade
    Which a grove of myrtles made,
    Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
    Trees did grow and plants did spring;
    Every thing did banish moan
    Save the Nightingale alone.
    She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
    Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
    And there sung the dolefull'st ditty
    That to hear it was great pity.
    Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
    Teru, teru, by and by:
    That to hear her so complain
    Scarce I could from tears refrain;
    For her griefs so lively shown
    Made me think upon mine own.
    --Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
    None takes pity on thy pain:
    Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
    Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
    King Pandion, he is dead,
    All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
    All thy fellow birds do sing
    Careless of thy sorrowing:
    Even so, poor bird, like thee
    None alive will pity me.

_R. Barnefield_


XLVI

    Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
    Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
    Relieve my languish, and restore the light;
    With dark forgetting of my care return.

    And let the day be time enough to mourn
    The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:
    Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
    Without the torment of the night's untruth.

    Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
    To model forth the passions of the morrow;
    Never let rising Sun approve you liars,
    To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:

    Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
    And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

_S. Daniel_


XLVII

    The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
      Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
    While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
      Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
        And mournfully bewailing,
        Her throat in tunes expresseth
        What grief her breast oppresseth
    For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.

    O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
    That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
          Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
    Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

    Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish
      But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,
    Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
      Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
        But I, who, daily craving,
        Cannot have to content me,
        Have more cause to lament me,
    Since wanting is more woe than too much having.

    O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
    That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
          Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
    Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

_Sir P. Sidney_


XLVIII

_FRUSTRA_

    Take, O take those lips away
    That so sweetly were forsworn,
    And those eyes, the break of day,
    Lights that do mislead the morn:
    But my kisses bring again,
              Bring again--
    Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
              Seal'd in vain!

_W. Shakespeare_


XLIX

_LOVE'S FAREWELL_

    Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,--
    Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
    And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
    That thus so cleanly I myself can free;

    Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
    And when we meet at any time again,
    Be it not seen in either of our brows
    That we one jot of former love retain.

    Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
    When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
    When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
    And innocence is closing up his eyes,

    --Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
    From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

_M. Drayton_


L

_IN IMAGINE PERTRANSIT HOMO_

    Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
      Though thou be black as night
      And she made all of light,
    Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

    Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!
      Though here thou liv'st disgraced,
      And she in heaven is placed,
    Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!

    Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth,
      That so have scorchéd thee
      As thou still black must be
    Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.

    Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!
      There comes a luckless night
      That will dim all her light;
    --And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

    Follow still, since so thy fates ordainéd!
      The sun must have his shade,
      Till both at once do fade,--
    The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainéd.

_T. Campion_


LI

_BLIND LOVE_

    O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head
    Which have no correspondence with true sight:
    Or if they have, where is my judgment fled
    That censures falsely what they see aright?

    If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
    What means the world to say it is not so?
    If it be not, then love doth well denote
    Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,

    How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
    That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
    No marvel then though I mistake my view:
    The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.

    O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
    Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!

_W. Shakespeare_


LII

    Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me!
      For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?
    It shall suffice me here to sit and see
      Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke:
    What sight can more content a lover's mind
    Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?

    My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps,
      Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;
    And in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps:
      Dreams often more than waking passions move.
    Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee:
    That she in peace may wake and pity me.

_T. Campion_


LIII

_THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS_

    While that the sun with his beams hot
    Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,
    Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
    Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
      In shadow of a green oak tree
      Upon his pipe this song play'd he:
    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

    So long as I was in your sight
    I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
    And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
    Burning in flames beyond all measure:
      --Three days endured your love to me,
      And it was lost in other three!
    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

    Another Shepherd you did see
    To whom your heart was soon enchainéd;
    Full soon your love was leapt from me,
    Full soon my place he had obtainéd.
      Soon came a third, your love to win,
      And we were out and he was in.
    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

    Sure you have made me passing glad
    That you your mind so soon removéd,
    Before that I the leisure had
    To choose you for my best belovéd:
      For all your love was past and done
      Two days before it was begun:--
    Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,
    Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love;
    Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

_Anon._


LIV

_ADVICE TO A LOVER_

    The sea hath many thousand sands,
    The sun hath motes as many;
    The sky is full of stars, and Love
    As full of woes as any:
    Believe me, that do know the elf,
    And make no trial by thyself!

    It is in truth a pretty toy
    For babes to play withal:--
    But O! the honeys of our youth
    Are oft our age's gall!
    Self-proof in time will make thee know
    He was a prophet told thee so;

    A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
    Tells truth without belief;
    For headstrong Youth will run his race,
    Although his goal be grief:--
    Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,
    Proves Care's Confessor at the last.

_Anon._


LV

_A RENUNCIATION_

    Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,
      For all those rosy ornaments in thee,--
    Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,
      Nor fair, nor sweet--unless thou pity me!
    I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove
    That beauty is no beauty without love.

    --Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure
      My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine:
    Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,
      I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine:
    --Now show it, if thou be a woman right--
    Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!

_T. Campion_


LVI

            Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
            Thou art not so unkind
            As man's ingratitude;
            Thy tooth is not so keen
            Because thou art not seen,
            Although thy breath be rude.
    Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
            Then, heigh ho! the holly!
            This life is most jolly.

            Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
            Thou dost not bite so nigh
            As benefits forgot:
            Though thou the waters warp,
            Thy sting is not so sharp
            As friend remember'd not.
    Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
            Then, heigh ho! the holly!
            This life is most jolly.

_W. Shakespeare_


LVII

_A SWEET LULLABY_

    Come little babe, come silly soul,
    Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
    Born as I doubt to all our dole,
    And to thy self unhappy chief:
        Sing Lullaby and lap it warm,
        Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

    Thou little think'st and less dost know,
    The cause of this thy mother's moan,
    Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
    And I myself am all alone:
        Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
        And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.

    Come little wretch, ah silly heart,
    Mine only joy, what can I more?
    If there be any wrong thy smart
    That may the destinies implore:
        'Twas I, I say, against my will,
        I wail the time, but be thou still.

    And dost thou smile, oh thy sweet face!
    Would God Himself He might thee see,
    No doubt thou would'st soon purchase grace,
    I know right well, for thee and me:
        But come to mother, babe, and play,
        For father false is fled away.

    Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance,
    Thy father home again to send,
    If death do strike me with his lance,
    Yet mayst thou me to him commend:
        If any ask thy mother's name,
        Tell how by love she purchased blame.

    Then will his gentle heart soon yield,
    I know him of a noble mind,
    Although a Lion in the field,
    A Lamb in town thou shalt him find:
        Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,
        His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.

    Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
    Although in woe I seem to moan,
    Thy father is no rascal lad,
    A noble youth of blood and bone:
        His glancing looks, if he once smile,
        Right honest women may beguile.

    Come, little boy, and rock asleep,
    Sing lullaby and be thou still,
    I that can do nought else but weep;
    Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
        God bless my babe, and lullaby
        From this thy father's quality!

_Anon._


LVIII

    With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
    How silently, and with how wan a face!
    What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place
    That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!

    Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
    Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
    I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,
    To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

    Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
    Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
    Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
    Do they above love to be loved, and yet

    Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
    Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?

_Sir P. Sidney_


LIX

_O CRUDELIS AMOR_

    When thou must home to shades of underground,
    And there arrived, a new admired guest,
    The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
    White Iopé, blithe Helen, and the rest,
    To hear the stories of thy finish'd love
    From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

    Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
    Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
    Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights,
    And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
    When thou hast told' these honours done to thee,
    Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!

_T. Campion_


LX

_SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD_

    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
        Mother's wag, pretty boy,
        Father's sorrow, father's joy;
        When thy father first did see
        Such a boy by him and me,
        He was glad, I was woe,
        Fortune changed made him so,
        When he left his pretty boy
        Last his sorrow, first his joy.

    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
    When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
        Streaming tears that never stint,
        Like pearl drops from a flint,
        Fell by course from his eyes,
        That one another's place supplies;
        Thus he grieved in every part,
        Tears of blood fell from his heart,
        When he left his pretty boy,
        Father's sorrow, father's joy.

    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
    When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
        The wanton smiled, father wept,
        Mother cried, baby leapt;
        More he crow'd, more we cried,
        Nature could not sorrow hide:
        He must go, he must kiss
        Child and mother, baby bless,
        For he left his pretty boy,
        Father's sorrow, father's joy.
    Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
    When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

_R. Greene_


LXI

_A LAMENT_

    My thoughts hold mortal strife;
    I do detest my life,
    And with lamenting cries
    Peace to my soul to bring
    Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:
    --But he, grim grinning King,
    Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,
    Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
    Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

_W. Drummond_


LXII

_DIRGE OF LOVE_

      Come away, come away, Death,
    And in sad cypres let me be laid;
      Fly away, fly away, breath;
    I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
    My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
          O prepare it!
    My part of death, no one so true
          Did share it.

      Not a flower, not a flower sweet
    On my black coffin let there be strown;
      Not a friend, not a friend greet
    My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
    A thousand thousand sighs to save,
          Lay me, O where
    Sad true lover never find my grave,
          To weep there.

_W. Shakespeare_


LXIII

_TO HIS LUTE_

    My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
    With thy green mother in some shady grove,
    When immelodious winds but made thee move,
    And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.

    Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
    Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
    Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
    What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

    Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
    But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
    Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
    For which be silent as in woods before:

    Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
    Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.

_W. Drummond_


LXIV

_FIDELE_

    Fear no more the heat o' the sun
        Nor the furious winter's rages;
    Thou thy worldly task hast done,
        Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;
    Golden lads and girls all must,
    As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

    Fear no more the frown o' the great,
        Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
    Care no more to clothe and eat;
        To thee the reed is as the oak:
    The sceptre, learning, physic, must
    All follow this, and come to dust.

    Fear no more the lightning-flash
        Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
    Fear not slander, censure rash;
        Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
    All lovers young, all lovers must
    Consign to thee, and come to dust.

_W. Shakespeare_


LXV

_A SEA DIRGE_

    Full fathom five thy father lies:
        Of his bones are coral made;
    Those are pearls that were his eyes:
        Nothing of him that doth fade,
    But doth suffer a sea-change
    Into something rich and strange.
    Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
      Hark! now I hear them,--
          Ding, dong, bell.

_W. Shakespeare_


LXVI

_A LAND DIRGE_

    Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
    Since o'er shady groves they hover
    And with leaves and flowers do cover
    The friendless bodies of unburied men.
    Call unto his funeral dole
    The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
    To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
    And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
    But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
    For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

_J. Webster_


LXVII

_POST MORTEM_

    If Thou survive my well-contented day
    When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
    And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
    These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;

    Compare them with the bettering of the time,
    And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
    Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
    Exceeded by the height of happier men.

    O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought--
    'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
    A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
    To march in ranks of better equipage:

    But since he died, and poets better prove,
    Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

_W. Shakespeare_


LXVIII

_THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH_

    No longer mourn for me when I am dead
    Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
    Give warning to the world, that I am fled
    From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;

    Nay, if you read this line, remember not
    The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
    That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
    If thinking on me then should make you woe.

    O if, I say, you look upon this verse
    When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
    Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
    But let your love even with my life decay;

    Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
    And mock you with me after I am gone.

_W. Shakespeare_


LXIX

_YOUNG LOVE_

    Tell me where is Fancy bred,
    Or in the heart, or in the head?
    How begot, how nourishéd?
          Reply, reply.

    It is engender'd in the eyes;
    With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
    In the cradle where it lies:
    Let us all ring Fancy's knell;
    I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
          --Ding, dong, bell.

_W. Shakespeare_


LXX

_A DILEMMA_

      Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting
        Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
        And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,
      My eyes present me with a double doubting:
    For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes
    Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.

_Anon._


LXXI

_ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL_

    Love in my bosom, like a bee,
                Doth suck his sweet;
    Now with his wings he plays with me,
                Now with his feet.
        Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
        His bed amidst my tender breast;
        My kisses are his daily feast,
        And yet he robs me of my rest:
                Ah! wanton, will ye?

    And if I sleep, then percheth he
                With pretty flight,
    And makes his pillow of my knee
                The livelong night.
        Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
        He music plays if so I sing;
        He lends me every lovely thing,
        Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
                Whist, wanton, will ye?

    Else I with roses every day
                Will whip you hence,
    And bind you, when you long to play,
                For your offence;
        I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;
        I'll make you fast it for your sin;
        I'll count your power not worth a pin;
        --Alas! what hereby shall I win,
                If he gainsay me?

    What if I beat the wanton boy
                With many a rod?
    He will repay me with annoy,
                Because a god.
        Then sit thou safely on my knee,
        And let thy bower my bosom be;
        Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
        O Cupid! so thou pity me,
                Spare not, but play thee!

_T. Lodge_


LXXII

_CUPID AND CAMPASPE_

    Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
    At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
    He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
    His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
    Loses them too; then down he throws
    The coral of his lip, the rose
    Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
    With these, the crystal of his brow,
    And then the dimple on his chin;
    All these did my Campaspe win:
    And last he set her both his eyes--
    She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
        O Love! has she done this to thee?
        What shall, alas! become of me?

_J. Lylye_


LXXIII

    Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
      With night we banish sorrow;
    Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
      To give my Love good-morrow!
    Wings from the wind to please her mind
      Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
    Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
      To give my Love good-morrow;
          To give my Love good-morrow
          Notes from them both I'll borrow.

    Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,
      Sing, birds, in every furrow;
    And from each hill, let music shrill
      Give my fair Love good-morrow!
    Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
      Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
    You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
      Sing my fair Love good-morrow;
          To give my Love good-morrow
          Sing, birds, in every furrow!

_T. Heywood_


LXXIV

_PROTHALAMION_

    Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
    Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play--
    A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
    Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
    When I, (whom sullen care,
    Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
    In princes' court, and expectation vain
    Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
    Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
    Walk'd forth to ease my pain
    Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
    Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
    Was painted all with variable flowers,
    And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
    Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
    And crown their paramours
    Against the bridal day, which is not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

    There in a meadow by the river's side
    A flock of nymphs I chancéd to espy,
    All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
    With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
    As each had been a bride;
    And each one had a little wicker basket
    Made of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously.
    In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
    And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
    The tender stalks on high.
    Of every sort which in that meadow grew
    They gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,
    The little daisy that at evening closes,
    The virgin lily and the primrose true,
    With store of vermeil roses,
    To deck their bridegrooms' posies
    Against the bridal day, which was not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

    With that I saw two Swans of goodly hue
    Come softly swimming down along the Lee;
    Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
    The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow
    Did never whiter show,
    Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
    For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
    Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
    Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
    So purely white they were
    That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
    Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare
    To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
    Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
    And mar their beauties bright
    That shone as Heaven's light
    Against their bridal day, which was not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

    Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
    Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
    As they came floating on the crystal flood;
    Whom when they saw, they stood amazéd still
    Their wondering eyes to fill;
    Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair
    Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem
    Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
    Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;
    For sure they did not seem
    To be begot of any earthly seed,
    But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed;
    Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,
    In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
    The earth did fresh array;
    So fresh they seem'd as day,
    Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

    Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
    Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
    That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
    All which upon those goodly birds they threw
    And all the waves did strew,
    That like old Peneus' waters they did seem
    When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore
    Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
    That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,
    Like a bride's chamber-floor.
    Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound
    Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
    The which presenting all in trim array,
    Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd;
    Whilst one did sing this lay
    Prepared against that day,
    Against their bridal day, which was not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.

    'Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
    And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
    Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
    Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content
    Of your love's couplement;
    And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
    With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
    Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
    All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
    For ever to assoil.
    Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
    And blesséd plenty wait upon your board;
    And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
    That fruitful issue may to you afford
    Which may your foes confound,
    And make your joys redound
    Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.'

    So ended she; and all the rest around
    To her redoubled that her undersong,
    Which said their bridal day should not be long:
    And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
    Their accents did resound.
    So forth those joyous birds did pass along
    Adown the Lee that to them murmur'd low,
    As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue;
    Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
    Making his stream run slow.
    And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
    'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
    The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
    The lesser stars. So they, enrangéd well,
    Did on those two attend,
    And their best service lend
    Against their wedding day, which was not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

    At length they all to merry London came,
    To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
    That to me gave this life's first native source,
    Though from another place I take my name,
    An house of ancient fame:
    There when they came whereas those bricky towers
    The which on Thames' broad agéd back do ride,
    Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
    There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
    Till they decay'd through pride;
    Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
    Where oft I gainéd gifts and goodly grace
    Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
    Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;
    But ah! here fits not well
    Old woes, but joys to tell
    Against the bridal day, which is not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

    Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
    Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,
    Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,
    And Hercules' two pillars standing near
    Did make to quake and fear:
    Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!
    That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame
    Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
    And endless happiness of thine own name
    That promiseth the same;
    That through thy prowess and victorious arms
    Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
    And great Elisa's glorious name may ring
    Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,
    Which some brave Muse may sing
    To ages following:
    Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

    From those high towers this noble lord issúing
    Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
    In th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair,
    Descended to the river's open viewing
    With a great train ensuing.
    Above the rest were goodly to be seen
    Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
    Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
    With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
    Fit for so goodly stature,
    That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight
    Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
    They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
    Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
    Which, at th' appointed tide,
    Each one did make his bride
    Against their bridal day, which is not long:
      Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

_E. Spenser_


LXXV

_THE HAPPY HEART_

    Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
              O sweet content!
    Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
              O punishment!
    Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd
    To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
    O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
      Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
      Honest labour bears a lovely face;
    Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

    Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?
              O sweet content!
    Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
              O punishment!
    Then he that patiently want's burden bears
    No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
    O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
      Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
      Honest labour bears a lovely face;
    Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

_T. Dekker_


LXXVI

_SIC TRANSIT_

    Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
      For while thou view'st me with thy fading light
    Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
      And I still onward haste to my last night:
    Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly--
    So every day we live a day we die.

    But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest,
      How are my days deprived of life in you
    When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,
      By feignéd death life sweetly to renew!
    Part of my life, in that, you life deny:
    So every day we live, a day we die.

_T. Campion_


LXXVII

    This Life, which seems so fair,
    Is like a bubble blown up in the air
    By sporting children's breath,
    Who chase it everywhere
    And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
    And though it sometimes seem of its own might
    Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
    And firm to hover in that empty height,
    That only is because it is so light.
    --But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
    For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
    Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.

_W. Drummond_


LXXVIII

_SOUL AND BODY_

    Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
    [Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,
    Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
    Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

    Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
    Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
    Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
    Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?

    Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
    And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
    Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
    Within be fed, without be rich no more:--

    So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
    And death once dead, there's no more dying then.

_W. Shakespeare_


LXXIX

    The man of life upright,
      Whose guiltless heart is free
    From all dishonest deeds,
      Or thought of vanity;

    The man whose silent days
      In harmless joys are spent,
    Whom hopes cannot delude
      Nor sorrow discontent:

    That man needs neither towers
      Nor armour for defence,
    Nor secret vaults to fly
      From thunder's violence:

    He only can behold
      With unaffrighted eyes
    The horrors of the deep
      And terrors of the skies.

    Thus scorning all the cares
      That fate or fortune brings,
    He makes the heaven his book,
      His wisdom heavenly things;

    Good thoughts his only friends,
      His wealth a well-spent age,
    The earth his sober inn
      And quiet pilgrimage.

_T. Campion_


LXXX

_THE LESSONS OF NATURE_

    Of this fair volume which we World do name
    If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
    Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
    We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:

    Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
    His providence extending everywhere,
    His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
    In every page, no period of the same.

    But silly we, like foolish children, rest
    Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
    Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
    On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;

    Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
    It is some picture on the margin wrought.

_W. Drummond_


LXXXI

    Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
    Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
    Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
    Are these your influences, Powers above?

    Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,
    Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
    And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,
    Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.

    Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all
    Why should best minds groan under most distress?
    Or why should pride humility make thrall,
    And injuries the innocent oppress?

    Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
    When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!

_W. Drummond_


LXXXII

_THE WORLD'S WAY_

    Tired with all these, for restful death I cry--
    As, to behold desert a beggar born,
    And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
    And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

    And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
    And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
    And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
    And strength by limping sway disabled,

    And art made tongue-tied by authority,
    And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
    And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
    And captive Good attending captain Ill:--

    --Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
    Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.

_W. Shakespeare_


LXXXIII

_A WISH_

    Happy were he could finish forth his fate
    In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure
    From all society, from love and hate
    Of worldly folk, there should he sleep secure;

    Then wake again, and yield God ever praise;
    Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry;
    In contemplation passing still his days,
    And change of holy thoughts to make him merry:

    Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bush
    Where harmless robin resteth with the thrush:
              --Happy were he!

_R. Devereux, Earl of Essex_


LXXXIV

_SAINT JOHN BAPTIST_

    The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
    Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
    Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
    Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.

    His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
    With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
    Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
    Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.

    There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
    On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
    Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
    --Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?

    Only the echoes, which he made relent,
    Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!

_W. Drummond_




The Golden Treasury

Book Second

LXXXV

_ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY_

    This is the month, and this the happy morn
    Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
    Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
    Our great redemption from above did bring;
    For so the holy sages once did sing
    That He our deadly forfeit should release,
    And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.

    That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
    And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
    Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
    To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
    He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
    Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
    And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

    Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
    Afford a present to the Infant God?
    Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain
    To welcome Him to this His new abode,
    Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
    Hath took no print of the approaching light,
    And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

    See how from far, upon the eastern road,
    The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
    O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
    And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;
    Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
    And join thy voice unto the Angel quire
    From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.


_THE HYMN_

    It was the winter wild
    While the heaven-born Child
    All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
    Nature in awe to Him
    Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
    With her great Master so to sympathize:
    It was no season then for her
    To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

    Only with speeches fair
    She woos the gentle air
    To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
    And on her naked shame,
    Pollute with sinful blame,
    The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
    Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
    Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

    But He, her fears to cease,
    Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;
    She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
    Down through the turning sphere,
    His ready harbinger,
    With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
    And waving wide her myrtle wand,
    She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

    No war, or battle's sound
    Was heard the world around:
    The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
    The hookéd chariot stood
    Unstain'd with hostile blood;
    The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng;
    And kings sat still with awful eye,
    As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

    But peaceful was the night
    Wherein the Prince of Light
    His reign of peace upon the earth began:
    The winds, with wonder whist,
    Smoothly the waters kist
    Whispering new joys to the mild oceán--
    Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
    While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave.

    The stars, with deep amaze,
    Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
    Bending one way their precious influence;
    And will not take their flight
    For all the morning light,
    Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
    But in their glimmering orbs did glow
    Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.

    And though the shady gloom
    Had given day her room,
    The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
    And hid his head for shame,
    As his inferior flame
    The new-enlighten'd world no more should need;
    He saw a greater Sun appear
    Than his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear.

    The shepherds on the lawn
    Or ere the point of dawn
    Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
    Full little thought they than
    That the mighty Pan
    Was kindly come to live with them below;
    Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep
    Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:--

    When such music sweet
    Their hearts and ears did greet
    As never was by mortal finger strook--
    Divinely-warbled voice
    Answering the stringéd noise,
    As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
    The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
    With thousand echoes, still prolongs each heavenly close.

    Nature, that heard such sound
    Beneath the hollow round
    Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling.
    Now was almost won
    To think her part was done,
    And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
    She knew such harmony alone
    Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union,

    At last surrounds their sight
    A globe of circular light
    That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
    The helméd Cherubim
    And sworded Seraphim
    Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
    Harping in loud and solemn quire
    With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

    Such music (as 'tis said)
    Before was never made
    But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
    While the Creator great
    His constellations set
    And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;
    And cast the dark foundations deep,
    And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep,

    Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
    Once bless our human ears,
    If ye have power to touch our senses so;
    And let your silver chime
    Move in melodious time;
    And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;
    And with your ninefold harmony
    Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

    For if such holy song
    Enwrap our fancy long,
    Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;
    And speckled Vanity
    Will sicken soon and die,
    And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
    And Hell itself will pass away,
    And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

    Yea, Truth and Justice then
    Will down return to men,
    Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
    Mercy will sit between
    Throned in celestial sheen,
    With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
    And Heaven, as at some festival,
    Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

    But wisest Fate says No;
    This must not yet be so;
    The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
    That on the bitter cross
    Must redeem our loss;
    So both Himself and us to glorify:
    Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep
    The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;

    With such a horrid clang
    As on Mount Sinai rang
    While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
    The aged Earth aghast
    With terror of that blast
    Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
    When, at the world's last sessión,
    The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.

    And then at last our bliss
    Full and perfect is,
    But now begins; for from this happy day
    The old Dragon under ground,
    In straiter limits bound,
    Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway;
    And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
    Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

    The Oracles are dumb;
    No voice or hideous hum
    Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving.
    Apollo from his shrine
    Can no more divine,
    With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:
    No nightly trance or breathéd spell
    Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

    The lonely mountains o'er
    And the resounding shore
    A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
    From haunted spring and dale
    Edged with poplar pale
    The parting Genius is With sighing sent;
    With flower-inwoven tresses torn
    The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

    In consecrated earth
    And on the holy hearth
    The Lars and Lemurés moan with midnight plaint;
    In urns, and altars round
    A drear and dying sound
    Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
    And the chill marble seems to sweat,
    While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.

    Peor and Baalim
    Forsake their temples dim,
    With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine;
    And moonéd Ashtaroth
    Heaven's queen and mother both,
    Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
    The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:
    In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

    And sullen Moloch, fled,
    Hath left in shadows dread
    His burning idol all of blackest hue;
    In vain with cymbals' ring
    They call the grisly king,
    In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
    The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
    Isis; and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

    Nor is Osiris seen
    In Memphian grove, or green,
    Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
    Nor can he be at rest
    Within his sacred chest;
    Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
    In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
    The sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.

    He feels from Juda's land
    The dreaded Infant's hand;
    The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
    Nor all the gods beside
    Longer dare abide,
    Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
    Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,
    Can in His swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.

    So, when the sun in bed
    Curtain'd with cloudy red
    Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
    The flocking shadows pale
    Troop to the infernal jail,
    Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
    And the yellow-skirted fays
    Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

    But see! the Virgin blest
    Hath laid her Babe to rest;
    Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:
    Heaven's youngest-teeméd star
    Hath fix'd her polish'd car,
    Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
    And all about the courtly stable
    Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.

_J. Milton_


LXXXVI

_SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687_

    From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
        This universal frame began:
      When Nature underneath a heap
        Of jarring atoms lay
      And could not heave her head,
    The tuneful voice was heard from high,
        Arise, ye more than dead!
    Then cold and hot and moist and dry
    In order to their stations leap,
        And Music's power obey.
    From harmony, from heavenly harmony
        This universal frame began:
        From harmony to harmony
    Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
    The diapason closing full in Man.

    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
        When Jubal struck the chorded shell
      His listening brethren stood around,
      And, wondering, on their faces fell
      To worship that celestial sound.
    Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
        Within the hollow of that shell
        That spoke so sweetly and so well.
    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

    The trumpet's loud clangor
      Excites us to arms,
    With shrill notes of anger
      And mortal alarms.
    The double double double beat
      Of the thundering drum
      Cries 'Hark! the foes come;
    Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'

      The soft complaining flute
        In dying notes discovers
      The woes of hopeless lovers,
    Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

      Sharp violins proclaim
    Their jealous pangs and desperation,
    Fury, frantic indignation,
    Depth of pains, and height of passion
      For the fair disdainful dame.

    But oh! what art can teach,
    What human voice can reach
      The sacred organ's praise?
    Notes inspiring holy love,
    Notes that wing their heavenly ways
      To mend the choirs above.

    Orpheus could lead the savage race,
    And trees unrooted left their place
      Sequacious of the lyre:
    But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
    When to her Organ vocal breath was given
    An Angel heard, and straight appear'd--
      Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

_Grand Chorus_

    As from the power of sacred lays
      The spheres began to move,
    And sung the great Creator's praise
      To all the blest above;
    So when the last and dreadful hour
    This crumbling pageant shall devour,
    The trumpet shall be heard on high,
    The dead shall live, the living die,
    And Music shall untune the sky.

_J. Dryden_


LXXXVII

_ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT_

    Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
    Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
    Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
    When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,

    Forget not: In Thy book record their groans
    Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
    Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd
    Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

    The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
    To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
    O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway

    The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
    A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,
    Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

_J. Milton_


LXXXVIII

_HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND_

    The forward youth that would appear,
    Must now forsake his Muses dear,
        Nor in the shadows sing
        His numbers languishing.

    'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
    And oil the unuséd armour's rust,
        Removing from the wall
        The corslet of the hall.

    So restless Cromwell could not cease
    In the inglorious arts of peace,
        But through adventurous war
        Urgéd his active star:

    And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
    Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
        Did thorough his own Side
        His fiery way divide:

    For 'tis all one to courage high,
    The emulous, or enemy;
        And with such, to enclose
        Is more than to oppose;

    Then burning through the air he went
    And palaces and temples rent;
        And Caesar's head at last
        Did through his laurels blast.

    'Tis madness to resist or blame
    The face of angry heaven's flame;
        And if we would speak true,
        Much to the Man is due

    Who, from his private gardens, where
    He lived reservéd and austere,
        (As if his highest plot
        To plant the bergamot,)

    Could by industrious valour climb
    To ruin the great work of time,
        And cast the Kingdoms old
        Into another mould;

    Though Justice against Fate complain,
    And plead the ancient Rights in vain--
        But those do hold or break
        As men are strong or weak;

    Nature, that hateth emptiness,
    Allows of penetration less,
        And therefore must make room
        Where greater spirits come.

    What field of all the civil war
    Where his were not the deepest scar?
        And Hampton shows what part
        He had of wiser art,

    Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
    He wove a net of such a scope
        That Charles himself might chase
        To Carisbrook's narrow case,

    That thence the Royal actor borne
    The tragic scaffold might adorn:
        While round the arméd bands
        Did clap their bloody hands.

    He nothing common did or mean
    Upon that memorable scene,
        But with his keener eye
        The axe's edge did try;

    Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,
    To vindicate his helpless right;
        But bow'd his comely head
        Down, as upon a bed.

    --This was that memorable hour
    Which first assured the forcéd power:
        So when they did design
        The Capitol's first line,

    A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
    Did fright the architects to run;
        And yet in that the State
        Foresaw its happy fate!

    And now the Irish are ashamed
    To see themselves in one year tamed:
        So much one man can do
        That does both act and know.

    They can affirm his praises best,
    And have, though overcome, confest
        How good he is, how just
        And fit for highest trust.

    Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
    But still in the Republic's hand--
        How fit he is to sway
        That can so well obey!

    He to the Commons' feet presents
    A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
        And (what he may) forbears
        His fame, to make it theirs:

    And has his sword and spoils ungirt
    To lay them at the Public's skirt.
       So when the falcon high
       Falls heavy from the sky,

    She, having kill'd, no more doth search
    But on the next green bough to perch,
        Where, when he first does lure,
        The falconer has her sure.

    --What may not then our Isle presume
    While victory his crest does plume?
        What may not others fear
        If thus he crowns each year?

    As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
    To Italy an Hannibal,
        And to all States not free
        Shall climacteric be.

    The Pict no shelter now shall find
    Within his parti-colour'd mind,
        But from this valour sad
        Shrink underneath the plaid--

    Happy, if in the tufted brake
    The English hunter him mistake,
        Nor lay his hounds in near
        The Caledonian deer.

    But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
    March indefatigably on;
        And for the last effect
        Still keep the sword erect:

    Besides the force it has to fright
    The spirits of the shady night,
        The same arts that did gain
        A power, must it maintain.

_A. Marvell_


LXXXIX

_LYCIDAS_

_Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel 1637_

    Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
    Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
    I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
    And with forced fingers rude
    Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
    Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
    Compels me to disturb your season due:
    For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
    Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
    Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
    Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
    He must not float upon his watery bier
    Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
    Without the meed of some melodious tear.

      Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well
    That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
    Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
    Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
    So may some gentle Muse
    With lucky words favour my destined urn;
    And as he passes, turn
    And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

      For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
    Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:
    Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
    Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
    We drove a-field, and both together heard
    What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
    Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
    Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
    Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
    Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
    Temper'd to the oaten flute,
    Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
    From the glad sound would not be absent long;
    And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.

      But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
    Now thou art gone, and never must return!
    Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves
    With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
    And all their echoes, mourn:
    The willows and the hazel copses green
    Shall now no more be seen
    Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:--
    As killing as the canker to the rose,
    Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
    Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear
    When first the white-thorn blows;
    Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

      Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
    Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
    For neither were ye playing on the steep
    Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
    Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
    Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
    Ay me! I fondly dream--
    Had ye been there ... For what could that have done?
    What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
    The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
    Whom universal nature did lament,
    When by the rout that made the hideous roar
    His gory visage down the stream was sent,
    Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

      Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
    To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade
    And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
    Were it not better done, as others use,
    To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
    Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
    Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
    (That last infirmity of noble mind)
    To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
    But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
    And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
    Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears
    And slits the thin-spun life.  'But not the praise'
    Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
    'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
    Nor in the glistering foil
    Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
    But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
    And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
    As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
    Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'

      O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
    Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
    That strain I heard was of a higher mood.
    But now my oat proceeds,
    And listens to the herald of the sea
    That came in Neptune's plea;
    He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
    What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
    And question'd every gust of rugged wings
    That blows from off each beaked promontory:
    They knew not of his story;
    And sage Hippotadés their answer brings,
    That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
    The air was calm, and on the level brine
    Sleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd.
    It was that fatal and perfidious bark
    Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
    That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

      Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
    His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge
    Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
    Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:
    'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge!'
    Last came, and last did go
    The Pilot of the Galilean lake;
    Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
    (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
    He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
    'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
    Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake
    Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!
    Of other care they little reckoning make
    Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast.
    And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
    Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
    A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least
    That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
    What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
    And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
    Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
    The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
    But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw
    Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
    Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
    Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
    --But that two-handed engine at the door
    Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'

      Return, Alphéus; the dread voice is past
    That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
    And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
    Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
    Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
    Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
    On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
    Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
    That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers
    And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
    Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
    The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
    The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
    The glowing violet,
    The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
    With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
    And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
    Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,
    And daffadillies fill their cups with tears
    To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
    For so to interpose a little ease,
    Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:--
    Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
    Wash far away,--where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
    Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
    Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
    Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
    Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
    Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
    Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
    Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,
    --Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
    --And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!

      Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
    For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
    Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor:
    So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
    And yet anon repairs his drooping head
    And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
    Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
    So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high
    Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;
    Where, other groves and other streams along,
    With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
    And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
    In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
    There entertain him all the Saints above
    In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
    That sing, and singing, in their glory move,
    And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
    Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
    Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore
    In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
    To all that wander in that perilous flood.

      Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
    While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
    He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
    With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
    And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
    And now was dropt into the western bay:
    At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
    To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

_J. Milton_


XC

_ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY_

    Mortality, behold and fear
    What a change of flesh is here!
    Think how many royal bones
    Sleep within these heaps of stones;
    Here they lie, had realms and lands,
    Who now want strength to stir their hands,
    Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
    They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
    Here's an acre sown indeed
    With the richest royallest seed
    That the earth did e'er suck in
    Since the first man died for sin:
    Here the bones of birth have cried
    'Though gods they were, as men they died!'
    Here are sands, ignoble things,
    Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
    Here's a world of pomp and state
    Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

_F. Beaumont_


XCI

_THE LAST CONQUEROR_

    Victorious men of earth, no more
      Proclaim how wide your empires are;
    Though you bind-in every shore
      And your triumphs reach as far
          As night or day,
      Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
    And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
    Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

    Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
      Each able to undo mankind,
    Death's servile emissaries are;
      Nor to these alone confined,
          He hath at will
      More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
    A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
    Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

_J. Shirley_


XCII

_DEATH THE LEVELLER_

    The glories of our blood and state
        Are shadows, not substantial things;
    There is no armour against fate;
        Death lays his icy hand on kings:
            Sceptre and Crown
            Must tumble down,
    And in the dust be equal made
    With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

    Some men with swords may reap the field,
        And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
    But their strong nerves at last must yield;
        They tame but one another still:
            Early or late
            They stoop to fate,
    And must give up their murmuring breath
    When they, pale captives, creep to death.

    The garlands wither on your brow;
        Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
    Upon Death's purple altar now
        See where the victor-victim bleeds:
            Your heads must come
            To the cold tomb;
    Only the actions of the just
    Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

_J. Shirley_


XCIII

_WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY_

    Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,
    Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
    If deed of honour did thee ever please,
    Guard them, and him within protect from harms.

    He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
    That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
    And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
    Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.

    Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
    The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
    The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower

    Went to the ground: and the repeated air
    Of sad Electra's poet had the power
    To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

_J. Milton_


XCIV

_ON HIS BLINDNESS_

    When I consider how my light is spent
    Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
    And that one talent which is death to hide
    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
    My true account, lest He returning chide,--
    Doth God exact day labour, light denied?
    I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent

    That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need
    Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best
    Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state

    Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:--
    They also serve who only stand and wait.

_J. Milton_


XCV

_CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE_

    How happy is he born and taught
    That serveth not another's will;
    Whose armour is his honest thought
    And simple truth his utmost skill!

    Whose passions not his masters are,
    Whose soul is still prepared for death,
    Untied unto the world by care
    Of public fame, or private breath;

    Who envies none that chance doth raise
    Nor vice; Who never understood
    How deepest wounds are given by praise;
    Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

    Who hath his life from rumours freed,
    Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
    Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
    Nor ruin make oppressors great;

    Who God doth late and early pray
    More of His grace than gifts to lend;
    And entertains the harmless day
    With a religious book or friend;

    --This man is freed from servile bands
    Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
    Lord of himself, though not of lands;
    And having nothing, yet hath all.

_Sir H. Wotton_


XCVI

_THE NOBLE NATURE_

        It is not growing like a tree
        In bulk, doth make Man better be;
    Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
    To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
            A lily of a day
            Is fairer far in May,
        Although it fall and die that night--
        It was the plant and flower of Light.
    In small proportions we just beauties see;
    And in short measures life may perfect be.

_B. Jonson_


XCVII

_THE GIFTS OF GOD_

            When God at first made Man,
    Having a glass of blessings standing by;
    Let us (said He) pour on him all we can:
    Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie,
            Contract into a span.

            So strength first made a way;
    Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
    When almost all was out, God made a stay,
    Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure,
            Rest in the bottom lay.

          For if I should (said He)
    Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
    He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
    And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature,
          So both should losers be.

          Yet let him keep the rest,
    But keep them with repining restlessness:
    Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
    If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
          May toss him to My breast.

_G. Herbert_


XCVIII

_THE RETREAT_

    Happy those early days, when I
    Shined in my Angel-infancy!
    Before I understood this place
    Appointed for my second race,
    Or taught my soul to fancy aught
    But a white, celestial thought;
    When yet I had not walk'd above
    A mile or two from my first Love,
    And looking back, at that short space
    Could see a glimpse of His bright face;
    When on some gilded cloud or flower
    My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
    And in those weaker glories spy
    Some shadows of eternity;
    Before I taught my tongue to wound
    My conscience with a sinful sound,
    Or had the black art to dispense
    A several sin to every sense,
    But felt through all this fleshly dress
    Bright shoots of everlastingness.

    O how I long to travel back,
    And tread again that ancient track!
    That I might once more reach that plain
    Where first I left my glorious train;
    From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
    That shady City of palm trees!
    But ah! my soul with too much stay
    Is drunk, and staggers in the way:--
    Some men a forward motion love,
    But I by backward steps would move;
    And when this dust falls to the urn,
    In that state I came, return.

_H. Vaughan_


XCIX

_TO MR. LAWRENCE_

    Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
    Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
    Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
    Help waste a sullen day, what may be won

    From the hard season gaining? Time will run
    On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
    The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
    The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.

    What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
    Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
    To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice.

    Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
    He who of those delights can judge, and spare
    To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

_J. Milton_


C

_TO CYRIACK SKINNER_

    Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
    Of British Themis, with no mean applause
    Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
    Which others at their bar so often wrench;

    To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
    In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
    Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
    And what the Swede intend, and what the French.

    To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
    Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
    For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,

    And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
    That with superfluous burden loads the day,
    And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

_J. Milton_


CI

_A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE_

    Of Neptune's empire let us sing,
    At whose command the waves obey;
    To whom the rivers tribute pay,
    Down the high mountains sliding;
    To whom the scaly nation yields
    Homage for the crystal fields
          Wherein they dwell;
    And every sea-god pays a gem
    Yearly out of his watery cell,
    To deck great Neptune's diadem.

    The Tritons dancing in a ring,
    Before his palace gates do make
    The water with their echoes quake,
    Like the great thunder sounding:
    The sea-nymphs chaunt their accents shrill,
    And the Syrens taught to kill
          With their sweet voice,
    Make every echoing rock reply,
    Unto their gentle murmuring noise,
    The praise of Neptune's empery.

_T. Campion_


CII

_HYMN TO DIANA_

    Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
        Now the sun is laid to sleep,
    Seated in thy silver chair
        State in wonted manner keep:
            Hesperus entreats thy light,
            Goddess excellently bright.

    Earth, let not thy envious shade
        Dare itself to interpose;
    Cynthia's shining orb was made
        Heaven to clear when day did close:
            Bless us then with wishéd sight,
            Goddess excellently bright.

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

_B. Jonson_


CIII

_WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_R. Crashaw_


CIV

_THE GREAT ADVENTURER_

    Over the mountains
    And over the waves,
    Under the fountains
    And under the graves;
    Under floods that are deepest,
    Which Neptune obey;
    Over rocks that are steepest
    Love will find out the way.

    Where there is no place
    For the glow-worm to lie;
    Where there is no space
    For receipt of a fly;
    Where the midge dares not venture
    Lest herself fast she lay;
    If love come, he will enter
    And soon find out his way.

    You may esteem him
    A child for his might;
    Or you may deem him
    A coward from his flight;
    But if she whom love doth honour
    Be conceal'd from the day,
    Set a thousand guards upon her,
    Love will find out the way.

    Some think to lose him
    By having him confined;
    And some do suppose him,
    Poor thing, to be blind;
    But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
    Do the best that you may,
    Blind love, if so ye call him,
    Will find out his way.

    You may train the eagle
    To stoop to your fist;
    Or you may inveigle
    The phoenix of the east;
    The lioness, ye may move her
    To give o'er her prey;
    But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
    He will find out his way.

_Anon._


CV

_THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T.C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS_

        See with what simplicity
        This nymph begins her golden days!
        In the green grass she loves to lie,
        And there with her fair aspect tames
        The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
        But only with the roses plays,
                          And them does tell
    What colours best become them, and what smell.

        Who can foretell for what high cause
        This darling of the Gods was born?
        Yet this is she whose chaster laws
        The wanton Love shall one day fear,
        And, under her command severe,
        See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.
                          Happy who can
    Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

        O then let me in time compound
        And parley with those conquering eyes,
        Ere they have tried their force to wound;
        Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
        In triumph over hearts that strive,
        And them that yield but more despise:
                          Let me be laid,
    Where I may see the glories from some shade.

        Mean time, whilst every verdant thing
        Itself does at thy beauty charm,
        Reform the errors of the Spring;
        Make that the tulips may have share
        Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,
        And roses of their thorns disarm;
                          But most procure
    That violets may a longer age endure.

        But O young beauty of the woods,
        Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
        Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
        Lest FLORA, angry at thy crime
        To kill her infants in their prime,
        Should quickly make th' example yours;
                         And ere we see--
    Nip in the blossom--all our hopes and thee.

_A. Marvell_


CVI

_CHILD AND MAIDEN_

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

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

    My passion with your beauty grew,
      While Cupid at my heart,
    Still as his mother favour'd you,
      Threw a new flaming dart:
    Each gloried in their wanton part;
      To make a lover, he
    Employ'd the utmost of his art--
      To make a beauty, she.

_Sir C. Sedley_


CVII

_CONSTANCY_

    I cannot change, as others do,
      Though you unjustly scorn,
    Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
      For you alone was born;
    No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
      A surer way I'll try,--
    And to revenge my slighted love,
      Will still love on, and die.

    When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,
      And you to mind shall call
    The sighs that now unpitied rise,
      The tears that vainly fall,
    That welcome hour that ends his smart
      Will then begin your pain,
    For such a faithful tender heart
      Can never break in vain.

_J. Wilmot, Earl of Rochester_


CVIII

_COUNSEL TO GIRLS_

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

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

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

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

_R. Herrick_


CIX

_TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS_

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

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

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

_Colonel Lovelace_


CX

_ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA_

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

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

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

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

_Sir H. Wotton_


CXI

_TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY_

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

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

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

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

_J. Milton_


CXII

_THE TRUE BEAUTY_

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

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

_T. Carew_


CXIII

_TO DIANEME_

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

_R. Herrick._


CXIV

    Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise;
        Old Time will make thee colder,
    And though each morning new arise
        Yet we each day grow older.
    Thou as Heaven art fair and young,
        Thine eyes like twin stars shining;
    But ere another day be sprung
        All these will be declining.
    Then winter comes with all his fears,
        And all thy sweets shall borrow;
    Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,--
        And I too late shall sorrow!

_Anon._


CXV

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

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

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

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

_E. Waller_


CXVI

_TO CELIA_

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

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

_B. Jonson_


CXVII

_CHERRY-RIPE_

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

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

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

_Anon._


CXVIII

_CORINNA'S MAYING_

    Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn
    Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
        See how Aurora throws her fair
        Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
        Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see
        The dew bespangling herb and tree.
    Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
    Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
        Nay! not so much as out of bed?
        When all the birds have matins said,
        And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
        Nay, profanation, to keep in,--
    Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,
    Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch-in May,

    Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
    To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,
        And sweet as Flora. Take no care
        For jewels for your gown, or hair:
        Fear not; the leaves will strew
        Gems in abundance upon you:
    Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
    Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:
        Come, and receive them while the light
        Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
        And Titan on the eastern hill
        Retires himself, or else stands still
    Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
    Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.

    Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
    How each field turns a street; each street a park
        Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how
        Devotion gives each house a bough
        Or branch: Each porch, each door, ere this,
        An ark, a tabernacle is,
    Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
    As if here were those cooler shades of love.
        Can such delights be in the street,
        And open fields, and we not see't?
        Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
        The proclamation made for May:
    And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
    But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

    There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
    But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
        A deal of youth, ere this, is come
        Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
        Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,
        Before that we have left to dream:
    And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
    And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
        Many a green-gown has been given;
        Many a kiss, both odd and even:
        Many a glance too has been sent
        From out the eye, Love's firmament:
    Many a jest told of the keys betraying
    This night, and locks pick'd:--Yet we're not a Maying.

    --Come, let us go, while we are in our prime;
    And take the harmless folly of the time!
        We shall grow old apace, and die
        Before we know our liberty.
        Our life is short; and our days run
        As fast away as does the sun:--
    And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
    Once lost, can ne'er be found again:
        So when or you or I are made
        A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
        All love, all liking, all delight
        Lies drown'd with us in endless night.
    Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
    Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.

_R. Herrick_


CXIX

_THE POETRY OF DRESS_

I

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

_R. Herrick_


CXX

2

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

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

_R. Herrick_


CXXI

3

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

_Anon._


CXXII

_ON A GIRDLE_

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

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

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

_E. Waller_


CXXIII

_A MYSTICAL ECSTASY_

    E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
        That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
    And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,
        Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
          Where in a greater current they conjoin:
    So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.

    E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,
        E'en so we join'd; we both became entire;
    No need for either to renew a suit,
        For I was flax and he was flames of fire:
        Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
    So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.

    If all those glittering Monarchs that command
        The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
    Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,
        I would not change my fortunes for them all:
        Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
    The world's but theirs; but my Belovéd's mine.

_F. Quarles_


CXXIV

_TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING_

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

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

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

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

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

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

_R. Herrick_


CXXV

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

_Anon._


CXXVI

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

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

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

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

_Sir C. Sedley_


CXXVII

_TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON_

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

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

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

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

_Colonel Lovelace_


CXXVIII

_TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS_

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

        But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
            To swell my sail,
          Or pay a tear to 'suage
          The foaming blue-god's rage;
        For whether he will let me pass
    Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

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

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

_Colonel Lovelace_


CXXIX

_ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER_

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

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

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

_Sir J. Suckling_


CXXX

_A SUPPLICATION_

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

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

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

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

_A. Cowley_


CXXXI

_THE MANLY HEART_

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

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

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

    'Cause her fortune seems too high,
    Shall I play the fool and die?
    She that bears a noble mind
    If not outward helps she find,
    Thinks what with them he would do
    Who without them dares her woo;
        And unless that mind I see,
        What care I how great she be?

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

_G. Wither_


CXXXII

_MELANCHOLY_

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

_J. Fletcher_


CXXXIII

_FORSAKEN_

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

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

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

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

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

_Anon._


CXXXIV

    Upon my lap my sovereign sits
    And sucks upon my breast;
    Meantime his love maintains my life
    And gives my sense her rest.
        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

    When thou hast taken thy repast,
    Repose, my babe, on me;
    So may thy mother and thy nurse
    Thy cradle also be.
        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

    I grieve that duty doth not work
    All that my wishing would,
    Because I would not be to thee
    But in the best I should.
        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

    Yet as I am, and as I may,
    I must and will be thine,
    Though all too little for thy self
    Vouchsafing to be mine.
        Sing lullaby, my little boy,
        Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

_Anon._


CXXXV

_FAIR HELEN_

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

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

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

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

    I lighted down my sword to draw,
    I hackéd him in pieces sma',
    I hackéd him in pieces sma',
        For her sake that died for me.

    O Helen fair, beyond compare!
    I'll make a garland of thy hair
    Shall bind my heart for evermair
        Until the day I die.

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

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

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

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

_Anon._


CXXXVI

_THE TWA CORBIES_

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

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

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

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

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

_Anon._


CXXXVII

_ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY_

    It was a dismal and a fearful night,--
    Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,
    When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
        By something liker death possest.
    My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
        And on my soul hung the dull weight
        Of some intolerable fate.
    What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!

    My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,
    Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
    Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
        O thou hast left me all alone!
    Thy soul and body, when death's agony
        Besieged around thy noble heart,
        Did not with more reluctance part
    Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.

    Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
    Have ye not seen us walking every day?
    Was there a tree about which did not know
        The love betwixt us two?
    Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,
        Or your sad branches thicker join,
        And into darksome shades combine,
    Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.

    Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
    Submitted to inform a body here;
    High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,
        But low and humble as his grave;
    So high that all the virtues there did come
        As to the chiefest seat
        Conspicuous, and great;
    So low that for me too it made a room.

    Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
    As if for him knowledge had rather sought;
    Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
        In such a short mortality.
    Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
        Still did the notions throng
        About his eloquent tongue;
    Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

    His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
    Yet never did his God or friends forget.
    And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
        Retired, and gave to them their due.
    For the rich help of books he always took,
        Though his own searching mind before
        Was so with notions written o'er,
    As if wise Nature had made that her book.

    With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
    He always lived, as other saints do die.
    Still with his soul severe account he kept,
        Weeping all debts out ere he slept.
    Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
        Like the sun's laborious light,
        Which still in water sets at night,
    Unsullied with his journey of the day.

_A. Cowley_


CXXXVIII

_FRIENDS IN PARADISE_

    They are all gone into the world of light!
        And I alone sit lingering here;
    Their very memory is fair and bright,
          And my sad thoughts doth clear:--

    It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
        Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
    Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
          After the sun's remove.

    I see them walking in an air of glory,
        Whose light doth trample on my days:
    My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
            Mere glimmering and decays.

    O holy Hope! and high Humility,
        High as the heavens above!
    These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me,
            To kindle my cold love.

    Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
        Shining no where, but in the dark;
    What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
            Could man outlook that mark!

    He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know
        At first sight, if the bird be flown;
    But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
            That is to him unknown.

    And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
        Call to the soul, when man doth sleep;
    So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
            And into glory peep.

_H. Vaughan_


CXXXIX

_TO BLOSSOMS_

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

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

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

_R. Herrick_


CXL

_TO DAFFODILS_

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

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

_R. Herrick_


CXLI

_THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN_

    With sweetest milk and sugar first
    I it at my own fingers nursed;
    And as it grew, so every day
    It wax'd more white and sweet than they--
    It had so sweet a breath! and oft
    I blush'd to see its foot more soft
    And white,--shall I say,--than my hand?
    Nay, any lady's of the land!

    It is a wondrous thing how fleet
    'Twas on those little silver feet:
    With what a pretty skipping grace
    It oft would challenge me the race:--
    And when 't had left me far away
    'Twould stay, and run again, and stay:
    For it was nimbler much than hinds,
    And trod as if on the four winds.

    I have a garden of my own,
    But so with roses overgrown
    And lilies, that you would it guess
    To be a little wilderness:
    And all the spring-time of the year
    It only lovéd to be there.
    Among the beds of lilies I
    Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
    Yet could not, till itself would rise,
    Find it, although before mine eyes:--
    For in the flaxen lilies' shade
    It like a bank of lilies laid.

    Upon the roses it would feed,
    Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed:
    And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
    And print those roses on my lip.
    But all its chief delight was still
    On roses thus itself to fill,
    And its pure virgin limbs to fold
    In whitest sheets of lilies cold:--
    Had it lived long, it would have been
    Lilies without--roses within.

_A. Marvell_


CXLII

_THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_A. Marvell_


CXLIII

_FORTUNATI NIMIUM_

    Jack and Joan, they think no ill,
    But loving live, and merry still;
    Do their week-day's work, and pray
    Devoutly on the holy-day:
    Skip and trip it on the green,
    And help to choose the Summer Queen;
    Lash out at a country feast
    Their silver penny with the best.

    Well can they judge of nappy ale,
    And tell at large a winter tale;
    Climb up to the apple loft,
    And turn the crabs till they be soft.
    Tib is all the father's joy,
    And little Tom the mother's boy:--
    All their pleasure is, Content,
    And care, to pay their yearly rent.

    Joan can call by name her cows
    And deck her windows with green boughs;
    She can wreaths and tutties make,
    And trim with plums a bridal cake.
    Jack knows what brings gain or loss,
    And his long flail can stoutly toss:
    Makes the hedge which others break,
    And ever thinks what he doth speak.

    --Now, you courtly dames and knights,
    That study only strange delights,
    Though you scorn the homespun gray,
    And revel in your rich array;
    Though your tongues dissemble deep
    And can your heads from danger keep;
    Yet, for all your pomp and train,
    Securer lives the silly swain!

_T. Campion_


CXLIV

_L'ALLEGRO_

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

          But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
        In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
        And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
        Whom lovely Venus at a birth
        With two sister Graces more
        To ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore;
        Or whether (as some sager sing)
        The frolic wind that breathes the spring
        Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
        As he met her once a-Maying--
        There on beds of violets blue
        And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew
        Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
        So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

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

_J. Milton_


CXLV

_IL PENSEROSO_

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

        But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,
      Hail, divinest Melancholy!
      Whose saintly visage is too bright
      To hit the sense of human sight,
      And therefore to our weaker view
      O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
      Black, but such as in esteem
      Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
      Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
      To set her beauty's praise above
      The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:
      Yet thou art higher far descended:
      Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
      To solitary Saturn bore;
      His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
      Such mixture was not held a stain:
      Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
      He met her, and in secret shades
      Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
      While yet there was no fear of Jove.

        Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
      Sober, steadfast, and demure,
      All in a robe of darkest grain
      Flowing with majestic train,
      And sable stole of Cipres lawn
      Over thy decent shoulders drawn:
      Come, but keep thy wonted state,
      With even step, and musing gait,
      And looks commercing with the skies,
      Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
      There, held in holy passion still,
      Forget thyself to marble, till
      With a sad leaden downward cast
      Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
      And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
      Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
      And hears the Muses in a ring
      Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
      And add to these retired Leisure
      That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:--
      But first and chiefest, with thee bring
      Him that yon soars on golden wing
      Guiding the fiery-wheeléd throne,
      The cherub Contemplatión;
      And the mute Silence hist along,
      'Less Philomel will deign a song
      In her sweetest saddest plight
      Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
      While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
      Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.
      --Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
      Most musical, most melancholy!
      Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among
      I woo, to hear thy even-song;
      And missing thee, I walk unseen
      On the dry smooth-shaven green,
      To behold the wandering Moon
      Riding near her highest noon,
      Like one that had been led astray
      Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
      And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
      Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

        Oft, on a plat of rising ground
      I hear the far-off Curfeu sound
      Over some wide-water'd shore,
      Swinging slow with sullen roar:
      Or, if the air will not permit,
      Some still removéd place will fit,
      Where glowing embers through the room
      Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
      Far from all resort of mirth,
      Save the cricket on the hearth,
      Or the bellman's drowsy charm
      To bless the doors from nightly harm.
        Or let my lamp at midnight hour
      Be seen in some high lonely tower,
      Where I may oft out-watch the Bear
      With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
      The spirit of Plato, to unfold
      What worlds or what vast regions hold
      The immortal mind, that hath forsook
      Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
      And of those demons that are found
      In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
      Whose power hath a true consent
      With planet, or with element.
      Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
      In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
      Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
      Or the tale of Troy divine;
      Or what (though rare) of later age
      Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
        But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
      Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
      Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
      Such notes as, warbled to the string,
      Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
      And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
      Or call up him that left half-told
      The story of Cambuscan bold,
      Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
      And who had Canacé to wife
      That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;
      And of the wondrous horse of brass
      On which the Tartar king did ride:
      And if aught else great bards beside
      In sage and solemn tunes have sung
      Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
      Of forests, and enchantments drear,
      Where more is meant than meets the ear.
        Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
      Till civil-suited Morn appear,
      Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
      With the Attic Boy to hunt,
      But kercheft in a comely cloud
      While rocking winds are piping loud,
      Or usher'd with a shower still,
      When the gust hath blown his fill,
      Ending on the rustling leaves
      With minute drops from off the eaves.
      And when the sun begins to fling
      His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
      To archéd walks of twilight groves,
      And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
      Of pine, or monumental oak,
      Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,
      Was never heard the nymphs to daunt
      Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
      There in close covert by some brook
      Where no profaner eye may look,
      Hide me from day's garish eye,
      While the bee with honey'd thigh
      That at her flowery work doth sing,
      And the waters murmuring,
      With such consort as they keep
      Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
      And let some strange mysterious dream
      Wave at his wings in airy stream
      Of lively portraiture display'd,
      Softly on my eyelids laid:
      And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
      Above, about, or underneath,
      Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
      Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
        But let my due feet never fail
      To walk the studious cloister's pale,
      And love the high-embowéd roof,
      With antique pillars massy proof,
      And storied windows richly dight
      Casting a dim religious light.
      There let the pealing organ blow
      To the full-voiced quire below
      In service high and anthems clear,
      As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
      Dissolve me into ecstasies,
      And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
        And may at last my weary age
      Find out the peaceful hermitage,
      The hairy gown and mossy cell
      Where I may sit and rightly spell
      Of every star that heaven doth shew,
      And every herb that sips the dew;
      Till old experience do attain
      To something like prophetic strain.

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

_J. Milton_


CXLVI

_SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA_

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

_A. Marvell_


CXLVII

_AT A SOLEMN MUSIC_

    Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
    Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!
    Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ,
    Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
    And to our high-raised phantasy present
    That undisturbéd Song of pure concent
    Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
          To Him that sits thereon,

    With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
    Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
    Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
    And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
    Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
    With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
          Hymns devout and holy psalms
          Singing everlastingly:
    That we on Earth, with undiscording voice
    May rightly answer that melodious noise;
    As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
    Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
    Broke the fair music that all creatures made
    To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
    In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
    In first obedience, and their state of good.
    O may we soon again renew that Song,
    And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
    To His celestial consort us unite,
  To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!

_J. Milton_


CXLVIII

_NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM_.

        When I survey the bright
            Celestial sphere:
    So rich with jewels hung, that night
    Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;

        My soul her wings doth spread,
            And heaven-ward flies,
    The Almighty's mysteries to read
    In the large volumes of the skies.

        For the bright firmament
            Shoots forth no flame
    So silent, but is eloquent
    In speaking the Creator's name.

        No unregarded star
            Contracts its light
    Into so small a character,
    Removed far from our human sight,

        But if we steadfast look,
            We shall discern
    In it as in some holy book,
    How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

        It tells the Conqueror,
            That far-stretch'd power
    Which his proud dangers traffic for,
    Is but the triumph of an hour.

        That from the farthest North
            Some nation may
    Yet undiscover'd issue forth,
    And o'er his new-got conquest sway.

        Some nation yet shut in
            With hills of ice,
    May be let out to scourge his sin,
    Till they shall equal him in vice.

        And then they likewise shall
            Their ruin have;
    For as yourselves your Empires fall,
    And every Kingdom hath a grave.

        Thus those celestial fires,
            Though seeming mute,
    The fallacy of our desires
    And all the pride of life, confute.

        For they have watch'd since first
            The World had birth:
    And found sin in itself accursed,
    And nothing permanent on earth.

_W. Habington_


CXLIX

_HYMN TO DARKNESS_

      Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!
          What Muse is worthy thee to sing?
        Thee, from whose pregnant universal womb
        All things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come.
        What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,
          Thou first and greatest mystery?
        Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?
    Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible.

        Before great Love this monument did raise,
          This ample theatre of praise;
        Before the folding circles of the sky
        Were tuned by Him, Who is all harmony;
        Before the morning Stars their hymn began,
          Before the council held for man,
        Before the birth of either time or place,
    Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space.

        Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,
          But still half of the globe is thine.
        Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand,
        Like the best emperors thou dost command.
        To thee the stars above their brightness owe,
          And mortals their repose below:
        To thy protection fear and sorrow flee,
    And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.

_J. Norris of Bemerton_


CL

_A VISION_

    I saw Eternity the other night,
    Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
        All calm, as it was bright:--
    And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,
        Driven by the spheres,
    Like a vast shadow moved; in which the World
        And all her train were hurl'd.

_H. Vaughan_


CLI

_ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_J. Dryden_




The Golden Treasury

Book Third


CLII

_ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE_

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

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

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

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

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

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

_T. Gray_


CLIII

_ODE TO SIMPLICITY_

        O Thou, by Nature taught
        To breathe her genuine thought
    In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;
        Who first, on mountains wild,
        In Fancy, loveliest child,
    Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!

        Thou, who with hermit heart,
        Disdain'st the wealth of art,
    And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,
        But com'st, a decent maid
        In Attic robe array'd,
    O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!

        By all the honey'd store
        On Hybla's thymy shore,
    By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;
        By her whose love-lorn woe
        In evening musings slow
    Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:

        By old Cephisus deep,
        Who spread his wavy sweep
    In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat;
        On whose enamell'd side,
        When holy Freedom died,
    No equal haunt allured thy future feet:--

        O sister meek of Truth,
        To my admiring youth
    Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
        The flowers that sweetest breathe,
        Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,
    Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.

        While Rome could none esteem
        But Virtue's patriot theme,
    You loved her hills, and led her laureat band;
        But stay'd to sing alone
        To one distinguish'd throne;
    And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.

        No more, in hall or bower,
        The Passions own thy power;
    Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:
        For thou hast left her shrine;
        Nor olive more, nor vine,
    Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

        Though taste, though genius, bless
        To some divine excess,
    Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;
        What each, what all supply
        May court, may charm our eye;
    Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!

        Of these let others ask
        To aid some mighty task;
    I only seek to find thy temperate vale;
        Where oft my reed might sound
        To maids and shepherds round,
    And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.

_W. Collins_


CLIV

_SOLITUDE_

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

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

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

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

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

_A. Pope_


CLV

_THE BLIND BOY_

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

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

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

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

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

_C. Cibber_


CLVI

_ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_T. Gray_


CLVII

_TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY_

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

_A. Philips_


CLVIII

_RULE BRITANNIA_

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

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

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

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

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

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

_J. Thomson_


CLIX

_THE BARD_

_Pindaric Ode_

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

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

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

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

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

      _'Fill high the sparkling bowl,
    The rich repast prepare;
      Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
    Close by the regal chair
      Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
      A baleful smile upon their baffled guest,
    Heard ye the din of battle bray,
      Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
      Long years of havock urge their destined course,
    And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
      Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
    With many afoul and midnight murder fed,
      Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
    And spare the meek usurpers holy head!
    Above, below, the rose of snow,
      Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
    The bristled boar in infant-gore
      Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
    Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom,
    Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom._

    _'Edward, lo! to sudden fate
      (Weave we the woof; The thread is spun;)
    Half of thy heart we consecrate.
      (The web is wove; The work is done.)_
    --Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
    Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
    In yon bright track that fires the western skies
    They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
    But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
      Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
    Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
    Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
    No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:--
    All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

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

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

_T. Gray_


CLX

_ODE WRITTEN IN 1746_

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

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

_W. Collins_


CLXI

_LAMENT FOR CULLODEN_

    The lovely lass o' Inverness,
    Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
    For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
    And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
    Drumossie moor--Drumossie day--
    A waefu' day it was to me!
    For there I lost my father dear,
    My father dear, and brethren three.

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

_R. Burns_


CLXII

_LAMENT FOR FLODDEN_

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

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

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

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

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

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

_J. Elliott_


CLXIII

_THE BRAES OF YARROW_

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

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

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

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

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

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

_J. Logan_


CLXIV

_WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Anon._


CLXV

_LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_W. Cowper_


CLXVI

_BLACK-EYED SUSAN_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_J. Gay_


CLXVII

_SALLY IN OUR ALLEY_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_H. Carey_


CLXVIII

_A FAREWELL_

    Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
      An' fill it in a silver tassie;
    That I may drink before I go
      A service to my bonnie lassie:
    The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
      Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
    The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
      And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

    The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
      The glittering spears are rankéd ready;
    The shouts o' war are heard afar,
      The battle closes thick and bloody;
    But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
      Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
    Nor shout o' war that's heard afar--
      It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

_R. Burns_


CLXIX

    If doughty deeds my lady please
      Right soon I'll mount my steed;
    And strong his arm, and fast his seat
      That bears frae me the meed.
    I'll wear thy colours in my cap
      Thy picture at my heart;
    And he that bends not to thine eye
      Shall rue it to his smart!
        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
          O tell me how to woo thee!
        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
          Tho' ne'er another trow me.

    If gay attire delight thine eye
      I'll dight me in array;
    I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
      And squire thee all the day.
    If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
      These sounds I'll strive to catch;
    Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
      That voice that nane can match.

    But if fond love thy heart can gain,
      I never broke a vow;
    Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
      I never loved but you.
    For you alone I ride the ring,
      For you I wear the blue;
    For you alone I strive to sing,
      O tell me how to woo!

    Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
      O tell me how to woo thee!
    For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
      Tho' ne'er another trow me.

_R. Graham of Gartmore_


CLXX

_TO A YOUNG LADY_

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

_W. Cowper_


CLXXI

_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY_

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

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

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

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

_S. Rogers_


CLXXII

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

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

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

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

_J. Thomson_


CLXXIII

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

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

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

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

_M. Prior_


CLXXIV

_LOVE'S SECRET_

    Never seek to tell thy love,
      Love that never told can be;
    For the gentle wind doth move
      Silently, invisibly.

    I told my love, I told my love,
      I told her all my heart,
    Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears:--
      Ah! she did depart.

    Soon after she was gone from me
      A traveller came by,
    Silently, invisibly:
      He took her with a sigh.

_W. Blake_


CLXXV

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

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

_O. Goldsmith_


CLXXVI

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

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

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

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

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

_R. Burns_


CLXXVII

_THE PROGRESS OF POESY_

_A Pindaric Ode_

      Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
    And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
    From Helicon's harmonious springs
        A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
    The laughing flowers that round them blow
    Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
    Now the rich stream of music winds along
    Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
    Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
    Now rolling down the steep amain
    Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
    The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

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

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

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

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

    Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
    Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
    Fields that cool Ilissus laves,
    Or where Maeander's amber waves
    In lingering labyrinths creep,
    How do your tuneful echoes languish,
    Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
    Where each old poetic mountain
      Inspiration breathed around;
    Every shade and hallow'd fountain
      Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
    Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour
      Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
    Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
      And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
    When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
    They sought, oh Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.

      Far from the sun and summer-gale
    In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
    What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
      To him the mighty Mother did unveil
    Her awful face: the dauntless child
    Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
    'This pencil take' (she said), 'whose colours clear
    Richly paint the vernal year:
    Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
    This can unlock the gates of joy;
    Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
    Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'

      Nor second He, that rode sublime
    Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy
    The secrets of the abyss to spy:
      He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
    The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze
    Where angels tremble while they gaze,
    He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
    Closed his eyes in endless night.
    Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
    Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
    Two coursers of ethereal race,
    With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.

    Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
    Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
    Scatters from her pictured urn
    Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
    But ah! 'tis heard no more--
    Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
    Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit
    Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
      That the Theban eagle bear,
    Sailing with supreme dominion
      Thro' the azure deep of air:
    Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
      Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
    With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:
      Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
    Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:
    Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.

_T. Gray_


CLXXVIII

_THE PASSIONS_

_An Ode for Music_

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

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

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

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

    But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
      What was thy delighted measure?
    Still it whisper'd promised pleasure
      And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
    Still would her touch the strain prolong;
      And from the rocks, the woods, the vale
    She call'd on Echo still through all the song;
      And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
      A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
    And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;--

    And longer had she sung:--but with a frown
        Revenge impatient rose:
    He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
        And with a withering look
      The war-denouncing trumpet took
    And blew a blast so loud and dread,
    Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
        And ever and anon he beat
        The doubling drum with furious heat;
    And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
        Dejected Pity at his side
        Her soul-subduing voice applied,
      Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
    While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

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

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

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

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

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

_W. Collins_


CLXXIX

_THE SONG OF DAVID_

    He sang of God, the mighty source
    Of all things, the stupendous force
      On which all strength depends:
    From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,
    All period, power, and enterprise
      Commences, reigns, and ends.

    The world, the clustering spheres He made,
    The glorious light, the soothing shade,
      Dale, champaign, grove and hill:
    The multitudinous abyss,
    Where secrecy remains in bliss,
      And wisdom hides her skill.

    Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said
    To Moses: while Earth heard in dread,
      And, smitten to the heart,
    At once, above, beneath, around,
    All Nature, without voice or sound,
      Replied, 'O Lord, THOU ART.'

_C. Smart_


CLXXX

_INFANT JOY_

    'I have no name;
    I am but two days old.'
    --What shall I call thee?
    'I happy am;
    Joy is my name.'
    --Sweet joy befall thee!

    Pretty joy!
    Sweet joy, but two days old;
    Sweet joy I call thee:
    Thou dost smile:
    I sing the while,
    Sweet joy befall thee!

_W. Blake_


CLXXXI

_A CRADLE SONG_

    Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
    Dreaming in the joys of night;
    Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
    Little sorrows sit and weep.

    Sweet babe, in thy face
    Soft desires I can trace,
    Secret joys and secret smiles,
    Little pretty infant wiles.

    As thy softest limbs I feel,
    Smiles as of the morning steal
    O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
    Where thy little heart doth rest.

    Oh the cunning wiles that creep
    In thy little heart asleep!
    When thy little heart doth wake,
    Then the dreadful light shall break.

_W. Blake_


CLXXXII

_ODE ON THE SPRING_

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

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

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

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

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

_T. Gray_


CLXXXIII

_THE POPLAR FIELD_

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

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

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

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

    The change both my heart and my fancy employs;
    I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys:
    Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
    Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

_W. Cowper_


CLXXXIV

_TO A MOUSE_

_On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_R. Burns_


CLXXXV

_A WISH_

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

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

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

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

_S. Rogers_


CLXXXVI

_ODE TO EVENING_

    If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
    May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear
        Like thy own solemn springs,
        Thy springs, and dying gales;

    O Nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun
    Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
        With brede ethereal wove,
        O'erhang his wavy bed;

    Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
    With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
        Or where the beetle winds
        His small but sullen horn,

    As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
    Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,--
        Now teach me, maid composed,
        To breathe some soften'd strain

    Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
    May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
        As, musing slow, I hail
        Thy genial loved return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_W. Collins_


CLXXXVII

_ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
    Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
    Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
    Or waked to extasy the living lyre:

    But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
    Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
    Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
    And froze the genial current of the soul.

    Full many a gem of purest ray serene
    The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
    Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

    Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
    The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
    Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
    Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

    Th' applause of listening senates to command,
    The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
    To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
    And read their history in a nation's eyes

    Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
    Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,
    And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

    The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
    To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
    Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
    With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

    Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
    Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
    Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
    They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

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

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

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

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

    For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
    If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
    Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,--

    Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
    'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
    Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
    To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

    'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
    His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

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

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

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

THE EPITAPH

    Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
    A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
    Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth
    And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

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

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

_T. Gray_


CLXXXVIII

_MARY MORISON_

    O Mary, at thy window be,
    It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
    Those smiles and glances let me see
    That make the miser's treasure poor:
    How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
    A weary slave frae sun to sun,
    Could I the rich reward secure,
    The lovely Mary Morison.

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

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

_R. Burns_


CLXXXIX

_BONNIE LESLEY_

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

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

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

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

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

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

_R. Burns_


CXC

    O my Luve's like a red, red rose
      That's newly sprung in June:
    O my Luve's like the melodie
      That's sweetly play'd in tune.

    As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
      So deep in luve am I:
    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
      Till a' the seas gang dry:

    Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
      And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
    I will luve thee still, my dear,
      While the sands o' life shall run.

    And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
      And fare thee weel awhile!
    And I will come again, my Luve,
      Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

_R. Burns_


CXCI

_HIGHLAND MARY_

    Ye banks and braes and streams around
      The castle o' Montgomery,
    Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
      Your waters never drumlie!
    There simmer first unfauld her robes,
      And there the langest tarry;
    For there I took the last fareweel
      O' my sweet Highland Mary.

    How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
      How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
    As underneath their fragrant shade
      I clasp'd her to my bosom!
    The golden hours on angel wings
      Flew o'er me and my dearie;
    For dear to me as light and life
      Was my sweet Highland Mary.

    Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace
      Our parting was fu' tender;
    And pledging aft to meet again,
      We tore oursels asunder;
    But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
      That nipt my flower sae early!
    Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
      That wraps my Highland Mary!

    O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
      I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
    And closed for aye the sparkling glance
      That dwelt on me sae kindly;
    And mouldering now in silent dust
      That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
    But still within my bosom's core
      Shall live my Highland Mary.

_R. Burns_


CXCII

_AULD ROBIN GRAY_

    When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a hame,
    And a' the warld to rest are gane,
    The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
    While my gudeman lies sound by me.

    Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
    But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
    To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
    And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

    He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
    When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
    My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--
    And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

    My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
    I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
    Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
    Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!

    My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
    But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
    His ship it was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee?
    Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?

    My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
    But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:
    They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
    Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

    I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
    When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
    I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he
    Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.

    O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
    We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
    I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
    And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

    I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
    I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
    But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
    For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

_Lady A. Lindsay._


CXCIII

_DUNCAN GRAY_

    Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
        Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
    On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
        Ha, ha, the wooing o't:
    Maggie coost her head fu' high,
    Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
    Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!

    Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
    Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
    Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
    Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
    Spak o' lowpin ower a linn!

    Time and chance are but a tide,
    Slighted love is sair to bide;
    Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
    For a haughty hizzie dee?
    She may gae to--France for me!

    How it comes let doctors tell,
    Meg grew sick--as he grew well;
    Something in her bosom wrings,
    For relief a sigh she brings;
    And O, her een, they spak sic things!

    Duncan was a lad o' grace;
    Maggie's was a piteous case;
    Duncan couldna be her death,
    Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
    Now they're crouse and canty baith:
        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!

_R. Burns_


CXCIV

_THE SAILOR'S WIFE_

    And are ye sure the news is true?
      And are ye sure he's weel?
    Is this a time to think o' wark?
      Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
    Is this the time to spin a thread,
      When Colin's at the door?
    Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
      And see him come ashore.
    For there's nae luck about the house,
      There's nae luck at a';
    There's little pleasure in the house
      When our gudeman's awa'.

    And gie to me my bigonet,
      My bishop's satin gown;
    For I maun tell the baillie's wife
      That Colin's in the town.
    My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
      My stockins pearly blue;
    It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
      For he's baith leal and true.

    Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
      Put on the muckle pot;
    Gie little Kate her button gown
      And Jock his Sunday coat;
    And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
      Their hose as white as snaw;
    It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
      For he's been long awa.

    There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
      Been fed this month and mair;
    Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
      That Colin weel may fare;
    And spread the table neat and clean,
      Gar ilka thing look braw,
    For wha can tell how Colin fared
      When he was far awa?

    Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
      His breath like caller air;
    His very foot has music in't
      As he comes up the stair--
    And will I see his face again?
      And will I hear him speak?
    I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
      In troth I'm like to greet!

    If Colin's weel, and weel content,
      I hae nae mair to crave:
    And gin I live to keep him sae,
      I'm blest aboon the lave:
    And will I see his face again,
      And will I hear him speak?
    I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
      In troth I'm like to greet.
    For there's nae luck about the house,
      There's nae luck at a';
    There's little pleasure in the house
      When our gudeman's awa'.

_W. J. Mickle_


CXCV

_ABSENCE_

    When I think on the happy days
      I spent wi' you, my dearie;
    And now what lands between us lie,
      How can I be but eerie!

    How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
      As ye were wae and weary!
    It was na sae ye glinted by
      When I was wi' my dearie.

_Anon._


CXCVI

_JEAN_

    Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
      I dearly like the West,
    For there the bonnie lassie lives,
      The lassie I lo'e best:
    There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
      And mony a hill between;
    But day and night my fancy's flight
      Is ever wi' my Jean.

    I see her in the dewy flowers,
      I see her sweet and fair:
    I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
      I hear her charm the air:
    There's not a bonnie flower that springs
      By fountain, shaw, or green,
    There's not a bonnie bird that sings
      But minds me o' my Jean.

    O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft
      Amang the leafy trees;
    Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
      Bring hame the laden bees;
    And bring the lassie back to me
      That's aye sae neat and clean;
    Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
      Sae charming is my Jean.

    What sighs and vows amang the knowes
      Hae pass'd atween us twa!
    How fond to meet, how wae to part
      That night she gaed awa!
    The Powers aboon can only ken
      To whom the heart is seen,
    That nane can be sae dear to me
      As my sweet lovely Jean!

_R. Burns_


CXCVII

_JOHN ANDERSON_

    John Anderson my jo, John,
    When we were first acquent
    Your locks were like the raven,
    Your bonnie brow was brent;
    But now your brow is bald, John,
    Your locks are like the snow;
    But blessings on your frosty pow,
    John Anderson my jo.

    John Anderson my jo, John,
    We clamb the hill thegither,
    And mony a canty day, John,
    We've had wi' ane anither:
    Now we maun totter down, John,
    But hand in hand we'll go,
    And sleep thegither at the foot,
    John Anderson my jo.

_R. Burns_


CXCVIII

_THE LAND O' THE LEAL_

    I'm wearing awa', Jean,
    Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
    I'm wearing awa'
      To the land o' the leal.
    There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
    There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
    The day is aye fair
      In the land o' the leal.

    Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
    Your task's ended noo, Jean,
    And I'll welcome you
      To the land o' the leal.
    Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
    She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
    O we grudged her right sair
      To the land o' the leal!

    Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
    My soul langs to be free, Jean,
    And angels wait on me
      To the land o' the leal.
    Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
    This warld's care is vain, Jean;
    We'll meet and aye be fain
      In the land o' the leal.

_Lady Nairn_


CXCIX

_ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE_

    Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
      That crown the watery glade,
    Where grateful Science still adores
      Her Henry's holy shade;
    And ye, that from the stately brow
    Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
    Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
    Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
    Wanders the hoary Thames along
      His silver-winding way:

    Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
      Ah fields beloved in vain!
    Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
      A stranger yet to pain!
    I feel the gales that from ye blow
    A momentary bliss bestow,
    As waving fresh their gladsome wing
    My weary soul they seem to soothe,
    And, redolent of joy and youth,
      To breathe a second spring.

    Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
      Full many a sprightly race
    Disporting on thy margent green
      The paths of pleasure trace;
    Who foremost now delight to cleave
    With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
    The captive linnet which enthral?
    What idle progeny succeed
    To chase the rolling circle's speed
      Or urge the flying ball?

    While some on earnest business bent
      Their murmuring labours ply
    'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
      To sweeten liberty:
    Some bold adventurers disdain
    The limits of their little reign
    And unknown regions dare descry:
    Still as they run they look behind,
    They hear a voice in every wind,
      And snatch a fearful joy.

    Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
      Less pleasing when possest;
    The tear forgot as soon as shed,
      The sunshine of the breast:
    Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue,
    Wild wit, invention ever new,
    And lively cheer, of vigour born;
    The thoughtless day, the easy night,
    The spirits pure, the slumbers light
      That fly th' approach of morn.

    Alas! regardless of their doom
      The little victims play;
    No sense have they of ills to come
      Nor care beyond to-day:
    Yet see how all around 'em wait
    The ministers of human fate
    And black Misfortune's baleful train!
    Ah show them where in ambush stand
    To seize their prey, the murderous band!
      Ah, tell them they are men!

    These shall the fury Passions tear,
      The vultures of the mind,
    Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
      And Shame that sculks behind;
    Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
    Or Jealousy with rankling tooth
    That inly gnaws the secret heart,
    And Envy wan, and faded Care,
    Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
      And Sorrow's piercing dart.

    Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
      Then whirl the wretch from high
    To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
      And grinning Infamy.
    The stings of Falsehood those shall try
    And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
    That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
    And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
    And moody Madness laughing wild
      Amid severest woe.

    Lo, in the vale of years beneath
      A griesly troop are seen,
    The painful family of Death,
      More hideous than their queen:
    This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
    That every labouring sinew strains,
    Those in the deeper vitals rage:
    Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
    That numbs the soul with icy hand,
      And slow-consuming Age.

    To each his sufferings: all are men,
      Condemn'd alike to groan;
    The tender for another's pain,
      Th' unfeeling for his own.
    Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
    Since sorrow never comes too late,
    And happiness too swiftly flies?
    Thought would destroy their paradise.
    No more;--where ignorance is bliss,
      'Tis folly to be wise.

_T. Gray_


CC

_THE SHRUBBERY_

    O happy shades! to me unblest!
      Friendly to peace, but not to me!
    How ill the scene that offers rest,
      And heart that cannot rest, agree!

    This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
      Those alders quivering to the breeze,
    Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
      And please, if anything could please.

    But fix'd unalterable Care
      Foregoes not what she feels within,
    Shows the same sadness everywhere,
      And slights the season and the scene.

    For all that pleased in wood or lawn
      While Peace possess'd these silent bowers,
    Her animating smile withdrawn,
      Has lost its beauties and its powers.

    The saint or moralist should tread
      This moss-grown alley, musing, slow,
    They seek like me the secret shade,
      But not, like me, to nourish woe!

    Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste
      Alike admonish not to roam;
    These tell me of enjoyments past,
      And those of sorrows yet to come.

_W. Cowper_


CCI

_HYMN TO ADVERSITY_

      Daughter of Jove, relentless power,
        Thou tamer of the human breast,
      Whose iron scourge and torturing hour
        The bad affright, afflict the best!
      Bound in thy adamantine chain
      The proud are taught to taste of pain,
      And purple tyrants vainly groan
    With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

      When first thy Sire to send on earth
        Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
      To thee he gave the heavenly birth
        And bade to form her infant mind.
      Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
      With patience many a year she bore;
      What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,
    And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

      Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
        Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
      Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
        And leave us leisure to be good.
      Light they disperse, and with them go
      The summer friend, the flattering foe;
      By vain Prosperity received,
    To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

      Wisdom in sable garb array'd
        Immersed in rapturous thought profound,
      And Melancholy, silent maid,
        With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
      Still on thy solemn steps attend:
      Warm Charity, the general friend,
      With Justice, to herself severe,
    And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

      Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head
        Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!
      Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
        Nor circled with the vengeful band
      (As by the impious thou art seen)
      With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
      With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
    Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;--

      Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear,
        Thy milder influence impart,
      Thy philosophic train be there
        To soften, not to wound my heart.
      The generous spark extinct revive,
      Teach me to love and to forgive,
      Exact my own defects to scan,
    What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.

_T. Gray_


CCII

_THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK_

    I am monarch of all I survey;
    My right there is none to dispute;
    From the centre all round to the sea
    I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
    O Solitude! where are the charms
    That sages have seen in thy face?
    Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
    Than reign in this horrible place.

    I am out of humanity's reach,
    I must finish my journey alone,
    Never hear the sweet music of speech;
    I start at the sound of my own.
    The beasts that roam over the plain
    My form with indifference see;
    They are so unacquainted with man,
    Their tameness is shocking to me.

    Society, Friendship, and Love
    Divinely bestow'd upon man,
    Oh, had I the wings of a dove
    How soon would I taste you again!
    My sorrows I then might assuage
    In the ways of religion and truth,
    Might learn from the wisdom of age,
    And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

    Ye winds that have made me your sport,
    Convey to this desolate shore
    Some cordial endearing report
    Of a land I shall visit no more:
    My friends, do they now and then send
    A wish or a thought after me?
    O tell me I yet have a friend,
    Though a friend I am never to see.

    How fleet is a glance of the mind!
    Compared with the speed of its flight,
    The tempest itself lags behind,
    And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.
    When I think of my own native land
    In a moment I seem to be there;
    But alas! recollection at hand
    Soon hurries me back to despair.

    But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
    The beast is laid down in his lair;
    Even here is a season of rest,
    And I to my cabin repair.
    There's mercy in every place,
    And mercy, encouraging thought!
    Gives even affliction a grace
    And reconciles man to his lot.

_W. Cowper_


CCIII

_TO MARY UNWIN_

    Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
    Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
    An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
    And undebased by praise of meaner things,

    That ere through age or woe I shed my wings
    I may record thy worth with honour due,
    In verse as musical as thou art true,
    And that immortalizes whom it sings:--

    But thou hast little need. There is a Book
    By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
    On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

    A chronicle of actions just and bright--
    There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
    And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

_W. Cowper_


CCIV

_TO THE SAME_

    The twentieth year is well-nigh past
    Since first our sky was overcast;
    Ah would that this might be the last!
          My Mary!

    Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
    I see thee daily weaker grow--
    'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
          My Mary!

    Thy needles, once a shining store,
    For my sake restless heretofore,
    Now rust disused, and shine no more;
          My Mary!

    For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
    The same kind office for me still,
    Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
          My Mary!

    But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
    And all thy threads with magic art
    Have wound themselves about this heart,
          My Mary!

    Thy indistinct expressions seem
    Like language utter'd in a dream;
    Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
          My Mary!

    Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
    Are still more lovely in my sight
    Than golden beams of orient light,
          My Mary!

    For could I view nor them nor thee,
    What sight worth seeing could I see?
    The sun would rise in vain for me,
          My Mary!

    Partakers of thy sad decline
    Thy hands their little force resign;
    Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,
          My Mary!

    Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
    That now at every step thou mov'st
    Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
          My Mary!

    And still to love, though prest with ill,
    In wintry age to feel no chill,
    With me is to be lovely still,
          My Mary!

    But ah! by constant heed I know
    How oft the sadness that I show
    Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
          My Mary!

    And should my future lot be cast
    With much resemblance of the past,
    Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
          My Mary!

_W. Cowper_


CCV

_THE CASTAWAY_

    Obscurest night involved the sky,
      The Atlantic billows roar'd,
    When such a destined wretch as I,
      Wash'd headlong from on board,
    Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
    His floating home for ever left.

    No braver chief could Albion boast
      Than he with whom he went,
    Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
      With warmer wishes sent.
    He loved them both, but both in vain,
    Nor him beheld, nor her again.

    Not long beneath the whelming brine,
      Expert to swim, he lay;
    Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
      Or courage die away;
    But waged with death a lasting strife,
    Supported by despair of life.

    He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
      To check the vessel's course,
    But so the furious blast prevail'd,
      That, pitiless perforce,
    They left their outcast mate behind,
    And scudded still before the wind.

    Some succour yet they could afford;
      And such as storms allow,
    The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
      Delay'd not to bestow.
    But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
    Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

    Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
      Their haste himself condemn,
    Aware that flight, in such a sea,
      Alone could rescue them;
    Yet bitter felt it still to die
    Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

    He long survives, who lives an hour
      In ocean, self-upheld;
    And so long he, with unspent power,
      His destiny repell'd;
    And ever, as the minutes flew,
    Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'

    At length, his transient respite past,
      His comrades, who before
    Had heard his voice in every blast,
      Could catch the sound no more;
    For then, by toil subdued, he drank
    The stifling wave, and then he sank.

    No poet wept him; but the page
      Of narrative sincere,
    That tells his name, his worth, his age,
      Is wet with Anson's tear:
    And tears by bards or heroes shed
    Alike immortalize the dead.

    I therefore purpose not, or dream,
      Descanting on his fate,
    To give the melancholy theme
      A more enduring date:
    But misery still delights to trace
    Its semblance in another's case.

    No voice divine the storm allay'd,
      No light propitious shone,
    When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
      We perish'd, each alone:
    But I beneath a rougher sea,
    And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

_W. Cowper_


CCVI

_TOMORROW_

    In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
      May my fate no less fortunate be
    Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
      And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
    With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
      While I carol away idle sorrow,
    And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
      Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.

    With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
      As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
    And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
      With a barn for the use of the flail:
    A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
      And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
    I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
      Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow.

    From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
      Secured by a neighbouring hill;
    And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
      By the sound of a murmuring rill:
    And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
      With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
    With my friends may I share what Today may afford,
      And let them spread the table Tomorrow.

    And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring
      Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
    On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,
      Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:
    But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
      And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
    As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,
      May become Everlasting Tomorrow.

_J. Collins_


CCVII

    Life! I know not what thou art,
    But know that thou and I must part;
    And when, or how, or where we met
    I own to me's a secret yet.

      Life! we've been long together
    Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
    'Tis hard to part when friends are dear--
    Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
    --Then steal away, give little warning,
      Choose thine own time;
    Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime
      Bid me Good Morning.

_A. L. Barbauld_




The Golden Treasury

Book Fourth


CCVIII

_TO THE MUSES_

    Whether on Ida's shady brow,
      Or in the chambers of the East,
    The chambers of the sun, that now
      From ancient melody have ceased;

    Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
      Or the green corners of the earth,
    Or the blue regions of the air,
      Where the melodious winds have birth;

    Whether on crystal rocks ye rove
      Beneath the bosom of the sea,
    Wandering in many a coral grove,--
      Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

    How have you left the ancient love
      That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
    The languid strings do scarcely move,
      The sound is forced, the notes are few.

_W. Blake_


CCIX

_ODE ON THE POETS_

    Bards of Passion and of Mirth
    Ye have left your souls on earth!
    Have ye souls in heaven too,
    Double-lived in regions new?

    --Yes, and those of heaven commune
    With the spheres of sun and moon;
    With the noise of fountains wond'rous
    And the parle of voices thund'rous;
    With the whisper of heaven's trees
    And one another, in soft ease
    Seated on Elysian lawns
    Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
    Underneath large blue-bells tented,
    Where the daisies are rose-scented,
    And the rose herself has got
    Perfume which on earth is not;
    Where the nightingale doth sing
    Not a senseless, trancéd thing,
    But divine melodious truth;
    Philosophic numbers smooth;
    Tales and golden histories
    Of heaven and its mysteries.

      Thus ye live on high, and then
    On the earth ye live again;
    And the souls ye left behind you
    Teach us, here, the way to find you,
    Where your other souls are joying,
    Never slumber'd, never cloying.
    Here, your earth-born souls still speak
    To mortals, of their little week;
    Of their sorrows and delights;
    Of their passions and their spites;
    Of their glory and their shame;
    What doth strengthen and what maim:--
    Thus ye teach us, every day,
    Wisdom, though fled far away.

      Bards of Passion and of Mirth
    Ye have left your souls on earth!
    Ye have souls in heaven too,
    Double-lived in regions new!

_J. Keats_


CCX

_ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER_

    Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
    And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
    Round many western islands have I been
    Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

    Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
    That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
    Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
    Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

    --Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
    When a new planet swims into his ken;
    Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes

    He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
    Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
    Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

_J. Keats_


CCXI

_LOVE_

    All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
    Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
    All are but ministers of Love,
        And feed his sacred flame.

    Oft in my waking dreams do I
    Live o'er again that happy hour,
    When midway on the mount I lay,
        Beside the ruin'd tower.

    The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
    Had blended with the lights of eve;
    And she was there, my hope, my joy,
        My own dear Genevieve!

    She lean'd against the arméd man,
    The statue of the arméd knight;
    She stood and listen'd to my lay,
        Amid the lingering light.

    Few sorrows hath she of her own,
    My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
    She loves me best, whene'er I sing
        The songs that make her grieve.

    I play'd a soft and doleful air,
    I sang an old and moving story--
    An old rude song, that suited well
        That ruin wild and hoary.

    She listen'd with a flitting blush,
    With downcast eyes and modest grace;
    For well she knew, I could not choose
        But gaze upon her face.

    I told her of the Knight that wore
    Upon his shield a burning brand;
    And that for ten long years he woo'd
        The Lady of the Land.

    I told her how he pined: and ah!
    The deep, the low, the pleading tone
    With which I sang another's love
        Interpreted my own.

    She listen'd with a flitting blush,
    With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
    And she forgave me, that I gazed
        Too fondly on her face!

    But when I told the cruel scorn
    That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
    And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
        Nor rested day nor night;

    That sometimes from the savage den,
    And sometimes from the darksome shade,
    And sometimes starting up at once
        In green and sunny glade,--

    There came and look'd him in the face
    An angel beautiful and bright;
    And that he knew it was a Fiend,
        This miserable Knight!

    And that unknowing what he did,
    He leap'd amid a murderous band,
    And saved from outrage worse than death
        The Lady of the Land;--

    And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
    And how she tended him in vain--
    And ever strove to expiate
        The scorn that crazed his brain;--

    And that she nursed him in a cave,
    And how his madness went away,
    When on the yellow forest-leaves
        A dying man he lay;--

    His dying words--but when I reach'd
    That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
    My faltering voice and pausing harp
        Disturb'd her soul with pity!

    All impulses of soul and sense
    Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
    The music and the doleful tale,
        The rich and balmy eve;

    And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
    An undistinguishable throng,
    And gentle wishes long subdued,
        Subdued and cherish'd long!

    She wept with pity and delight,
    She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
    And like the murmur of a dream,
        I heard her breathe my name.

    Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside,
    As conscious of my look she stept--
    Then suddenly, with timorous eye
        She fled to me and wept.

    She half inclosed me with her arms,
    She press'd me with a meek embrace;
    And bending back her head, look'd up,
        And gazed upon my face.

    'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
    And partly 'twas a bashful art
    That I might rather feel, than see,
        The swelling of her heart.

    I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
    And told her love with virgin pride;
    And so I won my Genevieve,
        My bright and beauteous Bride.

_S. T. Coleridge_


CCXII

_ALL FOR LOVE_

    O talk not to me of a name great in story;
    The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
    And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
    Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

    What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
    'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
    Then away with all such from the head that is hoary--
    What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

    Oh Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
    'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
    Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
    She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

    There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
    Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
    When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
    I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

_Lord Byron_


CCXIII

_THE OUTLAW_

    O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
      And Greta woods are green,
    And you may gather garlands there
      Would grace a summer-queen.
    And as I rode by Dalton-Hall
      Beneath the turrets high,
    A Maiden on the castle-wall
      Was singing merrily:
    'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
      And Greta woods are green;
    I'd rather rove with Edmund there
      Than reign our English queen.'

    'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
      To leave both tower and town,
    Thou first must guess what life lead we
      That dwell by dale and down.
    And if thou canst that riddle read,
      As read full well you may,
    Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
      As blithe as Queen of May.'
    Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
      And Greta woods are green;
    I'd rather rove with Edmund there
      Than reign our English queen.

    'I read you, by your bugle-horn
      And by your palfrey good,
    I read you for a ranger sworn
      To keep the king's greenwood.'
    'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,
      And 'tis at peep of light;
    His blast is heard at merry morn,
      And mine at dead of night.'
    Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
      And Greta woods are gay;
    I would I were with Edmund there
      To reign his Queen of May!

    'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
      So gallantly you come,
    I read you for a bold Dragoon
      That lists the tuck of drum.'
    'I list no more the tuck of drum,
      No more the trumpet hear;
    But when the beetle sounds his hum
      My comrades take the spear.
    And O! though Brignall banks be fair
      And Greta woods be gay,
    Yet mickle must the maiden dare
      Would reign my Queen of May!

    'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
      A nameless death I'll die;
    The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
      Were better mate than I!
    And when I'm with my comrades met
      Beneath the greenwood bough,--
    What once we were we all forget,
      Nor think what we are now.'

_Chorus_

    'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
      And Greta woods are green,
    And you may gather garlands there
      Would grace a summer-queen.'

_Sir W. Scott_


CCXIV

    There be none of Beauty's daughters
      With a magic like Thee;
    And like music on the waters
      Is thy sweet voice to me:
    When, as if its sound were causing
    The charmed ocean's pausing,
    The waves lie still and gleaming,
    And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

    And the midnight moon is weaving
      Her bright chain o'er the deep,
    Whose breast is gently heaving
      As an infant's asleep:
    So the spirit bows before thee
    To listen and adore thee;
    With a full but soft emotion,
    Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

_Lord Byron_


CCXV

_THE INDIAN SERENADE_

    I arise from dreams of Thee
    In the first sweet sleep of night,
    When the winds are breathing low
    And the stars are shining bright:
    I arise from dreams of thee,
    And a spirit in my feet
    Hath led me--who knows how?
    To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

    The wandering airs they faint
    On the dark, the silent stream--
    The champak odours fail
    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
    The nightingale's complaint
    It dies upon her heart,
    As I must die on thine
    O belovéd as thou art!

    Oh lift me from the grass!
    I die, I faint, I fail!
    Let thy love in kisses rain
    On my lips and eyelids pale.
    My cheek is cold and white, alas!
    My heart beats loud and fast;
    Oh! press it close to thine again
    Where it will break at last.

_P. B. Shelley_


CCXVI

    She walks in beauty, like the night
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
    And all that's best of dark and bright
    Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
    Thus mellow'd to that tender light
    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

    One shade the more, one ray the less,
    Had half impair'd the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress
    Or softly lightens o'er her face,
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

    And on that cheek and o'er that brow
    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow
    But tell of days in goodness spent,--
    A mind at peace with all below,
    A heart whose love is innocent.

_Lord Byron_


CCXVII

    She was a Phantom of delight
    When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
    A lovely Apparition, sent
    To be a moment's ornament;
    Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
    Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
    But all things else about her drawn
    From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
    A dancing shape, an image gay,
    To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

    I saw her upon nearer view,
    A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
    Her household motions light and free,
    And steps of virgin-liberty;
    A countenance in which did meet
    Sweet records, promises as sweet;
    A creature not too bright or good
    For human nature's daily food,
    For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
    Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

    And now I see with eye serene
    The very pulse of the machine;
    A being breathing thoughtful breath,
    A traveller between life and death:
    The reason firm, the temperate will,
    Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
    A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
    To warn, to comfort, and command;
    And yet a Spirit still, and bright
    With something of an angel-light.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXVIII

    She is not fair to outward view
      As many maidens be;
    Her loveliness I never knew
      Until she smiled on me.
    O then I saw her eye was bright,
    A well of love, a spring of light.

    But now her looks are coy and cold,
      To mine they ne'er reply,
    And yet I cease not to behold
      The love-light in her eye:
    Her very frowns are fairer far
    Than smiles of other maidens are.

_H. Coleridge_


CCXIX

    I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
    Thou needest not fear mine;
    My spirit is too deeply laden
    Ever to burthen thine.

    I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
    Thou needest not fear mine;
    Innocent is the heart's devotion
    With which I worship thine.

_P. B. Shelley_


CCXX

    She dwelt among the untrodden ways
      Beside the springs of Dove;
    A maid whom there were none to praise,
      And very few to love.

    A violet by a mossy stone
      Half-hidden from the eye!
    --Fair as a star, when only one
      Is shining in the sky.

    She lived unknown, and few could know
      When Lucy ceased to be;
    But she is in her grave, and, oh,
      The difference to me!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXXI

    I travell'd among unknown men
      In lands beyond the sea;
    Nor, England! did I know till then
      What love I bore to thee.

    'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
      Nor will I quit thy shore
    A second time; for still I seem
      To love thee more and more.

    Among thy mountains did I feel
      The joy of my desire;
    And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
      Beside an English fire.

    Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd
      The bowers where Lucy play'd;
    And thine too is the last green field
      That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXXII

_THE EDUCATION OF NATURE_

    Three years she grew in sun and shower;
    Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
    On earth was never sown:
    This Child I to myself will take;
    She shall be mine, and I will make
    A lady of my own.

    'Myself will to my darling be
    Both law and impulse: and with me
    The girl, in rock and plain,
    In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
    Shall feel an overseeing power
    To kindle or restrain.

    'She shall be sportive as the fawn
    That wild with glee across the lawn
    Or up the mountain springs;
    And her's shall be the breathing balm,
    And her's the silence and the calm
    Of mute insensate things.

    'The floating clouds their state shall lend
    To her; for her the willow bend;
    Nor shall she fail to see
    Ev'n in the motions of the storm
    Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
    By silent sympathy.

    'The stars of midnight shall be dear
    To her; and she shall lean her ear
    In many a secret place
    Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
    And beauty born of murmuring sound
    Shall pass into her face.

    'And vital feelings of delight
    Shall rear her form to stately height,
    Her virgin bosom swell;
    Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
    While she and I together live
    Here in this happy dell.'

    Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
    How soon my Lucy's race was run!
    She died, and left to me
    This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
    The memory of what has been,
    And never more will be.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXXIII

    A slumber did my spirit seal;
      I had no human fears:
    She seem'd a thing that could not feel
      The touch of earthly years.

    No motion has she now, no force;
      She neither hears nor sees;
    Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
      With rocks, and stones, and trees.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXXIV

_A LOST LOVE_

    I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
      Thy thrilling voice I hear;
    And former hours and scenes retrace,
      Too fleeting, and too dear!

    Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
      Though none is nigh to share;
    And life has nought beside for me
      So sweet as this despair.

    There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
      And mine, methinks, is one;
    Or thus I should not weep and wake,
      And thou to slumber gone.

    I little thought it thus could be
      In days more sad and fair--
    That earth could have a place for me,
      And thou no longer there.

    Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
      Or make thee less my own:
    'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
      Than watching here alone.

    Yet never, never can we part,
      While Memory holds her reign:
    Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart
      Till we shall meet again.

_H. F. Lyte_


CCXXV

_LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER_

    A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
    Cries 'Boatman, do not tarry!
    And I'll give thee a silver pound
    To row us o'er the ferry!'

    'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
    This dark and stormy water?'
    'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
    And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

    'And fast before her father's men
    Three days we've fled together,
    For should he find us in the glen,
    My blood would stain the heather.

    'His horsemen hard behind us ride--
    Should they our steps discover,
    Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
    When they have slain her lover?'

    Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
    'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
    It is not for your silver bright,
    But for your winsome lady:--

    'And by my word! the bonny bird
    In danger shall not tarry;
    So though the waves are raging white
    I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

    By this the storm grew loud apace,
    The water-wraith was shrieking;
    And in the scowl of Heaven each face
    Grew dark as they were speaking.

    But still as wilder blew the wind,
    And as the night grew drearer,
    Adown the glen rode arméd men,
    Their trampling sounded nearer.

    'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
    'Though tempests round us gather;
    I'll meet the raging of the skies,
    But not an angry father.'

    The boat has left a stormy land,
    A stormy sea before her,--
    When, oh! too strong for human hand
    The tempest gather'd o'er her.

    And still they row'd amidst the roar
    Of waters fast prevailing:
    Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--
    His wrath was changed to wailing.

    For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
    His child he did discover:--
    One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
    And one was round her lover.

    'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief
    'Across this stormy water:
    And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
    My daughter!--Oh, my daughter!'

    'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
    Return or aid preventing:
    The waters wild went o'er his child,
    And he was left lamenting.

_T. Campbell_


CCXXVI

_LUCY GRAY_

    Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
    And when I cross'd the wild,
    I chanced to see at break of day
    The solitary child.

    No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
    She dwelt on a wide moor,
    The sweetest thing that ever grew
    Beside a human door!

    You yet may spy the fawn at play,
    The hare upon the green;
    But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
    Will never more be seen.

    'To-night will be a stormy night--
    You to the town must go;
    And take a lantern, Child, to light
    Your mother through the snow.'

    'That, Father! will I gladly do:
    'Tis scarcely afternoon--
    The minster-clock has just struck two,
    And yonder is the moon!'

    At this the father raised his hook,
    And snapp'd a faggot-band;
    He plied his work;--and Lucy took
    The lantern in her hand.

    Not blither is the mountain roe:
    With many a wanton stroke
    Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
    That rises up like smoke.

    The storm came on before its time:
    She wander'd up and down;
    And many a hill did Lucy climb:
    But never reach'd the town.

    The wretched parents all that night
    Went shouting far and wide;
    But there was neither sound nor sight
    To serve them for a guide.

    At day-break on a hill they stood
    That overlook'd the moor;
    And thence they saw the bridge of wood
    A furlong from their door.

    They wept--and, turning homeward, cried
    'In heaven we all shall meet!'
    --When in the snow the mother spied
    The print of Lucy's feet.

    Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
    They track'd the footmarks small;
    And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
    And by the long stone-wall:

    And then an open field they cross'd:
    The marks were still the same;
    They track'd them on, nor ever lost;
    And to the bridge they came:

    They follow'd from the snowy bank
    Those footmarks, one by one,
    Into the middle of the plank;
    And further there were none!

    --Yet some maintain that to this day
    She is a living child;
    That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
    Upon the lonesome wild.

    O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
    And never looks behind;
    And sings a solitary song
    That whistles in the wind.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXXVII

_JOCK OF HAZELDEAN_

    'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
      Why weep ye by the tide?
    I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
      And ye sall be his bride:
    And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
      Sae comely to be seen'--
    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
      For Jock of Hazeldean.

    'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
      And dry that cheek so pale;
    Young Frank is chief of Errington
      And lord of Langley-dale;
    His step is first in peaceful ha',
      His sword in battle keen'--
    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
      For Jock of Hazeldean.

    'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
      Nor braid to bind your hair,
    Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
      Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
    And you the foremost o' them a'
      Shall ride our forest-queen'--
    But aye she loot the tears down fa'
      For Jock of Hazeldean.

    The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
      The tapers glimmer'd fair;
    The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
      And dame and knight are there:
    They sought her baith by bower and ha';
      The ladie was not seen!
    She's o'er the Border, and awa'
      Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

_Sir W. Scott_


CCXXVIII

_LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY_

    The fountains mingle with the river
    And the rivers with the ocean,
    The winds of heaven mix for ever
    With a sweet emotion;
    Nothing in the world is single,
    All things by a law divine
    In one another's being mingle--
    Why not I with thine?

    See the mountains kiss high heaven,
    And the waves clasp one another;
    No sister-flower would be forgiven
    If it disdain'd its brother:
    And the sunlight clasps the earth,
    And the moonbeams kiss the sea--
    What are all these kissings worth,
    If thou kiss not me?

_P. B. Shelley_


CCXXIX

_ECHOES_

    How sweet the answer Echo makes
    To Music at night
    When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
    And far away o'er lawns and lakes
    Goes answering light!

    Yet Love hath echoes truer far
    And far more sweet
    Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
    Of horn or lute or soft guitar
    The songs repeat.

    'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere
    And only then,
    The sigh that's breathed for one to hear--
    Is by that one, that only Dear
    Breathed back again.

_T. Moore_


CCXXX

_A SERENADE_

    Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
      The sun has left the lea,
    The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
      The breeze is on the sea.
    The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
      Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
    Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
      But where is County Guy?

    The village maid steals through the shade
      Her shepherd's suit to hear;
    To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
      Sings high-born Cavalier.
    The star of Love, all stars above,
      Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
    And high and low the influence know--
      But where is County Guy?

_Sir W. Scott_


CCXXXI

_TO THE EVENING STAR_

    Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,
    Companion of retiring day,
    Why at the closing gates of heaven,
    Beloved Star, dost thou delay?

    So fair thy pensile beauty burns
    When soft the tear of twilight flows;
    So due thy plighted love returns
    To chambers brighter than the rose;

    To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love
    So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
    Sure some enamour'd orb above
    Descends and burns to meet with thee.

    Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
    When all unheavenly passions fly,
    Chased by the soul-subduing power
    Of Love's delicious witchery.

    O! sacred to the fall of day
    Queen of propitious stars, appear,
    And early rise, and long delay,
    When Caroline herself is here!

    Shine on her chosen green resort
    Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
    And wanton flowers, that well may court
    An angel's feet to tread them down:--

    Shine on her sweetly scented road
    Thou star of evening's purple dome,
    That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
    And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.

    Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
    Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
    Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
    To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--

    Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
    Her silken tresses darkly flow
    And fall upon her brow so fair,
    Like shadows on the mountain snow.

    Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
    In converse sweet to wander far--
    O bring with thee my Caroline,
    And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

_T. Campbell_


CCXXXII

_TO THE NIGHT_

    Swiftly walk over the western wave,
                Spirit of Night!
    Out of the misty eastern cave
    Where, all the long and lone daylight,
    Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
    Which make thee terrible and dear,--
                Swift be thy flight!

    Wrap thy form in a mantle gray
                Star-inwrought;
    Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,
    Kiss her until she be wearied out:
    Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
    Touching all with thine opiate wand--
                Come, long-sought!

    When I arose and saw the dawn,
                I sigh'd for thee;
    When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
    And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
    And the weary Day turn'd to his rest
    Lingering like an unloved guest,
                I sigh'd for thee.

    Thy brother Death came, and cried
                Wouldst thou me?
    Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
    Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
    Shall I nestle near thy side?
    Wouldst thou me?--And I replied
                No, not thee!

    Death will come when thou art dead,
                Soon, too soon--
    Sleep will come when thou art fled;
    Of neither would I ask the boon
    I ask of thee, belovéd Night--
    Swift be thine approaching flight,
                Come soon, soon!

_P. B. Shelley_


CCXXXIII

_TO A DISTANT FRIEND_

    Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
    Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
    Of absence withers what was once so fair?
    Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?

    Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
    Bound to thy service with unceasing care--
    The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
    For nought but what thy happiness could spare.

    Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
    A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
    Be left more desolate, more dreary cold

    Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
    'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
    Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXXXIV

    When we two parted
    In silence and tears,
    Half broken-hearted,
    To sever for years,
    Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
    Colder thy kiss;
    Truly that hour foretold
    Sorrow to this!

    The dew of the morning
    Sunk chill on my brow;
    It felt like the warning
    Of what I feel now.
    Thy vows are all broken,
    And light is thy fame:
    I hear thy name spoken
    And share in its shame.

    They name thee before me,
    A knell to mine ear;
    A shudder comes o'er me--
    Why wert thou so dear?
    They know not I knew thee
    Who knew thee too well:
    Long, long shall I rue thee,
    Too deeply to tell.

    In secret we met:
    In silence I grieve
    That thy heart could forget,
    Thy spirit deceive.
    If I should meet thee
    After long years,
    How should I greet thee?--
    With silence and tears.

_Lord Byron_


CCXXXV

_HAPPY INSENSIBILITY_

    In a drear-nighted December,
    Too happy, happy tree,
    Thy branches ne'er remember
    Their green felicity:
    The north cannot undo them
    With a sleety whistle through them,
    Nor frozen thawings glue them
    From budding at the prime.

    In a drear-nighted December,
    Too happy, happy brook,
    Thy bubblings ne'er remember
    Apollo's summer look;
    But with a sweet forgetting
    They stay their crystal fretting,
    Never, never petting
    About the frozen time.

    Ah! would 'twere so with many
    A gentle girl and boy!
    But were there ever any
    Writhed not at passéd joy?
    To know the change and feel it,
    When there is none to heal it
    Nor numbéd sense to steal it--
    Was never said in rhyme.

_J. Keats_


CCXXXVI

    Where shall the lover rest
      Whom the fates sever
    From his true maiden's breast
      Parted for ever?
    Where, through groves deep and high
      Sounds the far billow,
    Where early violets die
      Under the willow.
        _Eleu loro
      Soft shall be his pillow._

    There through the summer day
      Cool streams are laving:
    There, while the tempests sway,
      Scarce are boughs waving;
    There thy rest shalt thou take,
      Parted for ever,
    Never again to wake
      Never, O never!
        _Eleu loro
      Never, O never!_

    Where shall the traitor rest,
      He, the deceiver,
    Who could win maiden's breast,
      Ruin, and leave her?
    In the lost battle,
      Borne down by the flying,
    Where mingles war's rattle
      With groans of the dying;
        _Eleu loro
      There shall he be lying._

    Her wing shall the eagle flap
      O'er the falsehearted;
    His warm blood the wolf shall lap
      Ere life be parted:
    Shame and dishonour sit
      By his grave ever;
    Blessing shall hallow it
      Never, O never!
        _Eleu loro
      Never, O never!_

_Sir W. Scott_


CCXXXVII

_LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI_

    'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
      Alone and palely loitering?
    The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
      And no birds sing.

    'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
      So haggard and so woe-begone?
    The squirrel's granary is full,
      And the harvest's done.

    'I see a lily on thy brow
      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
    And on thy cheeks a fading rose
      Fast withereth too.'

    'I met a lady in the meads,
      Full beautiful--a faery's child,
    Her hair was long, her foot was light,
      And her eyes were wild.

    'I made a garland for her head,
      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
    She look'd at me as she did love,
      And made sweet moan.

    'I set her on my pacing steed
      And nothing else saw all day long,
    For sidelong would she bend, and sing
      A faery's song.

    'She found me roots of relish sweet,
      And honey wild and manna-dew,
    And sure in language strange she said
      "I love thee true."

    'She took me to her elfin grot,
      And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;
    And there I shut her wild wild eyes
      With kisses four.

    'And there she lulléd me asleep,
      And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
    The latest dream I ever dream'd
      On the cold hill's side.

    'I saw pale kings and princes too,
      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
    They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci
      Hath thee in thrall!"

    'I saw their starved lips in the gloam
      With horrid warning gapéd wide,
    And I awoke and found me here
      On the cold hill's side.

    'And this is why I sojourn here
      Alone and palely loitering,
    Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
      And no birds sing.'

_J. Keats_


CCXXXVIII

_THE ROVER_

    A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
      A weary lot is thine!
    To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
      And press the rue for wine.
    A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
      A feather of the blue,
    A doublet of the Lincoln green--
      No more of me you knew
                    My Love!
    No more of me you knew.

    'This morn is merry June, I trow,
      The rose is budding fain;
    But she shall bloom in winter snow
      Ere we two meet again.'
    He turn'd his charger as he spake
      Upon the river shore,
    He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
      Said 'Adieu for evermore
                    My Love!
    And adieu for evermore.'

_Sir W. Scott_


CCXXXIX

_THE FLIGHT OF LOVE_

    When the lamp is shatter'd
    The light in the dust lies dead--
    When the cloud is scatter'd,
    The rainbow's glory is shed.
    When the lute is broken,
    Sweet tones are remember'd not;
    When the lips have spoken,
    Loved accents are soon forgot.

    As music and splendour
    Survive not the lamp and the lute,
    The heart's echoes render
    No song when the spirit is mute--
    No song but sad dirges,
    Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
    Or the mournful surges
    That ring the dead seaman's knell.

    When hearts have once mingled,
    Love first leaves the well-built nest;
    The weak one is singled
    To endure what it once possesst.
    O Love! who bewailest
    The frailty of all things here,
    Why choose you the frailest
    For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

    Its passions will rock thee
    As the storms rock the ravens on high;
    Bright reason will mock thee
    Like the sun from a wintry sky.
    From thy nest every rafter
    Will rot, and thine eagle home
    Leave thee naked to laughter,
    When leaves fall and cold winds come.

_P. B. Shelley_


CCXL

_THE MAID OF NEIDPATH_

    O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
      And lovers' ears in hearing;
    And love, in life's extremity,
      Can lend an hour of cheering.
    Disease had been in Mary's bower
      And slow decay from mourning,
    Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
      To watch her Love's returning.

    All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
      Her form decay'd by pining,
    Till through her wasted hand, at night,
      You saw the taper shining.
    By fits a sultry hectic hue
      Across her cheek was flying;
    By fits so ashy pale she grew
      Her maidens thought her dying.

    Yet keenest powers to see and hear
      Seem'd in her frame residing;
    Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
      She heard her lover's riding;
    Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
      She knew and waved to greet him,
    And o'er the battlement did bend
      As on the wing to meet him.

    He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze
      As o'er some stranger glancing;
    Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
      Lost in his courser's prancing--
    The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
      Returns each whisper spoken,
    Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
      Which told her heart was broken.

_Sir W. Scott_


CCXLI

    Earl March look'd on his dying child,
      And, smit with grief to view her--
    The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
      Shall be restored to woo her.

    She's at the window many an hour
      His coming to discover:
    And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
      And she look'd on her lover--

    But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
      Though her smile on him was dwelling--
    And am I then forgot--forgot?
      It broke the heart of Ellen.

    In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
      Her cheek is cold as ashes;
    Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
      To lift their silken lashes.

_T. Campbell_


CCXLII

    Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
    Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
    And watching, with eternal lids apart,
    Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,

    The moving waters at their priestlike task
    Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
    Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
    Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--

    No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
    Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast
    To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
    Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;

    Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
    And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.

_J. Keats_


CCXLIII

_THE TERROR OF DEATH_

    When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
    Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry
    Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;

    When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
    And think that I may never live to trace
    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

    And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
    That I shall never look upon thee more,
    Never have relish in the faery power
    Of unreflecting love--then on the shore

    Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
    Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

_Keats_


CCXLIV

_DESIDERIA_

    Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind--
    I turn'd to share the transport--Oh! with whom
    But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb,
    That spot which no vicissitude can find?

    Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind--
    But how could I forget thee? Through what power
    Even for the least division of an hour
    Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

    To my most grievous loss!--That thought's return
    Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
    Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

    Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
    That neither present time, nor years unborn
    Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXLV

    At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
    To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
    And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
    To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there
    And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!

    Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
    When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;
    And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
    I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
    Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

_T. Moore_


CCXLVI

_ELEGY ON THYRZA_

    And thou art dead, as young and fair
      As aught of mortal birth;
    And forms so soft and charms so rare
      Too soon return'd to Earth!
    Though Earth received them in her bed,
    And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
      In carelessness or mirth,
    There is an eye which could not brook
    A moment on that grave to look.

    I will not ask where thou liest low
      Nor gaze upon the spot;
    There flowers or weeds at will may grow
      So I behold them not:
    It is enough for me to prove
    That what I loved, and long must love,
      Like common earth can rot;
    To me there needs no stone to tell
    'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

    Yet did I love thee to the last,
      As fervently as thou
    Who didst not change through all the past
      And canst not alter now.
    The love where Death has set his seal
    Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
      Nor falsehood disavow:
    And, what were worse, thou canst not see
    Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

    The better days of life were ours;
      The worst can be but mine:
    The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,
      Shall never more be thine.
    The silence of that dreamless sleep
    I envy now too much to weep;
      Nor need I to repine
    That all those charms have pass'd away
    I might have watch'd through long decay.

    The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
      Must fall the earliest prey;
    Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
      The leaves must drop away.
    And yet it were a greater grief
    To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
      Than see it pluck'd today;
    Since earthly eye but ill can bear
    To trace the change to foul from fair.

    I know not if I could have borne
      To see thy beauties fade;
    The night that follow'd such a morn
      Had worn a deeper shade:
    Thy day without a cloud hath past,
    And thou wert lovely to the last,
      Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
    As stars that shoot along the sky
    Shine brightest as they fall from high.

    As once I wept, if I could weep,
      My tears might well be shed
    To think I was not near, to keep
      One vigil o'er thy bed:
    To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
    To fold thee in a faint embrace,
      Uphold thy drooping head;
    And show that love, however vain,
    Nor thou nor I can feel again.

    Yet how much less it were to gain,
      Though thou hast left me free,
    The loveliest things that still remain
      Than thus remember thee!
    The all of thine that cannot die
    Through dark and dread Eternity
      Returns again to me,
    And more thy buried love endears
    Than aught except its living years.

_Lord Byron_


CCXLVII

    One word is too often profaned
      For me to profane it,
    One feeling too falsely disdain'd
      For thee to disdain it.
    One hope is too like despair
      For prudence to smother,
    And pity from thee more dear
      Than that from another.

    I can give not what men call love;
      But wilt thou accept not
    The worship the heart lifts above
      And the Heavens reject not:
    The desire of the moth for the star,
      Of the night for the morrow,
    The devotion to something afar
      From the sphere of our sorrow?

_P. B. Shelley_


CCXLVIII

_GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK_

    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
      Pibroch of Donuil
    Wake thy wild voice anew,
      Summon Clan Conuil.
    Come away, come away,
      Hark to the summons!
    Come in your war-array,
      Gentles and commons.

    Come from deep glen, and
      From mountain so rocky;
    The war-pipe and pennon
      Are at Inverlocky.
    Come every hill-plaid, and
      True heart that wears one,
    Come every steel blade, and
      Strong hand that bears one.

    Leave untended the herd,
      The flock without shelter;
    Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
      The bride at the altar;
    Leave the deer, leave the steer,
      Leave nets and barges:
    Come with your fighting gear,
      Broadswords and targes.

    Come as the winds come, when
      Forests are rended,
    Come as the waves come, when
      Navies are stranded:
    Faster come, faster come,
      Faster and faster,
    Chief, vassal, page and groom,
      Tenant and master.

    Fast they come, fast they come;
      See how they gather!
    Wide waves the eagle plume
      Blended with heather.
    Cast your plaids, draw your blades
      Forward each man set!
    Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
      Knell for the onset!

_Sir W. Scott_


CCXLIX

    A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
      A wind that follows fast
    And fills the white and rustling sail
      And bends the gallant mast;
    And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
      While like the eagle free
    Away the good ship flies, and leaves
      Old England on the lee.

    O for a soft and gentle wind!
      I heard a fair one cry;
    But give to me the snoring breeze
      And white waves heaving high;
    And white waves heaving high, my lads,
      The good ship tight and free--
    The world of waters is our home,
      And merry men are we.

    There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,
      And lightning in yon cloud;
    But hark the music, mariners!
      The wind is piping loud;
    The wind is piping loud, my boys,
      The lightning flashes free--
    While the hollow oak our palace is,
      Our heritage the sea.

_A. Cunningham_


CCL

    Ye Mariners of England
    That guard our native seas!
    Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
    The battle and the breeze!
    Your glorious standard launch again
    To match another foe:
    And sweep through the deep,
    While the stormy winds do blow;
    While the battle rages loud and long
    And the stormy winds do blow.

    The spirits of your fathers
    Shall start from every wave--
    For the deck it was their field of fame,
    And Ocean was their grave:
    Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
    Your manly hearts shall glow,
    As ye sweep through the deep,
    While the stormy winds do blow;
    While the battle rages loud and long
    And the stormy winds do blow.

    Britannia needs no bulwarks,
    No towers along the steep;
    Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
    Her home is on the deep.
    With thunders from her native oak
    She quells the floods below--
    As they roar on the shore,
    When the stormy winds do blow;
    When the battle rages loud and long,
    And the stormy winds do blow.

    The meteor flag of England
    Shall yet terrific burn;
    Till danger's troubled night depart
    And the star of peace return.
    Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
    Our song and feast shall flow
    To the fame of your name,
    When the storm has ceased to blow;
    When the fiery fight is heard no more,
    And the storm has ceased to blow.

_T. Campbell_


CCLI

_BATTLE OF THE BALTIC_

    Of Nelson and the North
    Sing the glorious day's renown,
    When to battle fierce came forth
    All the might of Denmark's crown,
    And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
    By each gun the lighted brand
    In a bold determined hand,
    And the Prince of all the land
    Led them on.

    Like leviathans afloat
    Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
    While the sign of battle flew
    On the lofty British line:
    It was ten of April morn by the chime:
    As they drifted on their path
    There was silence deep as death,
    And the boldest held his breath
    For a time.

    But the might of England flush'd
    To anticipate the scene;
    And her van the fleeter rush'd
    O'er the deadly space between.
    'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun
    From its adamantine lips
    Spread a death-shade round the ships,
    Like the hurricane eclipse
    Of the sun.

    Again! again! again!
    And the havoc did not slack,
    Till a feeble cheer the Dane
    To our cheering sent us back;--
    Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
    Then ceased--and all is wail,
    As they strike the shatter'd sail;
    Or in conflagration pale
    Light the gloom.

    Out spoke the victor then
    As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
    'Ye are brothers! ye are men!
    And we conquer but to save:--
    So peace instead of death let us bring:
    But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
    With the crews, at England's feet,
    And make submission meet
    To our King.'

    Then Denmark bless'd our chief
    That he gave her wounds repose;
    And the sounds of joy and grief
    From her people wildly rose,
    As death withdrew his shades from the day:
    While the sun look'd smiling bright
    O'er a wide and woeful sight,
    Where the fires of funeral light
    Died away.

    Now joy, old England, raise!
    For the tidings of thy might,
    By the festal cities' blaze,
    Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
    And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
    Let us think of them that sleep
    Full many a fathom deep
    By thy wild and stormy steep,
    Elsinore!

    Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
    Once so faithful and so true,
    On the deck of fame that died,
    With the gallant good Riou:
    Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
    While the billow mournful rolls
    And the mermaid's song condoles
    Singing glory to the souls
    Of the brave!

_T. Campbell_


CCLII

_ODE TO DUTY_

      Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
      O Duty! if that name thou love
      Who art a light to guide, a rod
      To check the erring, and reprove;
      Thou who art victory and law
      When empty terrors overawe;
      From vain temptations dost set free,
    And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

      There are who ask not if thine eye
      Be on them; who, in love and truth
      Where no misgiving is, rely
      Upon the genial sense of youth:
      Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
      Who do thy work, and know it not:
      Oh! if through confidence misplaced
    They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

      Serene will be our days and bright
      And happy will our nature be
      When love is an unerring light,
      And joy its own security.
      And they a blissful course may hold
      Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold,
      Live in the spirit of this creed;
    Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

      I, loving freedom, and untried,
      No sport of every random gust,
      Yet being to myself a guide,
      Too blindly have reposed my trust:
      And oft, when in my heart was heard
      Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
      The task, in smoother walks to stray;
    But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

      Through no disturbance of my soul
      Or strong compunction in me wrought,
      I supplicate for thy controul,
      But in the quietness of thought:
      Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
      I feel the weight of chance-desires:
      My hopes no more must change their name;
    I long for a repose that ever is the same.

      Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
      The Godhead's most benignant grace;
      Nor know we anything so fair
      As is the smile upon thy face:
      Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
      And fragrance in thy footing treads;
      Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
    And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

      To humbler functions, awful Power!
      I call thee: I myself commend
      Unto thy guidance from this hour;
      Oh let my weakness have an end!
      Give unto me, made lowly wise,
      The spirit of self-sacrifice;
      The confidence of reason give;
    And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.

_W. Wordsworth._


CCLIII

_ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON_

    Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
    Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
    For there thy habitation is the heart--
    The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;

    And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,
    To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
    Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
    And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

    Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
    And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,
    Until his very steps have left a trace

    Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
    By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
    For they appeal from tyranny to God.

_Lord Byron_


CCLIV

_ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802_

    Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
    One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:
    In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
    They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

    There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
    Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven:
    Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
    Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

    --Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
    Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left--
    For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be

    That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
    And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
    And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLV

_ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC._

    Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
    And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
    Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
    Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.

    She was a maiden city, bright and free;
    No guile seduced, no force could violate;
    And when she took unto herself a mate,
    She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

    And what if she had seen those glories fade,
    Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,--
    Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

    When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
    Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
    Of that which once was great is pass'd away.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLVI

_LONDON, 1802_

    O Friend! I know not which way I must look
    For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
    To think that now our life is only drest
    For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,

    Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
    In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
    The wealthiest man among us is the best:
    No grandeur now in nature or in book

    Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
    This is idolatry; and these we adore:
    Plain living and high thinking are no more:

    The homely beauty of the good old cause
    Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
    And pure religion breathing household laws.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLVII

_THE SAME_

    Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
    England hath need of thee: she is a fen
    Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
    Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

    Have forfeited their ancient English dower
    Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
    Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
    And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

    Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
    Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
    Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;

    So didst thou travel on life's common way
    In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
    The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLVIII

    When I have borne in memory what has tamed
    Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
    When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
    The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed

    I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
    Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
    Verily, in the bottom of my heart
    Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

    For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
    In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
    And I by my affection was beguiled:

    What wonder if a Poet now and then,
    Among the many movements of his mind,
    Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLIX

_HOHENLINDEN_

    On Linden, when the sun was low,
    All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
    And dark as winter was the flow
        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    But Linden saw another sight,
    When the drum beat at dead of night
    Commanding fires of death to light
        The darkness of her scenery.

    By torch and trumpet fast array'd
    Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
    And furious every charger neigh'd
        To join the dreadful revelry.

    Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
    Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
    And louder than the bolts of Heaven
        Far flash'd the red artillery.

    But redder yet that light shall glow
    On Linden's hills of stainéd snow;
    And bloodier yet the torrent flow
        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
    Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
    Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
        Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

    The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
    Who rush to glory, or the grave!
    Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
        And charge with all thy chivalry!

    Few, few shall part, where many meet!
    The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
    And every turf beneath their feet
        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

_T. Campbell_


CCLX

_AFTER BLENHEIM_

    It was a summer evening,
      Old Kaspar's work was done,
    And he before his cottage door
      Was sitting in the sun;
    And by him sported on the green
    His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

    She saw her brother Peterkin
      Roll something large and round
    Which he beside the rivulet
      In playing there had found;
    He came to ask what he had found
    That was so large and smooth and round.

    Old Kaspar took it from the boy
      Who stood expectant by;
    And then the old man shook his head,
      And with a natural sigh
    ''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,
    'Who fell in the great victory.

    'I find them in the garden,
      For there's many here about;
    And often when I go to plough
      The ploughshare turns them out.
    For many thousand men,' said he,
    'Were slain in that great victory.'

    'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'
      Young Peterkin he cries;
    And little Wilhelmine looks up
      With wonder-waiting eyes;
    'Now tell us all about the war,
    And what they fought each other for.'

    'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
      'Who put the French to rout;
    But what they fought each other for
      I could not well make out.
    But every body said,' quoth he,
    'That 'twas a famous victory.

    'My father lived at Blenheim then,
      Yon little stream hard by;
    They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
      And he was forced to fly:
    So with his wife and child he fled,
    Nor had he where to rest his head.

    'With fire and sword the country round
      Was wasted far and wide,
    And many a childing mother then
      And new-born baby died:
    But things like that, you know, must be
    At every famous victory.

    'They say it was a shocking sight
      After the field was won;
    For many thousand bodies here
      Lay rotting in the sun:
    But things like that, you know, must be
    After a famous victory.

    'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
      And our good Prince Eugene;'
    'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'
      Said little Wilhelmine;
    'Nay ... nay ... my little girl,' quoth he,
    'It was a famous victory.

    'And every body praised the Duke
      Who this great fight did win.'
    'But what good came of it at last?'
      Quoth little Peterkin:--
    'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,
    'But 'twas a famous victory.'

_R. Southey_


CCLXI

_PRO PATRIA MORI_

    When he who adores thee has left out the name
      Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
    Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
      Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
    Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
      Thy tears shall efface their decree;
    For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
      I have been but too faithful to thee.

    With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
      Every thought of my reason was thine:
    In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
      Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
    Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
      The days of thy glory to see;
    But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
      Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

_T. Moore_


CCLXII

_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA_

    Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
      As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
    Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
      O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

    We buried him darkly at dead of night,
      The sods with our bayonets turning;
    By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
      And the lantern dimly burning.

    No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
      Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
    But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
      With his martial cloak around him.

    Few and short were the prayers we said,
      And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
    But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
      And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

    We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
      And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
    That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
      And we far away on the billow!

    Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
      And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
    But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
      In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

    But half of our heavy task was done
      When the clock struck the hour for retiring:
    And we heard the distant and random gun
      That the foe was sullenly firing.

    Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
      From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
    We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
      But we left him alone with his glory.

_C. Wolfe_


CCLXIII

_SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN_

    In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
    Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
    An old man dwells, a little man,--
    'Tis said he once was tall.
    Full five-and-thirty years he lived
    A running huntsman merry;
    And still the centre of his cheek
    Is red as a ripe cherry.

    No man like him the horn could sound,
    And hill and valley rang with glee,
    When Echo bandied, round and round,
    The halloo of Simon Lee.
    In those proud days he little cared
    For husbandry or tillage;
    To blither tasks did Simon rouse
    The sleepers of the village.

    He all the country could outrun,
    Could leave both man and horse behind;
    And often, ere the chase was done,
    He reel'd and was stone-blind.
    And still there's something in the world
    At which his heart rejoices;
    For when the chiming hounds are out,
    He dearly loves their voices.

    But oh the heavy change!--bereft
    Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see!
    Old Simon to the world is left
    In liveried poverty:--
    His master's dead, and no one now
    Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
    Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
    He is the sole survivor.

    And he is lean and he is sick,
    His body, dwindled and awry,
    Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
    His legs are thin and dry.
    One prop he has, and only one,--
    His wife, an aged woman,
    Lives with him, near the waterfall,
    Upon the village common.

    Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
    Not twenty paces from the door,
    A scrap of land they have, but they
    Are poorest of the poor.
    This scrap of land he from the heath
    Enclosed when he was stronger;
    But what to them avails the land
    Which he can till no longer?

    Oft, working by her husband's side,
    Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
    For she, with scanty cause for pride,
    Is stouter of the two.
    And, though you with your utmost skill
    From labour could not wean them,
    'Tis little, very little, all
    That they can do between them.

    Few months of life has he in store
    As he to you will tell,
    For still, the more he works, the more
    Do his weak ankles swell.
    My gentle Reader, I perceive
    How patiently you've waited,
    And now I fear that you expect
    Some tale will be related.

    O Reader! had you in your mind
    Such stores as silent thought can bring,
    O gentle Reader! you would find
    A tale in every thing.
    What more I have to say is short,
    And you must kindly take it:
    It is no tale; but, should you think,
    Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

    One summer-day I chanced to see
    This old Man doing all he could
    To unearth the root of an old tree,
    A stump of rotten wood.
    The mattock totter'd in his hand;
    So vain was his endeavour
    That at the root of the old tree
    He might have work'd for ever.

    'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
    Give me your tool,' to him I said;
    And at the word right gladly he
    Received my proffer'd aid.
    I struck, and with a single blow
    The tangled root I sever'd,
    At which the poor old man so long
    And vainly had endeavour'd.

    The tears into his eyes were brought,
    And thanks and praises seem'd to run
    So fast out of his heart, I thought
    They never would have done.
    --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed
    With coldness still returning;
    Alas! the gratitude of men
    Hath oftener left me mourning.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLXIV

_THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES_

    I have had playmates, I have had companions,
    In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

    I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
    Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

    I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
    Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

    I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
    Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
    Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

    Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
    Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
    Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

    Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
    Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
    So might we talk of the old familiar faces,

    How some they have died, and some they have left me,
    And some are taken from me; all are departed;
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

_C. Lamb_


CCLXV

_THE JOURNEY ONWARDS_

    As slow our ship her foamy track
      Against the wind was cleaving,
    Her trembling pennant still look'd back
      To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
    So loth we part from all we love,
      From all the links that bind us;
    So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
      To those we've left behind us!

    When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
      We talk with joyous seeming--
    With smiles that might as well be tears,
      So faint, so sad their beaming;
    While memory brings us back again
      Each early tie that twined us,
    Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
      To those we've left behind us!

    And when, in other climes, we meet
      Some isle or vale enchanting,
    Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
      And nought but love is wanting;
    We think how great had been our bliss
      If Heaven had but assign'd us
    To live and die in scenes like this,
      With some we've left behind us!

    As travellers oft look back at eve
      When eastward darkly going,
    To gaze upon that light they leave
      Still faint behind them glowing,--
    So, when the close of pleasure's day
      To gloom hath near consign'd us,
    We turn to catch one fading ray
      Of joy that's left behind us.

_T. Moore_


CCLXVI

_YOUTH AND AGE_

    There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
    When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
    'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
    But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

    Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
    Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:
    The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
    The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

    Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
    It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
    That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
    And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

    Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
    Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
    'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
    All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

    Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
    Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--
    As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
    So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!

_Lord Byron_


CCLXVII

_A LESSON_

    There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
    That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
    And the first moment that the sun may shine,
    Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!

    When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
    Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
    Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
    In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

    But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,
    And recognized it, though an alter'd form,
    Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
    And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

    I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,
    'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
    This neither is its courage nor its choice,
    But its necessity in being old.

    'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
    It cannot help itself in its decay;
    Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'--
    And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.

    To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,
    A miser's pensioner--behold our lot!
    O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
    Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLXVIII

_PAST AND PRESENT_

    I remember, I remember
    The house where I was born,
    The little window where the sun
    Came peeping in at morn;
    He never came a wink too soon
    Nor brought too long a day;
    But now, I often wish the night
    Had borne my breath away.

    I remember, I remember
    The roses, red and white,
    The violets, and the lily-cups--
    Those flowers made of light!
    The lilacs where the robin built,
    And where my brother set
    The laburnum on his birth-day,--
    The tree is living yet!

    I remember, I remember
    Where I was used to swing,
    And thought the air must rush as fresh
    To swallows on the wing;
    My spirit flew in feathers then
    That is so heavy now,
    And summer pools could hardly cool
    The fever on my brow.

    I remember, I remember
    The fir trees dark and high;
    I used to think their slender tops
    Were close against the sky:
    It was a childish ignorance,
    But now 'tis little joy
    To know I'm farther off from Heaven
    Than when I was a boy.

_T. Hood_


CCLXIX

_THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS_

    Oft in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Fond Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me:
        The smiles, the tears
        Of boyhood's years,
      The words of love then spoken;
        The eyes that shone,
        Now dimm'd and gone,
      The cheerful hearts now broken!
    Thus in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

    When I remember all
      The friends so link'd together
    I've seen around me fall
      Like leaves in wintry weather,
        I feel like one
        Who treads alone
      Some banquet-hall deserted,
        Whose lights are fled
        Whose garlands dead,
      And all but he departed!
    Thus in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

_T. Moore_


CCLXX

_STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES_

        The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
        The waves are dancing fast and bright,
        Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
        The purple noon's transparent might:
        The breath of the moist earth is light
        Around its unexpanded buds;
        Like many a voice of one delight--
        The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'--
    The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

        I see the deep's untrampled floor
        With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
        I see the waves upon the shore
        Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:
        I sit upon the sands alone;
        The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
        Is flashing round me, and a tone
        Arises from its measured motion--
    How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

        Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
        Nor peace within nor calm around,
        Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
        The sage in meditation found,
        And walk'd with inward glory crown'd--
        Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
        Others I see whom these surround--
        Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
    To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

        Yet now despair itself is mild
        Even as the winds and waters are;
        I could lie down like a tired child,
        And weep away the life of care
        Which I have borne, and yet must bear,--
        Till death like sleep might steal on me,
        And I might feel in the warm air
        My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
    Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

_P. B. Shelley_


CCLXXI

_THE SCHOLAR_

    My days among the Dead are past;
    Around me I behold,
    Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
    The mighty minds of old:
    My never-failing friends are they,
    With whom I converse day by day.

    With them I take delight in weal
    And seek relief in woe;
    And while I understand and feel
    How much to them I owe,
    My cheeks have often been bedew'd
    With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

    My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
    I live in long-past years,
    Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
    Partake their hopes and fears,
    And from their lessons seek and find
    Instruction with an humble mind.

    My hopes are with the Dead; anon
    My place with them will be,
    And I with them shall travel on
    Through all Futurity;
    Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
    That will not perish in the dust.

_R. Southey_


CCLXXII

_THE MERMAID TAVERN_

    Souls of Poets dead and gone,
    What Elysium have ye known,
    Happy field or mossy cavern,
    Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
    Have ye tippled drink more fine
    Than mine host's Canary wine?

    Or are fruits of Paradise
    Sweeter than those dainty pies
    Of venison? O generous food!
    Drest as though bold Robin Hood
    Would, with his Maid Marian,
    Sup and bowse from horn and can.

      I have heard that on a day
    Mine host's sign-board flew away
    Nobody knew whither, till
    An astrologer's old quill
    To a sheepskin gave the story,
    Said he saw you in your glory,
    Underneath a new-old sign
    Sipping beverage divine,
    And pledging with contented smack
    The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

      Souls of Poets dead and gone,
    What Elysium have ye known,
    Happy field or mossy cavern,
    Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

_J. Keats_


CCLXXIII

_THE PRIDE OF YOUTH_

    Proud Maisie is in the wood,
      Walking so early;
    Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
      Singing so rarely.

    'Tell me, thou bonny bird,
      When shall I marry me?'
    --'When six braw gentlemen
      Kirkward shall carry ye.'

    'Who makes the bridal bed,
      Birdie, say truly?'
    --'The gray-headed sexton
      That delves the grave duly

    'The glowworm o'er grave and stone
      Shall light thee steady;
    The owl from the steeple sing
      Welcome, proud lady.'

_Sir W. Scott_


CCLXXIV

_THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS_

    One more Unfortunate
    Weary of breath
    Rashly importunate,
    Gone to her death!
    Take her up tenderly,
    Lift her with care;
    Fashion'd so slenderly,
    Young, and so fair!

    Look at her garments
    Clinging like cerements;
    Whilst the wave constantly
    Drips from her clothing;
    Take her up instantly,
    Loving, not loathing.

    Touch her not scornfully;
    Think of her mournfully,
    Gently and humanly;
    Not of the stains of her--
    All that remains of her
    Now is pure womanly.

    Make no deep scrutiny
    Into her mutiny
    Rash and undutiful:
    Past all dishonour,
    Death has left on her
    Only the beautiful.

    Still, for all slips of hers,
    One of Eve's family--
    Wipe those poor lips of hers
    Oozing so clammily.

    Loop up her tresses
    Escaped from the comb,
    Her fair auburn tresses;
    Whilst wonderment guesses
    Where was her home?

    Who was her father?
    Who was her mother?
    Had she a sister?
    Had she a brother?
    Or was there a dearer one
    Still, and a nearer one
    Yet, than all other?

    Alas! for the rarity
    Of Christian charity
    Under the sun!
    Oh! it was pitiful!
    Near a whole city full,
    Home she had none.

    Sisterly, brotherly,
    Fatherly, motherly
    Feelings had changed:
    Love, by harsh evidence,
    Thrown from its eminence;
    Even God's providence
    Seeming estranged.

    Where the lamps quiver
    So far in the river,
    With many a light
    From window and casement,
    From garret to basement,
    She stood, with amazement,
    Houseless by night.

    The bleak wind of March
    Made her tremble and shiver
    But not the dark arch,
    Or the black flowing river:
    Mad from life's history,
    Glad to death's mystery
    Swift to be hurl'd--
    Any where, any where
    Out of the world!

    In she plunged boldly,
    No matter how coldly
    The rough river ran,--
    Over the brink of it,
    Picture it--think of it,
    Dissolute Man!
    Lave in it, drink of it,
    Then, if you can!

    Take her up tenderly,
    Lift her with care;
    Fashion'd so slenderly,
    Young, and so fair!

    Ere her limbs frigidly
    Stiffen too rigidly,
    Decently, kindly,
    Smooth and compose them,
    And her eyes, close them,
    Staring so blindly!

    Dreadfully staring
    Thro' muddy impurity,
    As when with the daring
    Last look of despairing
    Fix'd on futurity.

    Perishing gloomily,
    Spurr'd by contumely,
    Cold inhumanity,
    Burning insanity,
    Into her rest.
    --Cross her hands humbly
    As if praying dumbly,
    Over her breast!

    Owning her weakness,
    Her evil behaviour,
    And leaving, with meekness,
    Her sins to her Saviour!

_T. Hood_


CCLXXV

_ELEGY_

      Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
      On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
      But on thy turf shall roses rear
      Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
    And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

      And oft by yon blue gushing stream
      Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
      And feed deep thought with many a dream,
      And lingering pause and lightly tread;
    Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

      Away! we know that tears are vain,
      That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
      Will this unteach us to complain?
      Or make one mourner weep the less?
      And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
    Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

_Lord Byron_


CCLXXVI

_HESTER_

    When maidens such as Hester die
    Their place ye may not well supply,
    Though ye among a thousand try
            With vain endeavour.
    A month or more hath she been dead,
    Yet cannot I by force be led
    To think upon the wormy bed
            And her together.

    A springy motion in her gait,
    A rising step, did indicate
    Of pride and joy no common rate
            That flush'd her spirit:
    I know not by what name beside
    I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
    It was a joy to that allied
            She did inherit.

    Her parents held the Quaker rule,
    Which doth the human feeling cool;
    But she was train'd in Nature's school,
            Nature had blest her.
    A waking eye, a prying mind,
    A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
    A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
            Ye could not Hester.

    My sprightly neighbour! gone before
    To that unknown and silent shore,
    Shall we not meet, as heretofore
            Some summer morning--
    When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
    Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
    A bliss that would not go away,
            A sweet fore-warning?

_C. Lamb_


CCLXXVII

_TO MARY_

    If I had thought thou couldst have died,
        I might not weep for thee;
    But I forgot, when by thy side,
        That thou couldst mortal be:
    It never through my mind had past
        The time would e'er be o'er,
    And I on thee should look my last,
        And thou shouldst smile no more!

    And still upon that face I look,
        And think 'twill smile again;
    And still the thought I will not brook
        That I must look in vain!
    But when I speak--thou dost not say
        What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
    And now I feel, as well I may,
        Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

    If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
        All cold and all serene--
    I still might press thy silent heart,
        And where thy smiles have been.
    While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
        Thou seemest still mine own;
    But there I lay thee in thy grave--
        And I am now alone!

    I do not think, where'er thou art,
        Thou hast forgotten me;
    And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
        In thinking too of thee:
    Yet there was round thee such a dawn
        Of light ne'er seen before,
    As fancy never could have drawn,
        And never can restore!

_C. Wolfe_


CCLXXVIII

_CORONACH_

    He is gone on the mountain,
      He is lost to the forest,
    Like a summer-dried fountain,
      When our need was the sorest.
    The font reappearing
      From the raindrops shall borrow,
    But to us comes no cheering,
      To Duncan no morrow!

    The hand of the reaper
      Takes the ears that are hoary,
    But the voice of the weeper
      Wails manhood in glory.
    The autumn winds rushing
      Waft the leaves that are searest,
    But our flower was in flushing
      When blighting was nearest.

    Fleet foot on the correi,
      Sage counsel in cumber,
    Red hand in the foray,
      How sound is thy slumber!
    Like the dew on the mountain,
      Like the foam on the river,
    Like the bubble on the fountain,
      Thou art gone; and for ever!

_Sir W. Scott_


CCLXXIX

_THE DEATH BED_

    We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
      Her breathing soft and low,
    As in her breast the wave of life
      Kept heaving to and fro.

    So silently we seem'd to speak,
      So slowly moved about,
    As we had lent her half our powers
      To eke her living out.

    Our very hopes belied our fears,
      Our fears our hopes belied--
    We thought her dying when she slept,
      And sleeping when she died.

    For when the morn came dim and sad
      And chill with early showers,
    Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
      Another morn than ours.

_T. Hood_


CCLXXX

_AGNES_

    I saw her in childhood--
      A bright, gentle thing,
    Like the dawn of the morn,
      Or the dews of the spring:
    The daisies and hare-bells
      Her playmates all day;
    Herself as light-hearted
      And artless as they.

    I saw her again--
      A fair girl of eighteen,
    Fresh glittering with graces
      Of mind and of mien.
    Her speech was all music;
      Like moonlight she shone;
    The envy of many,
      The glory of one.

    Years, years fleeted over--
      I stood at her foot:
    The bud had grown blossom,
      The blossom was fruit.
    A dignified mother,
      Her infant she bore;
    And look'd, I thought, fairer
      Than ever before.

    I saw her once more--
      'Twas the day that she died;
    Heaven's light was around her,
      And God at her side;
    No wants to distress her,
      No fears to appal--
    O then, I felt, then
      She was fairest of all!

_H. F. Lyte_


CCLXXXI

_ROSABELLE_

    O listen, listen, ladies gay!
      No haughty feat of arms I tell;
    Soft is the note, and sad the lay
      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

    'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
      And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
    Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
      Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

    'The blackening wave is edged with white;
      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
    The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
      Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

    'Last night the gifted Seer did view
      A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
    Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
      Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'

    ''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
    But that my ladye-mother there
      Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

    'Tis not because the ring they ride,
      And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
    But that my sire the wine will chide
      If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'

    --O'er Roslin all that dreary night
      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
    'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
      And redder than the bright moonbeam.

    It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
      It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
    'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

    Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
    Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
      Sheathed in his iron panoply.

    Seem'd all on fire within, around,
      Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
    Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

    Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
    So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
      The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

    There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold--
      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
    Each one the holy vault doth hold--
      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.

    And each Saint Clair was buried there,
      With candle, with book, and with knell;
    But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

_Sir W. Scott_


CCLXXXII

_ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN_

    I saw where in the shroud did lurk
    A curious frame of Nature's work;
    A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,
    A nameless piece of Babyhood,
    Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
    Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
    So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
    For darker closets of the tomb!
    She did but ope an eye, and put
    A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
    For the long dark: ne'er more to see
    Through glasses of mortality.
    Riddle of destiny, who can show
    What thy short visit meant, or know
    What thy errand here below?
    Shall we say, that Nature blind
    Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
    Just when she had exactly wrought
    A finish'd pattern without fault?
    Could she flag, or could she tire,
    Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
    (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
    That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
    Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
    Life of health, and days mature:
    Woman's self in miniature!
    Limbs so fair, they might supply
    (Themselves now but cold imagery)
    The sculptor to make Beauty by.
    Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
    That babe or mother, one must die;
    So in mercy left the stock
    And cut the branch; to save the shock
    Of young years widow'd, and the pain
    When Single State comes back again
    To the lone man who, reft of wife,
    Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?
    The economy of Heaven is dark,
    And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark
    Why human buds, like this, should fall,
    More brief than fly ephemeral
    That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
    Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
    And crabbéd use the conscience sears
    In sinners of an hundred years.
    --Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
    Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
    Rites, which custom does impose,
    Silver bells, and baby clothes;
    Coral redder than those lips
    Which pale death did late eclipse;
    Music framed for infants' glee,
    Whistle never tuned for thee;
    Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
    Loving hearts were they which gave them.
    Let not one be missing; nurse,
    See them laid upon the hearse
    Of infant slain by doom perverse.
    Why should kings and nobles have
    Pictured trophies to their grave,
    And we, churls, to thee deny
    Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--
    A more harmless vanity?

_C. Lamb_


CCLXXXIII

_IN MEMORIAM_

    A child's a plaything for an hour;
      Its pretty tricks we try
    For that or for a longer space,--
      Then tire, and lay it by.

    But I knew one that to itself
      All seasons could control;
    That would have mock'd the sense of pain
      Out of a grievéd soul.

    Thou straggler into loving arms,
      Young climber up of knees,
    When I forget thy thousand ways
      Then life and all shall cease!

_M. Lamb_


CCLXXXIV

_THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET_

    Where art thou, my beloved Son,
    Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
    Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
    Or if the grave be now thy bed,
    Why am I ignorant of the same
    That I may rest; and neither blame
    Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

    Seven years, alas! to have received
    No tidings of an only child--
    To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
    And been for evermore beguiled,--
    Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
    I catch at them, and then I miss;
    Was ever darkness like to this?

    He was among the prime in worth,
    An object beauteous to behold;
    Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
    Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
    If things ensued that wanted grace
    As hath been said, they were not base;
    And never blush was on my face.

    Ah! little doth the young-one dream
    When full of play and childish cares,
    What power is in his wildest scream
    Heard by his mother unawares!
    He knows it not, he cannot guess;
    Years to a mother bring distress;
    But do not make her love the less.

    Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
    From that ill thought; and being blind
    Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:
    Kind mother have I been, as kind
    As ever breathed:' and that is true;
    I've wet my path with tears like dew,
    Weeping for him when no one knew.

    My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
    Hopeless of honour and of gain,
    Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
    Think not of me with grief and pain:
    I now can see with better eyes;
    And worldly grandeur I despise
    And fortune with her gifts and lies.

    Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
    And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
    They mount--how short a voyage brings
    The wanderers back to their delight!
    Chains tie us down by land and sea;
    And wishes, vain as mine, may be
    All that is left to comfort thee.

    Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan
    Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
    Or thou upon a desert thrown
    Inheritest the lion's den;
    Or hast been summon'd to the deep
    Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
    An incommunicable sleep.

    I look for ghosts: but none will force
    Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
    That there was ever intercourse
    Between the living and the dead;
    For surely then I should have sight
    Of him I wait for day and night
    With love and longings infinite.

    My apprehensions come in crowds;
    I dread the rustling of the grass;
    The very shadows of the clouds
    Have power to shake me as they pass:
    I question things, and do not find
    One that will answer to my mind;
    And all the world appears unkind.

    Beyond participation lie
    My troubles, and beyond relief:
    If any chance to heave a sigh
    They pity me, and not my grief.
    Then come to me, my Son, or send
    Some tidings that my woes may end!
    I have no other earthly friend.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLXXXV

_HUNTING SONG_

    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    On the mountain dawns the day;
    All the jolly chase is here
    With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
    Hounds are in their couples yelling,
    Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
    Merrily merrily mingle they,
    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    The mist has left the mountain gray,
    Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
    Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
    And foresters have busy been
    To track the buck in thicket green;
    Now we come to chant our lay
    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    To the greenwood haste away;
    We can show you where he lies,
    Fleet of foot and tall of size;
    We can show the marks he made
    When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
    You shall see him brought to bay;
    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

    Louder, louder chant the lay
    Waken, lords and ladies gay!
    Tell them youth and mirth and glee
    Run a course as well as we;
    Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
    Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;
    Think of this, and rise with day,
    Gentle lords and ladies gay!

_Sir W. Scott_


CCLXXXVI

_TO THE SKYLARK_

    Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
    Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
    Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
    Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
    Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
    Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

    To the last point of vision, and beyond
    Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain
    --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--
    Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
    Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
    All independent of the leafy Spring.

    Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
    A privacy of glorious light is thine,
    Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
    Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
    Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam--
    True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLXXXVII

_TO A SKYLARK_

        Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
          Bird thou never wert,
        That from heaven, or near it
          Pourest thy full heart
    In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

        Higher still and higher
          From the earth thou springest,
        Like a cloud of fire,
          The blue deep thou wingest,
    And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

        In the golden lightning
          Of the sunken sun
        O'er which clouds are brightening,
          Thou dost float and run,
    Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

        The pale purple even
          Melts around thy flight;
        Like a star of heaven
          In the broad daylight
    Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

        Keen as are the arrows
          Of that silver sphere,
        Whose intense lamp narrows
          In the white dawn clear
    Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

        All the earth and air
          With thy voice is loud,
        As, when night is bare,
          From one lonely cloud
    The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

        What thou art we know not;
          What is most like thee?
        From rainbow clouds there flow not
          Drops so bright to see
    As from thy presence showers a rain of melody;--

        Like a poet hidden
          In the light of thought,
        Singing hymns unbidden,
          Till the world is wrought
    To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

        Like a high-born maiden
          In a palace tower,
        Soothing her love-laden
          Soul in secret hour
    With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

        Like a glow-worm golden
          In a dell of dew,
        Scattering unbeholden
          Its aerial hue
    Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

        Like a rose embower'd
          In its own green leaves,
        By warm winds deflower'd,
          Till the scent it gives
    Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves.

        Sound of vernal showers
          On the twinkling grass,
        Rain-awaken'd flowers,
          All that ever was
    Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

        Teach us, sprite or bird,
          What sweet thoughts are thine:
        I have never heard
          Praise of love or wine
    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

        Chorus hymeneal
          Or triumphal chaunt
        Match'd with thine, would be all
          But an empty vaunt--
    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

        What objects are the fountains
          Of thy happy strain?
        What fields, or waves, or mountains?
          What shapes of sky or plain?
    What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

        With thy clear keen joyance
          Languor cannot be:
        Shadow of annoyance
          Never came near thee:
    Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

        Waking or asleep
          Thou of death must deem
        Things more true and deep
          Than we mortals dream,
    Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

        We look before and after,
          And pine for what is not:
        Our sincerest laughter
          With some pain is fraught;
    Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

        Yet if we could scorn
          Hate, and pride, and fear;
        If we were things born
          Not to shed a tear,
    I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

        Better than all measures
          Of delightful sound,
        Better than all treasures
          That in books are found,
    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

        Teach me half the gladness
          That thy brain must know,
        Such harmonious madness
          From my lips would flow,
    The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

_P. B. Shelley_


CCLXXXVIII

_THE GREEN LINNET_

    Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
    Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
    With brightest sunshine round me spread
    Of Spring's unclouded weather,
    In this sequester'd nook how sweet
    To sit upon my orchard-seat!
    And flowers and birds once more to greet,
    My last year's friends together.

    One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
    In all this covert of the blest:
    Hail to Thee, far above the rest
    In joy of voice and pinion!
    Thou, Linnet! in thy green array
    Presiding Spirit here to-day
    Dost lead the revels of the May;
    And this is thy dominion.

    While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
    Make all one band of paramours,
    Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
    Art sole in thy employment;
    A Life, a Presence like the air,
    Scattering thy gladness without care,
    Too blest with any one to pair;
    Thyself thy own enjoyment.

    Amid yon tuft of hazel trees
    That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
    Behold him perch'd in ecstasies
    Yet seeming still to hover;
    There! where the flutter of his wings
    Upon his back and body flings
    Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
    That cover him all over.

    My dazzled sight he oft deceives--
    A brother of the dancing leaves;
    Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
    Pours forth his song in gushes;
    As if by that exulting strain
    He mock'd and treated with disdain
    The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
    While fluttering in the bushes.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCLXXXIX

_TO THE CUCKOO_

    O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
    I hear thee and rejoice:
    O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
    Or but a wandering Voice?

    While I am lying on the grass
    Thy twofold shout I hear;
    From hill to hill it seems to pass,
    At once far off and near.

    Though babbling only to the vale
    Of sunshine and of flowers,
    Thou bringest unto me a tale
    Of visionary hours.

    Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
    Even yet thou art to me
    No bird, but an invisible thing,
    A voice, a mystery;

    The same whom in my school-boy days
    I listen'd to; that Cry
    Which made me look a thousand ways
    In bush, and tree, and sky.

    To seek thee did I often rove
    Through woods and on the green;
    And thou wert still a hope, a love;
    Still long'd for, never seen!

    And I can listen to thee yet;
    Can lie upon the plain
    And listen, till I do beget
    That golden time again.

    O blesséd Bird! the earth we pace
    Again appears to be
    An unsubstantial, faery place,
    That is fit home for Thee!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXC

_ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE_

    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
    'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
      But being too happy in thine happiness,--
        That thou, light-wingéd Dryad of the trees,
              In some melodious plot
      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
        Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

    O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
      Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,
    Tasting of Flora and the country green,
      Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
    O for a beaker full of the warm South,
      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
        With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
              And purple-stainéd mouth;
      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
        And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

    Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
    The weariness, the fever, and the fret
      Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
    Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
      Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies
        Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
              And leaden-eyed despairs;
      Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
        Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

    Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
      Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
    But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
      Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
    Already with thee! tender is the night,
      And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
        Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
              But here there is no light,
      Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
        Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
    But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweet
      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
    The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
        Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
              And mid-May's eldest child,
      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
        The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

    Darkling I listen; and for many a time
      I have been half in love with easeful Death,
    Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,
      To take into the air my quiet breath;
    Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
      To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
        While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
              In such an ecstasy!
      Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
        To thy high requiem become a sod.

    Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
      No hungry generations tread thee down;
    The voice I hear this passing night was heard
      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
        She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
              The same that oft-times hath
      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
        Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep
              In the next valley-glades:
      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
        Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?

_J. Keats_


CCXCI

_UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802_

    Earth has not anything to show more fair:
    Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
    A sight so touching in its majesty:
    This City now doth like a garment wear

    The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
    Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
    Open unto the fields, and to the sky,--
    All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

    Never did sun more beautifully steep
    In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
    Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

    The river glideth at his own sweet will:
    Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
    And all that mighty heart is lying still!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXCII

    To one who has been long in city pent,
    'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
    And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer
    Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

    Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
    Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
    Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
    And gentle tale of love and languishment?

    Returning home at evening, with an ear
    Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye
    Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

    He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
    E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
    That falls through the clear ether silently.

_J. Keats_


CCXCIII

_OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT_

    I met a traveller from an antique land
    Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
    Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
    And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
    Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
    And on the pedestal these words appear:
    'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
    Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
    The lone and level sands stretch far away.

_P. B. Shelley_


CCXCIV

_COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY, 1803_

    Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!
    Whom mere despite of heart could so far please
    And love of havoc, (for with such disease
    Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word

    To level with the dust a noble horde,
    A brotherhood of venerable trees,
    Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
    Beggar'd and outraged!--Many hearts deplored

    The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
    The traveller at this day will stop and gaze
    On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

    For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
    And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
    And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXCV

_THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION_

    O leave this barren spot to me!
    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
    Though bush or floweret never grow
    My dark unwarming shade below;
    Nor summer bud perfume the dew
    Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
    Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
    My green and glossy leaves adorn;
    Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
    Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
    Yet leave this barren spot to me:
    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

        Thrice twenty summers I have seen
    The sky grow bright, the forest green;
    And many a wintry wind have stood
    In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
    Since childhood in my pleasant bower
    First spent its sweet and sportive hour;
    Since youthful lovers in my shade
    Their vows of truth and rapture made,
    And on my trunk's surviving frame
    Carved many a long-forgotten name.
    Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
    First breathed upon this sacred ground;
    By all that Love has whisper'd here,
    Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
    As Love's own altar honour me:
    Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

_T. Campbell_


CCXCVI

_ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER_

    Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
    --The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
    Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
    Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

    But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh
    As many do, repining while they look;
    Intruders--who would tear from Nature's book
    This precious leaf with harsh impiety.

    --Think what the home must be if it were thine,
    Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window,
    door,
    The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

    The roses to the porch which they entwine:
    Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
    On which it should be touch'd, would melt away!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXCVII

_TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE_

    Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
    Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
    Twice seven consenting years have shed
    Their utmost bounty on thy head:
    And these gray rocks, that household lawn,
    Those trees--a veil just half withdrawn,
    This fall of water that doth make
    A murmur near the silent lake,
    This little bay, a quiet road
    That holds in shelter thy abode;
    In truth together ye do seem
    Like something fashion'd in a dream;
    Such forms as from their covert peep
    When earthly cares are laid asleep!
    But O fair Creature! in the light
    Of common day, so heavenly bright,
    I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
    I bless thee with a human heart:
    God shield thee to thy latest years!
    Thee neither know I nor thy peers:
    And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.

    With earnest feeling I shall pray
    For thee when I am far away;
    For never saw I mien or face
    In which more plainly I could trace
    Benignity and home-bred sense
    Ripening in perfect innocence.
    Here scatter'd, like a random seed,
    Remote from men, Thou dost not need
    The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
    And maidenly shamefacédness:
    Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
    The freedom of a Mountaineer:
    A face with gladness overspread;
    Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
    And seemliness complete, that sways
    Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
    With no restraint, but such as springs
    From quick and eager visitings
    Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
    Of thy few words of English speech:
    A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
    That gives thy gestures grace and life!
    So have I, not unmoved in mind,
    Seen birds of tempest-loving kind--
    Thus beating up against the wind.

    What hand but would a garland cull
    For thee who art so beautiful?
    O happy pleasure! here to dwell
    Beside thee in some heathy dell;
    Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
    A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
    But I could frame a wish for thee
    More like a grave reality:
    Thou art to me but as a wave
    Of the wild sea: and I would have
    Some claim upon thee, if I could,
    Though but of common neighbourhood.
    What joy to hear thee, and to see!
    Thy elder brother I would be,
    Thy father--anything to thee.

    Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
    Hath led me to this lonely place:
    Joy have I had; and going hence
    I bear away my recompence.
    In spots like these it is we prize
    Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
    Then why should I be loth to stir?
    I feel this place was made for her;
    To give new pleasure like the past,
    Continued long as life shall last.
    Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
    Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
    For I, methinks, till I grow old
    As fair before me shall behold
    As I do now, the cabin small,
    The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
    And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXCVIII

_THE REAPER_

    Behold her, single in the field,
    Yon solitary Highland Lass!
    Reaping and singing by herself;
    Stop here, or gently pass!
    Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
    And sings a melancholy strain;
    O listen! for the vale profound
    Is overflowing with the sound.

    No nightingale did ever chaunt
    More welcome notes to weary bands
    Of travellers in some shady haunt,
    Among Arabian sands:
    A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
    In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
    Breaking the silence of the seas
    Among the farthest Hebrides.

    Will no one tell me what she sings?
    Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
    For old, unhappy, far-off things,
    And battles long ago:
    Or is it some more humble lay,
    Familiar matter of to-day?
    Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
    That has been, and may be again!

    Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
    As if her song could have no ending;
    I saw her singing at her work,
    And o'er the sickle bending;--
    I listen'd, motionless and still;
    And, as I mounted up the hill,
    The music in my heart I bore
    Long after it was heard no more.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCXCIX

_THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN_

    At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
    Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
    Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
    In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

    'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
    A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
    Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
    And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

    Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
    Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
    And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
    The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

    She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
    The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
    The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
    And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCC

_TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR_

    Ariel to Miranda:--Take
    This slave of music, for the sake
    Of him, who is the slave of thee;
    And teach it all the harmony
    In which thou canst, and only thou,
    Make the delighted spirit glow,
    Till joy denies itself again
    And, too intense, is turn'd to pain.
    For by permission and command
    Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
    Poor Ariel sends this silent token
    Of more than ever can be spoken;
    Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
    From life to life must still pursue
    Your happiness, for thus alone
    Can Ariel ever find his own.
    From Prospero's enchanted cell,
    As the mighty verses tell,
    To the throne of Naples he
    Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
    Flitting on, your prow before,
    Like a living meteor.
    When you die, the silent Moon
    In her interlunar swoon
    Is not sadder in her cell
    Than deserted Ariel:--
    When you live again on earth,
    Like an unseen Star of birth
    Ariel guides you o'er the sea
    Of life from your nativity:--
    Many changes have been run
    Since Ferdinand and you begun
    Your course of love, and Ariel still
    Has track'd your steps and served your will.
    Now in humbler, happier lot,
    This is all remember'd not;
    And now, alas! the poor Sprite is
    Imprison'd for some fault of his
    In a body like a grave--
    From you he only dares to crave,
    For his service and his sorrow
    A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

    The artist who this idol wrought
    To echo all harmonious thought,
    Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
    The woods were in their winter sleep,
    Rock'd in that repose divine
    On the wind-swept Apennine;
    And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
    And some of Spring approaching fast,
    And some of April buds and showers,
    And some of songs in July bowers,
    And all of love: And so this tree,--
    Oh that such our death may be!--
    Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
    To live in happier form again:
    From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,
    The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
    And taught it justly to reply
    To all who question skilfully
    In language gentle as thine own;
    Whispering in enamour'd tone
    Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
    And summer winds in sylvan cells:
    --For it had learnt all harmonies
    Of the plains and of the skies,
    Of the forests and the mountains,
    And the many-voicéd fountains;
    The clearest echoes of the hills,
    The softest notes of falling rills,
    The melodies of birds and bees,
    The murmuring of summer seas,
    And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
    And airs of evening; and it knew
    That seldom-heard mysterious sound
    Which, driven on its diurnal round,
    As it floats through boundless day,
    Our world enkindles on its way:
    --All this it knows, but will not tell
    To those who cannot question well
    The Spirit that inhabits it;
    It talks according to the wit
    Of its companions; and no more
    Is heard than has been felt before
    By those who tempt it to betray
    These secrets of an elder day.
    But, sweetly as its answers will
    Flatter hands of perfect skill,
    It keeps its highest holiest tone
    For our beloved Friend alone.

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCI

_THE DAFFODILS_

    I wander'd lonely as a cloud
    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
    When all at once I saw a crowd,
    A host of golden daffodils,
    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

    Continuous as the stars that shine
    And twinkle on the milky way,
    They stretch'd in never-ending line
    Along the margin of a bay:
    Ten thousand saw I at a glance
    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

    The waves beside them danced, but they
    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
    A Poet could not but be gay
    In such a jocund company!
    I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
    What wealth the show to me had brought;

    For oft, when on my couch I lie
    In vacant or in pensive mood,
    They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude;
    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
    And dances with the daffodils.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCII

_TO THE DAISY_

    With little here to do or see
    Of things that in the great world be,
    Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
          For thou art worthy,
    Thou unassuming Common-place
    Of Nature, with that homely face,
    And yet with something of a grace
          Which Love makes for thee!

    Oft on the dappled turf at ease
    I sit and play with similes,
    Loose types of things through all degrees,
          Thoughts of thy raising;
    And many a fond and idle name
    I give to thee, for praise or blame
    As is the humour of the game,
          While I am gazing.

    A nun demure, of lowly port;
    Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
    In thy simplicity the sport
          Of all temptations;
    A queen in crown of rubies drest;
    A starveling in a scanty vest;
    Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
          Thy appellations.

    A little Cyclops, with one eye
    Staring to threaten and defy,
    That thought comes next--and instantly
          The freak is over,
    The shape will vanish, and behold!
    A silver shield with boss of gold
    That spreads itself, some faery bold
          In fight to cover.

    I see thee glittering from afar--
    And then thou art a pretty star,
    Not quite so fair as many are
          In heaven above thee!
    Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
    Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
    May peace come never to his nest
          Who shall reprove thee!

    Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
    When all my reveries are past
    I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
          Sweet silent Creature!
    That breath'st with me in sun and air,
    Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
    My heart with gladness, and a share
          Of thy meek nature!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCIII

_ODE TO AUTUMN_

    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
    To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
    And still more, later flowers for the bees,
    Until they think warm days will never cease;
    For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
    Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
    Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
    Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers:
    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
    While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
    Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

_J. Keats_


CCCIV

_ODE TO WINTER_

_Germany, December, 1800_

    When first the fiery-mantled Sun
    His heavenly race began to run,
    Round the earth and ocean blue
    His children four the Seasons flew.
      First, in green apparel dancing,
    The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
      Rosy Summer next advancing,
    Rush'd into her sire's embrace--
    Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
      For ever nearest to his smiles,
    On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
      Or India's citron-cover'd isles:
    More remote, and buxom-brown,
      The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
    A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
      A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

    But howling Winter fled afar
    To hills that prop the polar star;
    And loves on deer-borne car to ride
    With barren darkness by his side,
    Round the shore where loud Lofoden
      Whirls to death the roaring whale;
    Round the hall where Runic Odin
      Howls his war-song to the gale;
    Save when adown the ravaged globe
      He travels on his native storm,
    Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
      And trampling on her faded form:--
    Till light's returning Lord assume
      The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
    Of power to pierce his raven plume
      And crystal-cover'd shield.

    Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
    The Lapland drum delights to hear,
    When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
    Implores thy dreadful deity--
    Archangel! Power of desolation!
      Fast descending as thou art,
    Say, hath mortal invocation
      Spells to touch thy stony heart?
    Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
    And gently rule the ruin'd year;
    Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
    Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
    To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
      Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
    And gently on the orphan head
      Of Innocence descend.

    But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
    The sailor on his airy shrouds,
    When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
    And spectres walk along the deep.
    Milder yet thy snowy breezes
      Pour on yonder tented shores,
    Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
      Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
    Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there
      To many a deep and dying groan?
    Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
      At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
    Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath
      May spare the victim fallen low;
    But Man will ask no truce to death,--
      No bounds to human woe.

_T. Campbell_


CCCV

_YARROW UNVISITED_

_1803_

    From Stirling Castle we had seen
    The mazy Forth unravell'd,
    Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
    And with the Tweed had travell'd;
    And when we came to Clovenford,
    Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
    'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
    And see the Braes of Yarrow.'

    'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
    Who have been buying, selling,
    Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
    Each maiden to her dwelling!
    On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
    Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;
    But we will downward with the Tweed,
    Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

    'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,
    Both lying right before us;
    And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
    The lintwhites sing in chorus;
    There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
    Made blithe with plough and harrow:
    Why throw away a needful day
    To go in search of Yarrow?

    'What's Yarrow but a river bare
    That glides the dark hills under?
    There are a thousand such elsewhere
    As worthy of your wonder.'
    --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
    My True-love sigh'd for sorrow,
    And look'd me in the face, to think
    I thus could speak of Yarrow!

    'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,
    And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
    Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
    But we will leave it growing.
    O'er hilly path and open strath
    We'll wander Scotland thorough;
    But, though so near, we will not turn
    Into the dale of Yarrow.

    'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
    The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
    The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
    Float double, swan and shadow!
    We will not see them; will not go
    To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
    Enough if in our hearts we know
    There's such a place as Yarrow.

    'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
    It must, or we shall rue it:
    We have a vision of our own,
    Ah! why should we undo it?
    The treasured dreams of times long past,
    We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
    For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
    'Twill be another Yarrow!

    'If Care with freezing years should come
    And wandering seem but folly,--
    Should we be loth to stir from home,
    And yet be melancholy;
    Should life be dull, and spirits low,
    'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
    That earth has something yet to show,
    The bonny holms of Yarrow!'

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCVI

_YARROW VISITED_

_September, 1814_

    And is this--Yarrow?--This the stream
    Of which my fancy cherish'd
    So faithfully, a waking dream,
    An image that hath perish'd?
    O that some minstrel's harp were near
    To utter notes of gladness
    And chase this silence from the air,
    That fills my heart with sadness!

    Yet why?--a silvery current flows
    With uncontroll'd meanderings;
    Nor have these eyes by greener hills
    Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
    And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
    Is visibly delighted;
    For not a feature of those hills
    Is in the mirror slighted.

    A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
    Save where that pearly whiteness
    Is round the rising sun diffused,
    A tender hazy brightness;
    Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
    All profitless dejection;
    Though not unwilling here to admit
    A pensive recollection.

    Where was it that the famous Flower
    Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
    His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
    On which the herd is feeding:
    And haply from this crystal pool,
    Now peaceful as the morning,
    The Water-wraith ascended thrice,
    And gave his doleful warning.

    Delicious is the lay that sings
    The haunts of happy lovers,
    The path that leads them to the grove,
    The leafy grove that covers:
    And pity sanctifies the verse
    That paints, by strength of sorrow,
    The unconquerable strength of love;
    Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

    But thou that didst appear so fair
    To fond imagination,
    Dost rival in the light of day
    Her delicate creation:
    Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
    A softness still and holy:
    The grace of forest charms decay'd,
    And pastoral melancholy.

    That region left, the vale unfolds
    Rich groves of lofty stature,
    With Yarrow winding through the pomp
    Of cultivated nature;
    And rising from those lofty groves
    Behold a ruin hoary,
    The shatter'd front of Newark's towers,
    Renown'd in Border story.

    Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
    For sportive youth to stray in,
    For manhood to enjoy his strength,
    And age to wear away in!
    Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
    A covert for protection
    Of tender thoughts that nestle there--
    The brood of chaste affection.

    How sweet on this autumnal day
    The wild-wood fruits to gather,
    And on my True-love's forehead plant
    A crest of blooming heather!
    And what if I enwreathed my own?
    'Twere no offence to reason;
    The sober hills thus deck their brows
    To meet the wintry season.

    I see--but not by sight alone,
    Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
    A ray of Fancy still survives--
    Her sunshine plays upon thee!
    Thy ever-youthful waters keep
    A course of lively pleasure;
    And gladsome notes my lips can breathe
    Accordant to the measure.

    The vapours linger round the heights,
    They melt, and soon must vanish;
    One hour is theirs, nor more is mine--
    Sad thought! which I would banish,
    But that I know, where'er I go,
    Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
    Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,
    And cheer my mind in sorrow.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCVII

_THE INVITATION_

    Best and brightest, come away,--
    Fairer far than this fair Day,
    Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
    Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
    To the rough year just awake
    In its cradle on the brake.
    The brightest hour of unborn Spring
    Through the winter wandering,
    Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
    To hoar February born;
    Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,
    It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,
    And smiled upon the silent sea,
    And bade the frozen streams be free,
    And waked to music all their fountains,
    And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
    And like a prophetess of May
    Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
    Making the wintry world appear
    Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.

      Away, away, from men and towns,
    To the wild wood and the downs--
    To the silent wilderness
    Where the soul need not repress
    Its music, lest it should not find
    An echo in another's mind,
    While the touch of Nature's art
    Harmonizes heart to heart.

      Radiant Sister of the Day
    Awake! arise! and come away!
    To the wild woods and the plains,
    To the pools where winter rains
    Image all their roof of leaves,
    Where the pine its garland weaves
    Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
    Round stems that never kiss the sun;
    Where the lawns and pastures be
    And the sandhills of the sea;
    Where the melting hoar-frost wets
    The daisy-star that never sets,
    And wind-flowers and violets
    Which yet join not scent to hue
    Crown the pale year weak and new;
    When the night is left behind
    In the deep east, dim and blind,
    And the blue noon is over us,
    And the multitudinous
    Billows murmur at our feet,
    Where the earth and ocean meet,
    And all things seem only one
    In the universal Sun.

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCVIII

_THE RECOLLECTION_

    Now the last day of many days
    All beautiful and bright as thou,
    The loveliest and the last, is dead:
    Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
    Up--to thy wonted work! come, trace
    The epitaph of glory fled,
    For now the earth has changed its face,
    A frown is on the heaven's brow.

    We wander'd to the Pine Forest
      That skirts the Ocean's foam;
    The lightest wind was in its nest,
      The tempest in its home.
    The whispering waves were half asleep,
      The clouds were gone to play,
    And on the bosom of the deep
      The smile of heaven lay;
    It seem'd as if the hour were one
      Sent from beyond the skies
    Which scatter'd from above the sun
      A light of Paradise!

    We paused amid the pines that stood
      The giants of the waste,
    Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
      As serpents interlaced,--
    And soothed by every azure breath
      That under heaven is blown,
    To harmonies and hues beneath,
      As tender as its own:
    Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
      Like green waves on the sea,
    As still as in the silent deep
      The ocean-woods may be.

    How calm it was!--The silence there
      By such a chain was bound,
    That even the busy woodpecker
      Made stiller with her sound
    The inviolable quietness;
      The breath of peace we drew
    With its soft motion made not less
      The calm that round us grew.
    There seem'd, from the remotest seat
      Of the white mountain waste
    To the soft flower beneath our feet,
      A magic circle traced,--
    A spirit interfused around,
      A thrilling silent life;
    To momentary peace it bound
      Our mortal nature's strife;--
    And still I felt the centre of
      The magic circle there
    Was one fair form that fill'd with love
      The lifeless atmosphere.

    We paused beside the pools that lie
      Under the forest bough;
    Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky
      Gulf'd in a world below;
    A firmament of purple light
      Which in the dark earth lay,
    More boundless than the depth of night
      And purer than the day--
    In which the lovely forests grew
      As in the upper air,
    More perfect both in shape and hue
      Than any spreading there.
    There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
      And through the dark-green wood
    The white sun twinkling like the dawn
      Out of a speckled cloud.
    Sweet views which in our world above
      Can never well be seen
    Were imaged in the water's love
      Of that fair forest green:
    And all was interfused beneath
      With an Elysian glow,
    An atmosphere without a breath,
      A softer day below.
    Like one beloved, the scene had lent
      To the dark water's breast
    Its every leaf and lineament
      With more than truth exprest;
    Until an envious wind crept by,
      Like an unwelcome thought
    Which from the mind's too faithful eye
      Blots one dear image out.
    --Though thou art ever fair and kind,
      The forests ever green,
    Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind
      Than calm in waters seen!

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCIX

_BY THE SEA_

    It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
    The holy time is quiet as a Nun
    Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
    Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

    The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
    Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
    And doth with his eternal motion make
    A sound like thunder--everlastingly.

    Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
    If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
    Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

    Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
    And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
    God being with thee when we know it not.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCX

_SONG TO THE EVENING STAR_

    Star that bringest home the bee,
    And sett'st the weary labourer free!
    If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
      That send'st it from above,
    Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
      Are sweet as hers we love.

    Come to the luxuriant skies,
    Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
    Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
      And songs when toil is done,
    From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
      Curls yellow in the sun.

    Star of love's soft interviews,
    Parted lovers on thee muse;
    Their remembrancer in Heaven
      Of thrilling vows thou art,
    Too delicious to be riven
      By absence from the heart.

_T. Campbell_


CCCXI

_DATUR HORA QUIETI_

    The sun upon the lake is low,
      The wild birds hush their song,
    The hills have evening's deepest glow,
      Yet Leonard tarries long.
    Now all whom varied toil and care
      From home and love divide,
    In the calm sunset may repair
      Each to the loved one's side.

    The noble dame, on turret high,
      Who waits her gallant knight,
    Looks to the western beam to spy
      The flash of armour bright.
    The village maid, with hand on brow
      The level ray to shade,
    Upon the footpath watches now
      For Colin's darkening plaid.

    Now to their mates the wild swans row,
      By day they swam apart,
    And to the thicket wanders slow
      The hind beside the hart.
    The woodlark at his partner's side
      Twitters his closing song--
    All meet whom day and care divide,
      But Leonard tarries long!

_Sir W. Scott_


CCCXII

_TO THE MOON_

        Art thou pale for weariness
      Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
        Wandering companionless
      Among the stars that have a different birth,--
    And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
    That finds no object worth its constancy?

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCXIII

_TO SLEEP_

    A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
    One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
    Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
    Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:

    I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
    Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
    Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
    And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

    Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
    And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
    So do not let me wear to-night away:

    Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
    Come, blesséd barrier between day and day,
    Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXIV

_THE SOLDIER'S DREAM_

    Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
    And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
      The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

    When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
      By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
    At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
      And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

    Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
      Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:
    'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way
      To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

    I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
      In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
    I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
      And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

    Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
      From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
    My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
      And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

    'Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!'--
      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;--
    But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

_T. Campbell_


CCCXV

_A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN_

    I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way
      Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
    And gentle odours led my steps astray,
      Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
    Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
      Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
    Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
    But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.

    There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
      Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
    The constellated flower that never sets;
      Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
    The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
    Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
    When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

    And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
      Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,
    And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
      Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;
    And wild roses, and ivy serpentine
      With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
    And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,
    Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.

    And nearer to the river's trembling edge
      There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,
    And starry river-buds among the sedge,
      And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
    Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
      With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
    And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
    As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

    Methought that of these visionary flowers
      I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
    That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
      Were mingled or opposed, the like array
    Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
      Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay,
    I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come
    That I might there present it--O! to Whom?

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCXVI

_KUBLA KHAN_

    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
      Down to a sunless sea.
    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round:
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
    Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

      But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail.
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
    And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.
    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!

        The shadow of the dome of pleasure
      Floated midway on the waves;
      Where was heard the mingled measure
      From the fountain and the caves.
    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
      A damsel with a dulcimer
      In a vision once I saw:
      It was an Abyssinian maid,
      And on her dulcimer she play'd,
      Singing of Mount Abora.
      Could I revive within me
      Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight 'twould win me
    That with music loud and long,
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.

_S. T. Coleridge_


CCCXVII

_THE INNER VISION_

    Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
    To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
    While a fair region round the traveller lies
    Which he forbears again to look upon;

    Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
    The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
    Of meditation, slipping in between
    The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

    --If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
    Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
    With Thought and Love companions of our way--

    Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,--
    The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
    Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXVIII

_THE REALM OF FANCY_

    Ever let the Fancy roam;
    Pleasure never is at home:
    At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
    Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
    Then let wingéd Fancy wander
    Through the thought still spread beyond her:
    Open wide the mind's cage-door,
    She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
    O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
    Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
    And the enjoying of the Spring
    Fades as does its blossoming;
    Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
    Blushing through the mist and dew,
    Cloys with tasting: What do then?
    Sit thee by the ingle, when
    The sear faggot blazes bright,
    Spirit of a winter's night;
    When the soundless earth is muffled,
    And the cakéd snow is shuffled
    From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
    When the Night doth meet the Noon
    In a dark conspiracy
    To banish Even from her sky.
    Sit thee there, and send abroad,
    With a mind self-overaw'd,
    Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!
    She has vassals to attend her:
    She will bring, in spite of frost,
    Beauties that the earth hath lost;
    She will bring thee, all together,
    All delights of summer weather;
    All the buds and bells of May,
    From dewy sward or thorny spray;
    All the heapéd Autumn's wealth,
    With a still, mysterious stealth:
    She will mix these pleasures up
    Like three fit wines in a cup,
    And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear
    Distant harvest-carols clear;
    Rustle of the reapéd corn;
    Sweet birds antheming the morn:
    And, in the same moment--hark!
    'Tis the early April lark,
    Or the rooks, with busy caw,
    Foraging for sticks and straw.
    Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
    The daisy and the marigold;
    White-plumed lilies, and the first
    Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
    Shaded hyacinth, alway
    Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
    And every leaf, and every flower
    Pearléd with the self-same shower.
    Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
    Meagre from its celléd sleep;
    And the snake all winter-thin
    Cast on sunny bank its skin;
    Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
    Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
    When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
    Quiet on her mossy nest;
    Then the hurry and alarm
    When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
    Acorns ripe down-pattering,
    While the autumn breezes sing.

      Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
    Everything is spoilt by use:
    Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
    Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
    Whose lip mature is ever new?
    Where's the eye, however blue,
    Doth not weary? Where's the face
    One would meet in every place?
    Where's the voice, however soft,
    One would hear so very oft?
    At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
    Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
    Let then wingéd Fancy find
    Thee a mistress to thy mind:
    Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
    Ere the God of Torment taught her
    How to frown and how to chide;
    With a waist and with a side
    White as Hebe's, when her zone
    Slipt its golden clasp, and down
    Fell her kirtle to her feet,
    While she held the goblet sweet,
    And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh
    Of the Fancy's silken leash;
    Quickly break her prison-string,
    And such joys as these she'll bring.
    --Let the wingéd Fancy roam,
    Pleasure never is at home.

_J. Keats_


CCCXIX

_WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING_

    I heard a thousand blended notes
    While in a grove I sate reclined,
    In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
    Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

    To her fair works did Nature link
    The human soul that through me ran;
    And much it grieved my heart to think
    What Man has made of Man.

    Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
    The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
    And 'tis my faith that every flower
    Enjoys the air it breathes.

    The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
    Their thoughts I cannot measure,--
    But the least motion which they made
    It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

    The budding twigs spread out their fan
    To catch the breezy air;
    And I must think, do all I can,
    That there was pleasure there.

    If this belief from heaven be sent,
    If such be Nature's holy plan,
    Have I not reason to lament
    What Man has made of Man?

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXX

_RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE_

    When Ruth was left half desolate
    Her father took another mate;
    And Ruth, not seven years old,
    A slighted child, at her own will
    Went wandering over dale and hill,
    In thoughtless freedom, bold.

    And she had made a pipe of straw,
    And music from that pipe could draw
    Like sounds of winds and floods;
    Had built a bower upon the green,
    As if she from her birth had been
    An infant of the woods.

    Beneath her father's roof, alone
    She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;
    Herself her own delight:
    Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay;
    And passing thus the live-long day,
    She grew to woman's height.

    There came a youth from Georgia's shore--
    A military casque he wore
    With splendid feathers drest;
    He brought them from the Cherokees;
    The feathers nodded in the breeze
    And made a gallant crest.

    From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
    But no! he spake the English tongue
    And bore a soldier's name;
    And, when America was free
    From battle and from jeopardy,
    He 'cross the ocean came.

    With hues of genius on his cheek,
    In finest tones the youth could speak:
    --While he was yet a boy
    The moon, the glory of the sun,
    And streams that murmur as they run
    Had been his dearest joy.

    He was a lovely youth! I guess
    The panther in the wilderness
    Was not so fair as he;
    And when he chose to sport and play,
    No dolphin ever was so gay
    Upon the tropic sea.

    Among the Indians he had fought;
    And with him many tales he brought
    Of pleasure and of fear;
    Such tales as, told to any maid
    By such a youth, in the green shade,
    Were perilous to hear.

    He told of girls, a happy rout!
    Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
    Their pleasant Indian town,
    To gather strawberries all day long;
    Returning with a choral song
    When daylight is gone down.

    He spake of plants that hourly change
    Their blossoms, through a boundless range
    Of intermingling hues;
    With budding, fading, faded flowers,
    They stand the wonder of the bowers
    From morn to evening dews.

    He told of the magnolia, spread
    High as a cloud, high over head!
    The cypress and her spire;
    --Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
    Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
    To set the hills on fire.

    The youth of green savannahs spake,
    And many an endless, endless lake
    With all its fairy crowds
    Of islands, that together lie
    As quietly as spots of sky
    Among the evening clouds.

    'How pleasant,' then he said, 'it were
    A fisher or a hunter there,
    In sunshine or in shade
    To wander with an easy mind,
    And build a household fire, and find
    A home in every glade!

    'What days and what bright years! Ah me!
    Our life were life indeed, with thee
    So pass'd in quiet bliss;
    And all the while,' said he, 'to know
    That we were in a world of woe,
    On such an earth as this!'

    And then he sometimes interwove
    Fond thoughts about a father's love,
    'For there,' said he, 'are spun
    Around the heart such tender ties,
    That our own children to our eyes
    Are dearer than the sun.

    'Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
    My helpmate in the woods to be,
    Our shed at night to rear;
    Or run, my own adopted bride,
    A sylvan huntress at my side,
    And drive the flying deer!

    'Beloved Ruth!'--No more he said,
    The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
    A solitary tear:
    She thought again--and did agree
    With him to sail across the sea,
    And drive the flying deer.

    'And now, as fitting is and right,
    We in the church our faith will plight,
    A husband and a wife.'
    Even so they did; and I may say
    That to sweet Ruth that happy day
    Was more than human life.

    Through dream and vision did she sink,
    Delighted all the while to think
    That, on those lonesome floods
    And green savannahs, she should share
    His board with lawful joy, and bear
    His name in the wild woods.

    But, as you have before been told,
    This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
    And with his dancing crest
    So beautiful, through savage lands
    Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands
    Of Indians in the West.

    The wind, the tempest roaring high,
    The tumult of a tropic sky
    Might well be dangerous food
    For him, a youth to whom was given
    So much of earth--so much of heaven,
    And such impetuous blood.

    Whatever in those climes he found
    Irregular in sight or sound
    Did to his mind impart
    A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
    To his own powers, and justified
    The workings of his heart.

    Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
    The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,--
    Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
    The breezes their own languor lent;
    The stars had feelings, which they sent
    Into those favour'd bowers.

    Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
    That sometimes there did intervene
    Pure hopes of high intent:
    For passions link'd to forms so fair
    And stately, needs must have their share
    Of noble sentiment.

    But ill he lived, much evil saw,
    With men to whom no better law
    Nor better life was known;
    Deliberately and undeceived
    Those wild men's vices he received,
    And gave them back his own.

    His genius and his moral frame
    Were thus impair'd, and he became
    The slave of low desires:
    A man who without self-control
    Would seek what the degraded soul
    Unworthily admires.

    And yet he with no feign'd delight
    Had woo'd the maiden, day and night
    Had loved her, night and morn:
    What could he less than love a maid
    Whose heart with so much nature play'd--
    So kind and so forlorn?

    Sometimes most earnestly he said,
    'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
    False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
    Encompass'd me on every side
    When I, in confidence and pride,
    Had cross'd the Atlantic main.

    'Before me shone a glorious world
    Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd
    To music suddenly:
    I look'd upon those hills and plains,
    And seem'd as if let loose from chains
    To live at liberty!

    'No more of this--for now, by thee,
    Dear Ruth! more happily set free,
    With nobler zeal I burn;
    My soul from darkness is released
    Like the whole sky when to the east
    The morning doth return.'

    Full soon that better mind was gone;
    No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,--
    They stirr'd him now no more;
    New objects did new pleasure give,
    And once again he wish'd to live
    As lawless as before.

    Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
    They for the voyage were prepared,
    And went to the sea-shore:
    But, when they thither came, the youth
    Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
    Could never find him more.

    God help thee, Ruth!--Such pains she had
    That she in half a year was mad
    And in a prison housed;
    And there, with many a doleful song
    Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
    She fearfully caroused.

    Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
    Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
    Nor pastimes of the May,
    --They all were with her in her cell;
    And a clear brook with cheerful knell
    Did o'er the pebbles play.

    When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
    There came a respite to her pain;
    She from her prison fled;
    But of the Vagrant none took thought;
    And where it liked her best she sought
    Her shelter and her bread.

    Among the fields she breathed again:
    The master-current of her brain
    Ran permanent and free;
    And, coming to the banks of Tone,
    There did she rest; and dwell alone
    Under the greenwood tree.

    The engines of her pain, the tools
    That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
    And airs that gently stir
    The vernal leaves--she loved them still,
    Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
    Which had been done to her.

    A barn her Winter bed supplies;
    But, till the warmth of Summer skies
    And Summer days is gone,
    (And all do in this tale agree)
    She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
    And other home hath none.

    An innocent life, yet far astray!
    And Ruth will, long before her day,
    Be broken down and old.
    Sore aches she needs must have! but less
    Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
    From damp, and rain, and cold.

    If she is prest by want of food
    She from her dwelling in the wood
    Repairs to a road-side;
    And there she begs at one steep place,
    Where up and down with easy pace
    The horsemen-travellers ride.

    That oaten pipe of hers is mute
    Or thrown away: but with a flute
    Her loneliness she cheers;
    This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
    At evening in his homeward walk
    The Quantock woodman hears.

    I, too, have pass'd her on the hills
    Setting her little water-mills
    By spouts and fountains wild--
    Such small machinery as she turn'd
    Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,--
    A young and happy child!

    Farewell! and when thy days are told,
    Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould
    Thy corpse shall buried be;
    For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
    And all the congregation sing
    A Christian psalm for thee.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXI

_WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS_

    Many a green isle needs must be
    In the deep wide sea of Misery,
    Or the mariner, worn and wan,
    Never thus could voyage on
    Day and night, and night and day,
    Drifting on his dreary way,
    With the solid darkness black
    Closing round his vessel's track;
    Whilst above, the sunless sky
    Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
    And behind the tempest fleet
    Hurries on with lightning feet,
    Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
    Till the ship has almost drank
    Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
    And sinks down, down, like that sleep
    When the dreamer seems to be
    Weltering through eternity;
    And the dim low line before
    Of a dark and distant shore
    Still recedes, as ever still
    Longing with divided will,
    But no power to seek or shun,
    He is ever drifted on
    O'er the unreposing wave,
    To the haven of the grave.

      Ah, many flowering islands lie
    In the waters of wide Agony:
    To such a one this morn was led
    My bark, by soft winds piloted.
    --'Mid the mountains Euganean
    I stood listening to the paean
    With which the legion'd rooks did hail
    The Sun's uprise majestical:
    Gathering round with wings all hoar,
    Through the dewy mist they soar
    Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
    Bursts; and then,--as clouds of even
    Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
    In the unfathomable sky,--
    So their plumes of purple grain
    Starr'd with drops of golden rain
    Gleam above the sunlight woods,
    As in silent multitudes
    On the morning's fitful gale
    Through the broken mist they sail;
    And the vapours cloven and gleaming
    Follow down the dark steep streaming,
    Till all is bright, and clear, and still
    Round the solitary hill.

      Beneath is spread like a green sea
    The waveless plain of Lombardy,
    Bounded by the vaporous air,
    Islanded by cities fair;
    Underneath Day's azure eyes,
    Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,--
    A peopled labyrinth of walls,
    Amphitrite's destined halls,
    Which her hoary sire now paves
    With his blue and beaming waves.
    Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
    Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
    On the level quivering line
    Of the waters crystalline;
    And before that chasm of light,
    As within a furnace bright,
    Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
    Shine like obelisks of fire,
    Pointing with inconstant motion
    From the altar of dark ocean
    To the sapphire-tinted skies;
    As the flames of sacrifice
    From the marble shrines did rise
    As to pierce the dome of gold
    Where Apollo spoke of old.

      Sun-girt City! thou hast been
    Ocean's child, and then his queen;
    Now is come a darker day,
    And thou soon must be his prey,
    If the power that raised thee here
    Hallow so thy watery bier.
    A less drear ruin then than now,
    With thy conquest-branded brow
    Stooping to the slave of slaves
    From thy throne among the waves
    Wilt thou be,--when the sea-mew
    Flies, as once before if flew,
    O'er thine isles depopulate,
    And all is in its ancient state,
    Save where many a palace-gate
    With green sea-flowers overgrown
    Like a rock of ocean's own,
    Topples o'er the abandon'd sea
    As the tides change sullenly.
    The fisher on his watery way
    Wandering at the close of day,
    Will spread his sail and seize his oar
    Till he pass the gloomy shore,
    Lest thy dead should, from their sleep,
    Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
    Lead a rapid masque of death
    O'er the waters of his path.

      Noon descends around me now:
    'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
    When a soft and purple mist
    Like a vaporous amethyst,
    Or an air-dissolvéd star
    Mingling light and fragrance, far
    From the curved horizon's bound
    To the point of heaven's profound,
    Fills the overflowing sky;
    And the plains that silent lie
    Underneath; the leaves unsodden
    Where the infant Frost has trodden
    With his morning-wingéd feet
    Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
    And the red and golden vines
    Piercing with their trellised lines
    The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
    The dun and bladed grass no less,
    Pointing from this hoary tower
    In the windless air; the flower
    Glimmering at my feet; the line
    Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine
    In the south dimly islanded;
    And the Alps, whose snows are spread
    High between the clouds and sun;
    And of living things each one;
    And my spirit, which so long
    Darken'd this swift stream of song,--
    Interpenetrated lie
    By the glory of the sky;
    Be it love, light, harmony,
    Odour, or the soul of all
    Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
    Or the mind which feeds this verse,
    Peopling the lone universe.

      Noon descends, and after noon
    Autumn's evening meets me soon,
    Leading the infantine moon
    And that one star, which to her
    Almost seems to minister
    Half the crimson light she brings
    From the sunset's radiant springs:
    And the soft dreams of the morn
    (Which like wingéd winds had borne
    To that silent isle, which lies
    'Mid remember'd agonies,
    The frail bark of this lone being),
    Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
    And its ancient pilot, Pain,
    Sits beside the helm again.

      Other flowering isles must be
    In the sea of Life and Agony:
    Other spirits float and flee
    O'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps,
    On some rock the wild wave wraps,
    With folded wings they waiting sit
    For my bark, to pilot it
    To some calm and blooming cove;
    Where for me, and those I love,
    May a windless bower be built,
    Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
    In a dell 'mid lawny hills
    Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
    And soft sunshine, and the sound
    Of old forests echoing round,
    And the light and smell divine
    Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
    --We may live so happy there,
    That the Spirits of the Air
    Envying us, may ev'n entice
    To our healing paradise
    The polluting multitude:
    But their rage would be subdued
    By that clime divine and calm,
    And the winds whose wings rain balm
    On the uplifted soul, and leaves
    Under which the bright sea heaves;
    While each breathless interval
    In their whisperings musical
    The inspired soul supplies
    With its own deep melodies;
    And the Love which heals all strife
    Circling, like the breath of life,
    All things in that sweet abode
    With its own mild brotherhood:--
    They, not it, would change; and soon
    Every sprite beneath the moon
    Would repent its envy vain,
    And the Earth grow young again.

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCXXII

_ODE TO THE WEST WIND_

    O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
    Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
    Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
    Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
    Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
    Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
    The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
    Each like a corpse within its grave, until
    Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
    Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
    (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
    With living hues and odours plain and hill:
    Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
    Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear!

      Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
    Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
    Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
    Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
    On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
    Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
    Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
    Of the horizon to the zenith's height--
    The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
    Of the dying year, to which this closing night
    Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
    Vaulted with all thy congregated might
    Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
    Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear!

      Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
    The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
    Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
    Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
    And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
    Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
    All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
    So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
    For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
    Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
    The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
    The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
    Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
    And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear!

      If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
    If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
    A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
    The impulse of thy strength, only less free
    Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even
    I were as in my boyhood, and could be
    The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
    As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
    Scarce seem'd a vision,--I would ne'er have striven
    As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
    Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
    I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
    A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
    One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud.

      Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
    What if my leaves are falling like its own!
    The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
    Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
    Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
    My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
    Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
    Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
    And, by the incantation of this verse,
    Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
    Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
    Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
    The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
    If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCXXIII

_NATURE AND THE POET_

_Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir
George Beaumont_

    I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
    Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
    I saw thee every day; and all the while
    Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

    So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
    So like, so very like, was day to day!
    Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
    It trembled, but it never pass'd away.

    How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
    No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
    I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
    Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

    Ah! then--if mine had been the painter's hand
    To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
    The light that never was on sea or land,
    The consecration, and the Poet's dream,--

    I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,
    Amid a world how different from this!
    Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
    On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.

    Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine
    Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;--
    Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
    The very sweetest had to thee been given.

    A picture had it been of lasting ease,
    Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
    No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;
    Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

    Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
    Such picture would I at that time have made;
    And seen the soul of truth in every part,
    A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.

    So once it would have been,--'tis so no more;
    I have submitted to a new control:
    A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
    A deep distress hath humanized my soul.

    Not for a moment could I now behold
    A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
    The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
    This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

    Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend
    If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
    This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
    This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

    O 'tis a passionate work!--yet wise and well,
    Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
    That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
    This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

    And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
    I love to see the look with which it braves,
    --Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time--
    The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

    --Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
    Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
    Such happiness, wherever it be known,
    Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

    But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
    And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
    Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:--
    Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXIV

_THE POET'S DREAM_

    On a Poet's lips I slept
    Dreaming like a love-adept
    In the sound his breathing kept;
    Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
    But feeds on the aërial kisses
    Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.
    He will watch from dawn to gloom
    The lake-reflected sun illume
    The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
      Nor heed nor see what things they be--
    But from these create he can
    Forms more real than living Man,
      Nurslings of Immortality!

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCXXV

_GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN_

    In this still place, remote from men,
    Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;
    In this still place, where murmurs on
    But one meek streamlet, only one:
    He sang of battles, and the breath
    Of stormy war, and violent death;
    And should, methinks, when all was past,
    Have rightfully been laid at last
    Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent
    As by a spirit turbulent;
    Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
    And everything unreconciled;
    In some complaining, dim retreat,
    For fear and melancholy meet;
    But this is calm; there cannot be
    A more entire tranquillity.

      Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
    Or is it but a groundless creed?
    What matters it?--I blame them not
    Whose fancy in this lonely spot
    Was moved; and in such way express'd
    Their notion of its perfect rest.
    A convent, even a hermit's cell,
    Would break the silence of this Dell:
    It is not quiet, is not ease;
    But something deeper far than these;
    The separation that is here
    Is of the grave; and of austere
    Yet happy feelings of the dead:
    And, therefore, was it rightly said
    That Ossian, last of all his race!
    Lies buried in this lonely place.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXVI

    The World is too much with us; late and soon,
    Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
    Little we see in Nature that is ours;
    We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

    This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
    The winds that will be howling at all hours
    And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
    For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;

    It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,--
    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
    Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXVII

_WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE_

    Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
    With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
    (Albeit labouring for a scanty band
    Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense

    And glorious work of fine intelligence!
    --Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
    Of nicely-calculated less or more:--
    So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense

    These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
    Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
    Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

    Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die;
    Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
    That they were born for immortality.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXVIII

_ODE ON A GRECIAN URN_

    Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
      Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
    Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
    What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
      Of deities or mortals, or of both,
        In Tempé or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
      What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
        What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
    Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
      Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
    Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
        Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
    Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
      She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
        For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

    Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
      Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
    And, happy melodist, unweariéd,
      For ever piping songs for ever new;
    More happy love! more happy, happy love!
      For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
        For ever panting, and for ever young;
    All breathing human passion far above,
      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

    Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
      To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
    Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
      And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
    What little town by river or sea shore,
      Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
    And, little town, thy streets for evermore
      Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

    O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
      Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
    With forest branches and the trodden weed;
      Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
    As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
      When old age shall this generation waste,
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
      'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'--that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

_J. Keats_


CCCXXIX

_YOUTH AND AGE_

    Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
    Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee--
    Both were mine! Life went a-maying
          With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
                When I was young!
    When I was young?--Ah, woful when!
    Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
    This breathing house not built with hands,
    This body that does me grievous wrong,
    O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
    How lightly then it flash'd along:
    Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
    On winding lakes and rivers wide,
    That ask no aid of sail or oar,
    That fear no spite of wind or tide!
    Nought cared this body for wind or weather
    When Youth and I lived in't together.

      Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
    Friendship is a sheltering tree;
    O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
    Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
                Ere I was old!
    Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
    Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
    O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
    'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
    I'll think it but a a fond conceit--
    It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
    Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:--
    And thou wert aye a masker bold!
    What strange disguise hast now put on
    To make believe that Thou art gone?
    I see these locks in silvery slips,
    This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
    But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
    And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
    Life is but Thought: so think I will
    That Youth and I are house-mates still.

      Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
    But the tears of mournful eve!
    Where no hope is, life's a warning
    That only serves to make us grieve
                When we are old:
    --That only serves to make us grieve
    With oft and tedious taking-leave,
    Like some poor nigh-related guest
    That may not rudely be dismist,
    Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
    And tells the jest without the smile.

_S. T. Coleridge_


CCCXXX

_THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS_

    We walked along, while bright and red
    Uprose the morning sun;
    And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said
    'The will of God be done!'

    A village schoolmaster was he,
    With hair of glittering gray;
    As blithe a man as you could see
    On a spring holiday.

    And on that morning, through the grass
    And by the steaming rills
    We travell'd merrily, to pass
    A day among the hills.

    'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun;
    Then, from thy breast what thought,
    Beneath so beautiful a sun,
    So sad a sigh has brought?'

    A second time did Matthew stop;
    And fixing still his eye
    Upon the eastern mountain-top,
    To me he made reply:

    'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
    Brings fresh into my mind
    A day like this, which I have left
    Full thirty years behind.

    'And just above yon slope of corn
    Such colours, and no other,
    Were in the sky that April morn,
    Of this the very brother.

    'With rod and line I sued the sport
    Which that sweet season gave,
    And to the church-yard come, stopp'd short
    Beside my daughter's grave.

    'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
    The pride of all the vale;
    And then she sang,--she would have been
    A very nightingale.

    'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
    And yet I loved her more--
    For so it seem'd,--than till that day
    I e'er had loved before.

    'And turning from her grave, I met,
    Beside the churchyard yew,
    A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
    With points of morning dew.

    'A basket on her head she bare;
    Her brow was smooth and white:
    To see a child so very fair,
    It was a pure delight!

    'No fountain from its rocky cave
    E'er tripp'd with foot so free;
    She seem'd as happy as a wave
    That dances on the sea.

    'There came from me a sigh of pain
    Which I could ill confine;
    I look'd at her, and look'd again:
    And did not wish her mine!'

    --Matthew is in his grave, yet now
    Methinks I see him stand
    As at that moment, with a bough
    Of wilding in his hand.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXXI

_THE FOUNTAIN_

_A Conversation_

    We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
    Affectionate and true,
    A pair of friends, though I was young,
    And Matthew seventy-two.

    We lay beneath a spreading oak,
    Beside a mossy seat;
    And from the turf a fountain broke
    And gurgled at our feet.

    'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us match
    This water's pleasant tune
    With some old border-song, or catch
    That suits a summer's noon;

    'Or of the church-clock and the chimes
    Sing here beneath the shade
    That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
    Which you last April made!'

    In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
    The spring beneath the tree;
    And thus the dear old man replied,
    The gray-hair'd man of glee:

    'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
    How merrily it goes!
    'Twill murmur on a thousand years
    And flow as now it flows.

    'And here, on this delightful day,
    I cannot choose but think
    How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
    Beside this fountain's brink.

    'My eyes are dim with childish tears,
    My heart is idly stirr'd,
    For the same sound is in my ears
    Which in those days I heard.

    'Thus fares it still in our decay:
    And yet the wiser mind
    Mourns less for what Age takes away,
    Than what it leaves behind.

    'The blackbird amid leafy trees,
    The lark above the hill,
    Let loose their carols when they please,
    Are quiet when they will.

    'With Nature never do they wage
    A foolish strife; they see
    A happy youth, and their old age
    Is beautiful and free:

    'But we are press'd by heavy laws;
    And often, glad no more,
    We wear a face of joy, because
    We have been glad of yore.

    'If there be one who need bemoan
    His kindred laid in earth,
    The household hearts that were his own,--
    It is the man of mirth.

    'My days, my friend, are almost gone,
    My life has been approved,
    And many love me; but by none
    Am I enough beloved.'

    'Now both himself and me he wrongs,
    The man who thus complains!
    I live and sing my idle songs
    Upon these happy plains:

    'And Matthew, for thy children dead
    I'll be a son to thee!'
    At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
    'Alas! that cannot be.'

    --We rose up from the fountain-side;
    And down the smooth descent
    Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
    And through the wood we went;

    And ere we came to Leonard's rock
    He sang those witty rhymes
    About the crazy old church-clock,
    And the bewilder'd chimes.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXXII

_THE RIVER OF LIFE_

    The more we live, more brief appear
      Our life's succeeding stages:
    A day to childhood seems a year,
      And years like passing ages.

    The gladsome current of our youth,
      Ere passion yet disorders,
    Steals lingering like a river smooth
      Along its grassy borders.

    But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
      And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
    Ye Stars, that measure life to man,
      Why seem your courses quicker?

    When joys have lost their bloom and breath
      And life itself is vapid,
    Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
      Feel we its tide more rapid?

    It may be strange--yet who would change
      Time's course to slower speeding,
    When one by one our friends have gone
      And left our bosoms bleeding?

    Heaven gives our years of fading strength
      Indemnifying fleetness;
    And those of youth, a seeming length,
      Proportion'd to their sweetness.

_T. Campbell_


CCCXXXIII

_THE HUMAN SEASONS_

    Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
    There are four seasons in the mind of man:
    He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
    Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

    He has his Summer, when luxuriously
    Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
    To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
    Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

    His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
    He furleth close; contented so to look
    On mists in idleness--to let fair things
    Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

    He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
    Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

_J. Keats_


CCCXXXIV

_A DIRGE_

    Rough wind, that meanest loud
      Grief too sad for song;
    Wild wind, when sullen cloud
      Knells all the night long;
    Sad storm whose tears are vain,
    Bare woods whose branches stain,
    Deep caves and dreary main,--
      Wail for the world's wrong!

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCXXXV

_THRENOS_

    O World! O Life! O Time!
    On whose last steps I climb,
      Trembling at that where I had stood before;
    When will return the glory of your prime?
        No more--Oh, never more!

    Out of the day and night
    A joy has taken flight:
      Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
    Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
        No more--Oh, never more!

_P. B. Shelley_


CCCXXXVI

_THE TROSACHS_

    There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
    But were an apt confessional for One
    Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
    That Life is but a tale of morning grass

    Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
    That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
    Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
    Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass

    Untouch'd, unbreathed upon:--Thrice happy quest,
    If from a golden perch of aspen spray
    (October's workmanship to rival May),

    The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
    That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
    Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXXVII

    My heart leaps up when I behold
      A rainbow in the sky:
    So was it when my life began,
    So is it now I am a man,
    So be it when I shall grow old
        Or let me die!
    The Child is father of the Man:
    And I could wish my days to be
    Bound each to each by natural piety.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXXVIII

_ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY
CHILDHOOD_

    There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
    The earth, and every common sight
                To me did seem
            Apparell'd in celestial light,
    The glory and the freshness of a dream.
    It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
            Turn wheresoe'er I may,
                By night or day,
    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

            The rainbow comes and goes,
            And lovely is the rose;
            The moon doth with delight
        Look round her when the heavens are bare;
            Waters on a starry night
            Are beautiful and fair;
        The sunshine is a glorious birth;
        But yet I know, where'er I go,
    That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

    Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
        And while the young lambs bound
            As to the tabor's sound,
    To me alone there came a thought of grief:
    A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
            And I again am strong.
    The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;--
    No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
    I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
    The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
            And all the earth is gay;
                Land and sea
        Give themselves up to jollity.
            And with the heart of May
        Doth every beast keep holiday;--
                Thou child of joy
    Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

    Ye blesséd Creatures, I have heard the call
        Ye to each other make; I see
    The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
        My heart is at your festival,
          My head hath its coronal,
    The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
            Oh evil day! if I were sullen
            While Earth herself is adorning
                This sweet May-morning;
            And the children are culling
                On every side
            In a thousand valleys far and wide,
            Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm
    And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:--
            I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
            --But there's a tree, of many, one,
    A single field which I have look'd upon,
    Both of them speak of something that is gone:
                The pansy at my feet
                Doth the same tale repeat:
    Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
    Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
    The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
            Hath had elsewhere its setting
                And cometh from afar;
            Not in entire forgetfulness,
            And not in utter nakedness,
    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
                From God, who is our home:
    Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
    Shades of the prison-house begin to close
                Upon the growing Boy,
    But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
                He sees it in his joy;
    The Youth, who daily farther from the east
        Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
            And by the vision splendid
            Is on his way attended;
    At length the Man perceives it die away,
    And fade into the light of common day.

    Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
    Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
    And, even with something of a mother's mind
                And no unworthy aim,
            The homely nurse doth all she can
    To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
                Forget the glories he hath known,
    And that imperial palace whence he came.

    Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
    A six years' darling of a pigmy size:
    See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
    Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
    With light upon him from his father's eyes!
    See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
    Some fragment from his dream of human life,
    Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art;
            A wedding or a festival,
            A mourning or a funeral;
                And this hath now his heart,
            And unto this he frames his song:
                Then will he fit his tongue
    To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
            But it will not be long
            Ere this be thrown aside,
            And with new joy and pride
    The little actor cons another part;
    Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
    With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
    That life brings with her in her equipage;
            As if his whole vocation
            Were endless imitation.

    Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
            Thy soul's immensity;
    Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
    Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
    That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
    Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,--
            Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
            On whom those truths do rest
    Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
    In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave:
    Thou, over whom thy Immortality
    Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
    A Presence which is not to be put by;
    Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
    Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
    Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
    The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
    Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
    Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
    And custom lie upon thee with a weight
    Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

            O joy! that in our embers
            Is something that doth live,
            That Nature yet remembers
            What was so fugitive!
    The thought of our past years in me doth breed
    Perpetual benediction: not indeed
    For that which is most worthy to be blest,
    Delight and liberty, the simple creed
    Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
    With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
            --Not for these I raise
            The song of thanks and praise;
        But for those obstinate questionings
        Of sense and outward things,
        Fallings from us, vanishings;
        Blank misgivings of a creature
    Moving about in worlds not realized,
    High instincts, before which our mortal nature
    Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized:
        But for those first affections,
        Those shadowy recollections,
            Which, be they what they may,
    Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
    Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
        Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
    Our noisy years seem moments in the being
    Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
                To perish never;
    Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
                Nor man nor boy
    Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
    Can utterly abolish or destroy!
        Hence, in a season of calm weather
            Though inland far we be,
    Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
                Which brought us hither;
            Can in a moment travel thither--
    And see the children sport upon the shore,
    And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

    Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
            And let the young lambs bound
            As to the tabor's sound!
        We, in thought, will join your throng
            Ye that pipe and ye that play,
            Ye that through your hearts to-day
            Feel the gladness of the May!
    What though the radiance which was once so bright
    Be now for ever taken from my sight,
        Though nothing can bring back the hour
    Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
            We will grieve not, rather find
            Strength in what remains behind;
            In the primal sympathy
            Which having been must ever be;
            In the soothing thoughts that spring
            Out of human suffering;
            In the faith that looks through death,
    In years that bring the philosophic mind.

    And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
    Forbode not any severing of our loves!
    Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
    I only have relinquish'd one delight
    To live beneath your more habitual sway:
    I love the brooks which down their channels fret
    Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
    The innocent brightness of a new-born day
                Is lovely yet;
    The clouds that gather round the setting sun
    Do take a sober colouring from an eye
    That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
    Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
    Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
    Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
    To me the meanest flower that blows can give
    Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

_W. Wordsworth_


CCCXXXIX

    Music, when soft voices die,
    Vibrates in the memory--
    Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
    Live within the sense they quicken.

    Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
    Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
    And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
    Love itself shall slumber on.

_P. B. Shelley_


End of the Golden Treasury




NOTES

INDEX OF WRITERS

AND

INDEX OF FIRST LINES




NOTES

(1861--1891)

_Summary of Book First_


The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the
substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry
VIII to Shakespeare midway through the reign of James I, and Drummond
who carried on the early manner to a still later period. There is here
a wide range of style;--from simplicity expressed in a language hardly
yet broken-in to verse,--through the pastoral fancies and Italian
conceits of the strictly Elizabethan time,--to the passionate reality
of Shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few readers
can fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the
single-hearted straightforwardness of the thoughts:--nor less, the
limitation of subject to the many phases of one passion, which then
characterized our lyrical poetry,--unless when, as in especial with
Shakespeare, the 'purple light of Love' is tempered by a spirit of
sterner reflection. For the didactic verse of the century, although
lyrical in form, yet very rarely rises to the pervading emotion, the
golden cadence, proper to the lyric.

It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in
the main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its
restriction to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative or historical
Anthology has not been aimed at. Great excellence, in human art as in
human character, has from the beginning of things been even more
uniform than mediocrity, by virtue of the closeness of its approach to
Nature:--and so far as the standard of Excellence kept in view has
been attained in this volume, a comparative absence of extreme or
temporary phases in style, a similarity of tone and manner, will be
found throughout:--something neither modern nor ancient, but true and
speaking to the heart of man alike throughout all ages.


PAGE NO.

2 3 _whist_: hushed, quieted.

-- 4 _Rouse Memnon's mother_: Awaken the Dawn from the dark Earth and
the clouds where she is resting. This is one of that limited class of
early mythes which may be reasonably interpreted as representations of
natural phenomena. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of Memnon
(the East), and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and Sky
during the last hours of Night). She leaves him every morning in
renewed youth, to prepare the way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst
Tithonus remains in perpetual old age and grayness.

3 -- l. 23 _by Peneus' stream_: Phoebus loved the Nymph Daphne whom he
met by the river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. L. 27 _Amphion's lyre_:
He was said to have built the walls of Thebes to the sound of his
music. L. 35 _Night like a drunkard reels_: Compare Romeo and Juliet,
Act II, Scene 3: 'The grey-eyed morn smiles,' &c.--It should be added
that three lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been
omitted in this Poem.

4 6 _Time's chest_: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up
past treasures. So in Troilus, Act III, Scene 3, 'Time hath a wallet
at his back' &c. In the _Arcadia_, _chest_ is used to signify _tomb_.

5 7 A fine example of the high wrought and conventional Elizabethan
Pastoralism, which it would be unreasonable to criticize on the ground
of the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested.
Stanza 6 was perhaps inserted by Izaak Walton.

6 8 This beautiful lyric is one of several recovered from the very
rare Elizabethan Song-books, for the publication of which our thanks
are due to Mr. A. H. Bullen (1887, 1888).

8 12 One stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with the
principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in a few
other poems. The more serious abbreviation by which it has been
attempted to bring Crashaw's 'Wishes' and Shelley's 'Euganean Hills,'
with one or two more, within the scheme of this selection, is
commended with much diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted
with the original pieces.

9 13 Sidney's poetry is singularly unequal; his short life, his
frequent absorption in public employment, hindered doubtless the
development of his genius. His great contemporary fame, second only,
it appears, to Spenser's, has been hence obscured. At times he is
heavy and even prosaic; his simplicity is rude and bare; his verse
unmelodious. These, however, are the 'defects of his merits.' In a
certain depth and chivalry of feeling,--in the rare and noble quality
of disinterestedness (to put it in one word),--he has no superior,
hardly perhaps an equal, amongst our Poets; and after or beside
Shakespeare's Sonnets, his _Astrophel and Stella_, in the Editor's
judgment, offers the most intense and powerful picture of the passion
of love in the whole range of our poetry.--_Hundreds of years_: 'The
very rapture of love,' says Mr. Ruskin; 'A lover like this does not
believe his mistress can grow old or die.'

12 19 Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more than one
picture by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure in
its Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to 'the
Islands of Terceras and the Canaries;' and he seems to have caught, in
those southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked
the almost contemporary Art of Venice,--the glory and the glow of
Veronese, Titian, or Tintoret.--From the same romance is No. 71: a
charming picture in the purest style of the later Italian Renaissance.

_The clear_ (l. 1) is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old
cosmography. _For a fair there's fairer none_: If you desire a Beauty,
there is none more beautiful than Rosaline.

14 22 Another gracious lyric from an Elizabethan Song-book, first
reprinted (it is believed) in Mr. W. J. Linton's 'Rare Poems,' in
1883.

15 23 _that fair thou owest_: that beauty thou ownest.

16 25 From one of the three Song-books of T. Campion, who appears to
have been author of the words which he set to music. His merit as a
lyrical poet (recognized in his own time, but since then forgotten)
has been again brought to light by Mr. Bullen's taste and
research:--_swerving_ (st. 2) is his conjecture for _changing_ in the
text of 1601.

20 31 _the star Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken_:
apparently, Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his
angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon
used by astrologers has been determined.

20 32 This lovely song appears, as here given, in Puttenham's 'Arte of
English Poesie,' 1589. A longer and inferior form was published in the
'Arcadia' of 1590: but Puttenham's prefatory words clearly assign his
version to Sidney's own authorship.

23 37 _keel_: keep cooler by stirring round.

24 39 _expense_: loss.

-- 40 _prease_: press.

25 41 _Nativity, once in the main of light_: when a star has risen and
entered on the full stream of light;--another of the astrological
phrases no longer familiar.

_Crooked_ eclipses: as coming athwart the Sun's apparent course.

Wordsworth, thinking probably of the 'Venus' and the 'Lucrece,' said
finely of Shakespeare: 'Shakespeare _could_ not have written an Epic;
he would have died of plethora of thought.' This prodigality of nature
is exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The copious selection here
given (which from the wealth of the material, required greater
consideration than any other portion of the Editor's task),--contains
many that will not be fully felt and understood without some
earnestness of thought on the reader's part. But he is not likely to
regret the labour.

26 42 _upon misprision growing_: either, granted in error, or, on the
growth of contempt.

-- 43 With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's 'Give me that man
That is not passion's slave' &c. Shakespeare's writings show the
deepest sensitiveness to passion:--hence the attraction he felt in the
contrasting effects of apathy.

26 44 _grame_: sorrow. Renaissance influences long impeded the return
of English poets to the charming realism of this and a few other poems
by Wyat.

28 45 Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela.

29 47 In the old legend it is now Philomela, now Procne (the swallow)
who suffers violence from Tereus. This song has a fascination in its
calm intensity of passion; that 'sad earnestness and vivid exactness'
which Cardinal Newman ascribes to the master-pieces of ancient poetry.

31 50 _proved_: approved.

-- 51 _censures_: judges.

-- 52 Exquisite in its equably-balanced metrical flow.

32 53 Judging by its style, this beautiful example of old simplicity
and feeling may, perhaps, be referred to the earlier years of
Elizabeth. _Late_ forgot: lately.

35 57 Printed in a little Anthology by Nicholas Breton, 1597. It is,
however, a stronger and finer piece of work than any known to be
his.--St. 1 _silly_: simple; _dole_: grief; _chief_: chiefly. St. 3
_If there be_ ...: obscure: Perhaps, if there be any who speak harshly
of thee, thy pain may plead for pity from Fate.

This poem, with 60 and 143, are each graceful variations of a long
popular theme.

36 58 _That busy archer:_ Cupid. _Descries_: used actively; _points
out_.--'The last line of this poem is a little obscured by
transposition. He means, _Do they call ungratefulness there a
virtue?_' (C. Lamb).

37 59 _White Iope_: suggested, Mr. Bullen notes, by a passage in
Propertius (iii, 20) describing Spirits in the lower world:

    Vobiscum est Iope, vobiscum candida Tyro.

38 62 _cypres_ or cyprus,--used by the old writers for _crape_:
whether from the French _crespe_ or from the Island whence it was
imported. Its accidental similarity in spelling to _cypress_ has, here
and in Milton's Penseroso, probably confused readers.

39 63 _ramage_: confused noise.

41 66 'I never saw anything like this funeral dirge,' says Charles
Lamb, 'except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father
in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the
earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to
resolve itself into the element which it contemplates.'

43 70 Paraphrased from an Italian madrigal

    ... Non so conoscer poi
    Se voi le rose, o sian le rose in voi.

44 72 _crystal_: fairness.

45 73 _stare_: starling.

-- 74 This 'Spousal Verse' was written in honour of the Ladies
Elizabeth and Katherine Somerset. Nowhere has Spenser more
emphatically displayed himself as the very poet of Beauty: The
Renaissance impulse in England is here seen at its highest and purest.

The genius of Spenser, like Chaucer's, does itself justice only in
poems of some length. Hence it is impossible to represent it in this
volume by other pieces of equal merit, but of impracticable
dimensions. And the same applies to such poems as the _Lover's Lament_
or the _Ancient Mariner_.

46 -- _entrailed_: twisted. Feateously: elegantly.

48 -- _shend_: shame.

49 -- _a noble peer_: Robert Devereux, second Lord Essex, then at the
height of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz: hence the allusion
following to the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient
legend.

-- -- _Elisa_: Elizabeth.

50 -- _twins of Jove_: the stars Castor and Pollux: _baldric_, belt;
the zodiac.

52 79 This lyric may with very high probability be assigned to
Campion, in whose first Book of Airs it appeared (1601). The evidence
sometimes quoted ascribing it to Lord Bacon appears to be valueless.


_Summary of Book Second._

This division, embracing generally the latter eighty years of the
Seventeenth century, contains the close of our Early poetical style
and the commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master
of the new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in
the former book,--the crown and consummation of the early period.
Their splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts,
Spenser's excepted: they exhibit that wider and grander range which
years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on
Poetry. Our Muses now give expression to political feeling, to
religious thought, to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such
as Marvell, Herbert, and Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again,
we find noble attempts, hitherto rare in our literature, at pure
description of nature, destined in our own age to be continued and
equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although before 1660
often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought, and
afterwards by levity and an artificial tone,--produced in Herrick and
Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan:
until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself,
and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of
Wither and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.--That the change
from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of
nature and simplicity is undeniable; yet the bolder and wider scope
which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts
then made to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results
have been no slight compensation.

PAGE NO.

58 85 l. 8 _whist_: hushed.

-- -- l. 32 _than_: obsolete for _then_: _Pan_: used here for the Lord
of all.

59 -- l. 38 _consort_: Milton's spelling of this word, here and
elsewhere, has been followed, as it is uncertain whether he used it in
the sense of _accompanying_, or simply for _concert_.

61 -- l. 21 _Lars and Lemures_: household gods and spirits of
relations dead. _Flamens_ (l. 24) Roman priests. _That twice-batter'd
god_ (l. 29) Dagon.

62 -- l. 6 _Osiris_, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, perhaps by
confusion with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by Typho and
embalmed after death in a sacred chest. This mythe, reproduced in Syria
and Greece in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, may
have originally signified the annual death of the Sun or the Year under
the influences of the winter darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the
New Year, in his turn overcomes Typho. L. 8 _unshower'd_ grass: as watered
by the Nile only. L. 33 _youngest-teemed_: last-born. _Bright-harness'd_
(l. 37) armoured.

64 87 _The Late Massacre_: the Vaudois persecution, carried on in 1655
by the Duke of Savoy. No more mighty Sonnet than this 'collect in
verse,' as it has been justly named, probably can be found in any
language. Readers should observe that it is constructed on the
original Italian or Provençal model. This form, in a language such as
ours, not affluent in rhyme, presents great difficulties; the rhymes
are apt to be forced, or the substance commonplace. But, when
successfully handled, it has a unity and a beauty of effect which
place the strict Sonnet above the less compact and less lyrical
systems adopted by Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and other Elizabethan
poets.

65 88 Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650, and Marvell probably
wrote his lines soon after, whilst living at Nunappleton in the
Fairfax household. It is hence not surprising that (st. 21-24) he
should have been deceived by Cromwell's professed submissiveness to
the Parliament which, when it declined to register his decrees, he
expelled by armed violence:--one despotism, by natural law, replacing
another. The poet's insight has, however, truly prophesied that result
in his last two lines.

This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in
Milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is
occasionally obscure from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The
meaning of st. 5 is 'rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty
spirit, and limitation more hateful than opposition.' The allusion in
st. 11 is to the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a
vacuum and the impenetrability of matter:--in st. 17 to the omen
traditionally connected with the foundation of the Capitol at
Rome:--_forced_, fated. The ancient belief that certain years in life
complete natural periods and are hence peculiarly exposed to death, is
introduced in st. 26 by the word _climacteric_.

68 89 _Lycidas_: The person here lamented is Milton's college
contemporary, Edward King, drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from
Chester to Ireland.

Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian
Greeks settled in Sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited
more magnificently in _Lycidas_ than in any other pastoral, is
apparently of Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom of a
great artist, has here united ancient mythology, with what may be
called the modern mythology of Camus and Saint Peter,--to direct
Christian images. Yet the poem, if it gains in historical interest,
suffers in poetry by the harsh intrusion of the writer's narrow and
violent theological politics.--The metrical structure of this glorious
elegy is partly derived from Italian models.

69 -- l. 11 _Sisters of the sacred well_: the Muses, said to frequent
the Pierian Spring at the foot of Mount Olympus.

70 -- l. 10 _Mona_: Anglesea, called by the Welsh poets, the Dark
Island, from its dense forests. _Deva_ (l. 11) the Dee: a river which
may have derived its magical character from Celtic traditions: it was
long the boundary of Briton and English.--These places are introduced,
as being near the scene of the shipwreck. _Orpheus_ (l. 14) was torn
to pieces by Thracian women. _Amaryllis_ and _Neaera_ (l. 24, 25)
names used here for the love-idols of poets: as _Damoetas_ previously
for a shepherd. L. 31 _the blind Fury_: Atropos, fabled to cut the
thread of life.

71 89 _Arethuse_ (l. 1) and _Mincius_: Sicilian and Italian waters
here alluded to as representing the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and
Vergil. L. 4 _oat_: pipe, used here like Collins' _oaten stop_ l. 1,
No. 186, for _Song_. L. 12 _Hippotades_: Aeolus, god of the Winds.
_Panope_ (l. 15) a Nereid. Certain names of local deities in the
Hellenic mythology render some feature in the natural landscape, which
the Greeks studied and analysed with their usual unequalled insight
and feeling. _Panope_ seems to express the boundlessness of the
ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared with the limited
sky-line of the land in hilly countries such as Greece or Asia Minor.
_Camus_ (l. 19) the Cam: put for King's University. _The sanguine
flower_ (l. 22) the Hyacinth of the ancients: probably our Iris. _The
Pilot_ (l. 25) Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the
Church on earth, to foretell 'the ruin of our corrupted clergy,' as
Milton regarded them, 'then in their heighth' under Laud's primacy.

72 -- l. 1 _scrannel_: screeching; apparently Milton's coinage
(Masson). L. 5 _the wolf_: the Puritans of the time were excited to
alarm and persecution by a few conversions to Roman Catholicism which
had recently occurred. _Alpheus_ (l. 9) a stream in Southern Greece,
supposed to flow underseas to join the Arethuse. _Swart star_ (l. 15)
the Dog-star, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in ancient
times occurred soon after midsummer: l. 19 _rathe_: early. L. 36
_moist vows_: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea.
_Bellerus_ (l. 37) a giant, apparently created here by Milton to
personify Belerium, the ancient title of the Land's End. _The great
Vision_:--the story was that the Archangel Michael had appeared on the
rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name. Milton calls on
him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to pity Lycidas, if
his body has drifted into the troubled waters off the Land's End.
Finisterre being the land due south of Marazion, two places in that
district (then through our trade with Corunna probably less unfamiliar
to English ears), are named,--_Namancos_ now Mujio in Galicia,
_Bayona_ north of the Minho, or perhaps a fortified rock (one of the
_Cies_ Islands) not unlike Saint Michael's Mount, at the entrance of
Vigo Bay.

73 89 l. 6 _ore_: rays of golden light. _Doric_ lay (l. 25) Sicilian,
pastoral.

75 93 _The assault_ was an attack on London expected in 1642, when the
troops of Charles I reached Brentford. 'Written on his door' was in
the original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in
Aldersgate Street.

_The Emathian Conqueror_: When Thebes was destroyed (B.C. 335) and the
citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar
to be spared.

7 -- l. 2, _the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet_: Plutarch has a
tale that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took Athens, a
proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect produced on
the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the _Electra_ of
Euripides sung at a feast. There is however no apparent congruity
between the lines quoted (167, 168 Ed. Dindorf) and the result
ascribed to them.

-- 95 A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry;--that written by
thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Jeremy Taylor,
Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay, have left similar
specimens.

78 98 These beautiful verses should be compared with Wordsworth's
great Ode on _Immortality_: and a copy of Vaughan's very rare little
volume appears in the list of Wordsworth's library.--In imaginative
intensity, Vaughan stands beside his contemporary Marvell.

79 99 _Favonius_: the spring wind.

80 100 _Themis_: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grandson by his
mother to Sir E. Coke:--hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley,
Milton's allusion to the _bench_. L. 8: Sweden was then at war with
Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands.

82 103 l. 28 _Sidneian showers_: either in allusion to the
conversations in the 'Arcadia,' or to Sidney himself as a model of
'gentleness' in spirit and demeanour.

85 105 Delicate humour, delightfully united to thought, at once simple
and subtle. It is full of conceit and paradox, but these are
imaginative, not as with most of our Seventeenth Century poets,
intellectual only.

88 110 _Elizabeth of Bohemia_: Daughter to James I, and ancestor of
Sophia of Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant and
courtly compliment.

89 111 Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards Earl of
Marlborough, who died March, 1629, coincidently with the dissolution
of the third Parliament of Charles' reign. Hence Milton poetically
compares his death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after
Philip's victory in 328 B.C.

93 118 A masterpiece of humour, grace, and gentle feeling, all, with
Herrick's unfailing art, kept precisely within the peculiar key which
he chose,--or Nature for him,--in his Pastorals. L. 2 _the god
unshorn_: Imberbis Apollo. St. 2 _beads_: prayers.

96 123 With better taste, and less diffuseness, Quarles might (one
would think) have retained more of that high place which he held in
popular estimate among his contemporaries.

99 127 _From Prison_: to which his active support of Charles I twice
brought the high-spirited writer. L. 7 _Gods_: thus in the original;
Lovelace, in his fanciful way, making here a mythological allusion.
_Birds_, commonly substituted, is without authority. St. 3, l. 1
_committed_: to prison.

100 128 St. 2 l. 4 _blue-god_: Neptune.

104 133 _Waly waly_: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the
pronunciation of which are preserved in the word _caterwaul_. _Brae_,
hillside: _burn_, brook: _busk_, adorn. _Saint Anton's Well_: below
Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh. _Cramasie_, crimson.

105 134 This beautiful example of early simplicity is found in a
Song-book of 1620.

106 135 _burd_, maiden.

107 136 _corbies_, crows: _fail_, turf: _hause_, neck: _theek_,
thatch.--If not in their origin, in their present form this, with the
preceding poem and 133, appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and
have therefore been placed in Book II.

108 137 The poetical and the prosaic, after Cowley's fashion, blend
curiously in this deeply-felt elegy.

112 141 Perhaps no poem in this collection is more delicately fancied,
more exquisitely finished. By placing his description of the Fawn in a
young girl's mouth, Marvell has, as it were, legitimated that
abundance of 'imaginative hyperbole' to which he is always partial: he
makes us feel it natural that a maiden's favourite should be whiter
than milk, sweeter than sugar--'lilies without, roses within,' The
poet's imagination is justified in its seeming extravagance by the
intensity and unity with which it invests his picture.

113 142 The remark quoted in the note to No. 65 applies equally to
these truly wonderful verses. Marvell here throws himself into the
very soul of the _Garden_ with the imaginative intensity of Shelley in
his _West Wind_.--This poem appears also as a translation in Marvell's
works. The most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is
rare, answer more or less to stanzas 2 and 6:--

    Alma Quies, teneo te! et te, germana Quietis,
    Simplicitas! vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes
    Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra:
    Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe
    Celarunt plantae virides, et concolor umbra.

115 143 St. 3 _tutties_: nosegays. St. 4 _silly_: simple.

_L'Allégro_ and _Il Penseroso_. It is a striking proof of Milton's
astonishing power, that these, the earliest great Lyrics of the
Landscape in our language, should still remain supreme in their style
for range, variety, and melodious beauty. The Bright and the
Thoughtful aspects of Nature and of Life are their subjects: but each
is preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixed Classical and
Italian manner.--With that of _L'Allégro_ may be compared a similar
mythe in the first Section of the first Book of S. Marmion's graceful
_Cupid and Psyche_, 1637.

116 144 _The mountain-nymph_; compare Wordsworth's Sonnet, No. 254. L.
38 is in _apposition_ to the preceding, by a syntactical license not
uncommon with Milton.

118 -- l. 14 _Cynosure_; the Pole Star. _Corydon_, _Thyrsis_, &c.:
Shepherd names from the old Idylls. _Rebeck_ (l. 28) an elementary
form of violin.

119 -- l. 24 _Jonson's learned sock_: His comedies are deeply coloured
by classical study. L. 28 _Lydian airs_: used here to express a light
and festive style of ancient music. The 'Lydian Mode,' one of the
seven original Greek Scales, is nearly identical with our 'Major.'

120 145 l. 3 _bestead_: avail. L. 10 _starr'd Ethiop queen_:
Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and thence translated
amongst the constellations.

121 -- _Cynthia_: the Moon: Milton seems here to have transferred to
her chariot the dragons anciently assigned to Demeter and to Medea.

122 -- _Hermes_, called Trismegistus, a mystical writer of the
Neo-Platonist school. L. 27 _Thebes_, &c.: subjects of Athenian
Tragedy. _Buskin'd_ (l. 30) tragic, in opposition to sock above. L. 32
_Musaeus_: a poet in Mythology. L. 37 _him that left half-told_:
Chaucer in his incomplete 'Squire's Tale.'

123 -- _great bards_: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are here presumably
intended. L. 9 _frounced_: curled. _The Attic Boy_ (l. 10) Cephalus.

124 146 Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by the
government of Charles I.

125 -- l. 9, 10. _But apples_, &c. A fine example of Marvell's
imaginative hyperbole.

-- 147 l. 6 _concent_: harmony.

128 149 A lyric of a strange, fanciful, yet solemn beauty:--Cowley's
style intensified by the mysticism of Henry More.--St. 2 _monument_:
the World.

129 151 Entitled 'A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day: 1697.'


_Summary of Book Third_

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

PAGE NO.

134 153 We have no poet more marked by rapture, by the ecstasy which
Plato held the note of genuine inspiration, than Collins. Yet but
twice or thrice do his lyrics reach that simplicity, that _sinceram
sermonis Attici gratiam_ to which this ode testifies his enthusiastic
devotion. His style, as his friend Dr. Johnson truly remarks, was
obscure; his diction often harsh and unskilfully laboured; he
struggles nobly against the narrow, artificial manner of his age, but
his too scanty years did not allow him to reach perfect mastery. St.
3 _Hybla_: near Syracuse. _Her whose ... woe_: the nightingale, 'for
which Sophocles seems to have entertained a peculiar fondness';
Collins here refers to the famous chorus in the _Oedipus at Colonus_.
St. 4 _Cephisus_: the stream encircling Athens on the north and west,
passing Colonus. St. 6 _stay'd to sing_: stayed her song when Imperial
tyranny was established at Rome. St. 7 refers to the Italian amourist
poetry of the Renaissance: In Collins' day, Dante was almost unknown
in England. St. 8 _meeting soul_: which moves sympathetically towards
Simplicity as she comes to inspire the poet. St. 9 _Of these_: Taste
and Genius.

_The Bard._ In 1757, when this splendid ode was completed, so very
little had been printed, whether in Wales or in England, in regard to
Welsh poetry, that it is hard to discover whence Gray drew his Cymric
allusions. The fabled massacre of the Bards (shown to be wholly
groundless in Stephens' _Literature of the Kymry_) appears first in
the family history of Sir John Wynn of Gwydir (cir. 1600), not
published till 1773; but the story seems to have passed in MS. to
Carte's History, whence it may have been taken by Gray. The references
to _high-born Hoel_ and _soft Llewellyn_; to _Cadwallo_ and _Urien_;
may, similarly, have been derived from the 'Specimens' of early Welsh
poetry, by the Rev. E. Evans:--as, although not published till 1764,
the MS., we learn from a letter to Dr. Wharton, was in Gray's hands by
July 1760, and may have reached him by 1757. It is, however, doubtful
whether Gray (of whose acquaintance with Welsh we have no evidence)
must not have been also aided by some Welsh scholar. He is one of the
poets least likely to scatter epithets at random: 'soft' or gentle is
the epithet emphatically and specially given to Llewelyn in
contemporary Welsh poetry, and is hence here used with particular
propriety. Yet, without such assistance as we have suggested, Gray
could hardly have selected the epithet, although applied to the King
(p. 141-3) among a crowd of others, in Llygad Gwr's Ode, printed by
Evans.--After lamenting his comrades (st. 2, 3) the Bard prophesies
the fate of Edward II, and the conquests of Edward III (4): his death
and that of the Black Prince (5): of Richard II, with the wars of York
and Lancaster, the murder of Henry VI (_the meek usurper_), and of
Edward V and his brother (6). He turns to the glory and prosperity
following the accession of the Tudors (7), through Elizabeth's reign
(8): and concludes with a vision of the poetry of Shakespeare and
Milton.

140 159 l. 13 _Glo'ster_: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward.
_Mortimer_, one of the Lords Marchers of Wales.

141 159 _High-born Hoel, soft Llewellyn_ (l. 15); the _Dissertatio de
Bardis_ of Evans names the first as son to the King Owain Gwynedd:
Llewelyn, last King of North Wales, was murdered 1282. L. 16
_Cadwallo_: Cadwallon (died 631) and Urien Rheged (early kings of
Gwynedd and Cumbria respectively) are mentioned by Evans (p. 78) as
bards none of whose poetry is extant. L. 20 _Modred_: Evans supplies
no _data_ for this name, which Gray (it has been supposed) uses for
Merlin (Myrddin Wyllt), held prophet as well as poet.--The Italicized
lines mark where the Bard's song is joined by that of his predecessors
departed. L. 22 _Arvon_: the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite
Anglesey. Whether intentionally or through ignorance of the real
dates, Gray here seems to represent the _Bard_ as speaking of these
poets, all of earlier days, Llewelyn excepted, as his own
contemporaries at the close of the thirteenth century.

Gray, whose penetrating and powerful genius rendered him in many ways
an initiator in advance of his age, is probably the first of our poets
who made some acquaintance with the rich and admirable poetry in which
Wales from the Sixth Century has been fertile,--before and since his
time so barbarously neglected, not in England only. Hence it has been
thought worth while here to enter into a little detail upon his Cymric
allusions.

142 -- l. 5 _She-wolf_: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward
II.--L. 35 _Towers of Julius_: the Tower of London, built in part,
according to tradition, by Julius Caesar.

143 -- l. 2 _bristled boar_: the badge of Richard III. L. 7 _Half of
thy heart_: Queen Eleanor died soon after the conquest of Wales. L. 18
_Arthur_: Henry VII named his eldest son thus, in deference to native
feeling and story.

144 161 The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Drumossie.

145 162 _lilting_, singing blithely: _loaning_, broad lane: _bughts_,
pens: _scorning_, rallying: _dowie_, dreary: _daffin'_ and _gabbin'_,
joking and chatting: _leglin_, milkpail: _shearing_, reaping:
_bandsters_, sheaf-binders: _lyart_, grizzled: _runkled_, wrinkled:
_fleeching_, coaxing: _gloaming_, twilight: _bogle_, ghost: _dool_,
sorrow.

147 164 The Editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, to
his mind superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. Part
is probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a
more modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan's poem
(163) exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old
verses,--_Hecht_, promised; the obsolete _hight_: _mavis_, thrush:
_ilka_, every: _lav'rock_, lark: _haughs_, valley-meadows: _twined_,
parted from: _marrow_, mate: _syne_, then.

148 165 The Royal George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial
careening at Spithead, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The
total loss was believed to be nearly 1000 souls.--This little poem
might be called one of our trial-pieces, in regard to taste. The
reader who feels the vigour of description and the force of pathos
underlying Cowper's bare and truly Greek simplicity of phrase, may
assure himself _se valde profecisse_ in poetry.

151 167 A little masterpiece in a very difficult style: Catullus
himself could hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness,
simplicity, and humour, it is worthy of the Ancients: and even more
so, from the completeness and unity of the picture presented.

155 172 Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the
poetic nature has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet this
song, with 'Rule Britannia' and a few others, must make us regret that
he did not more seriously apply himself to lyrical writing.

156 174 With what insight and tenderness, yet in how few words, has
this painter-poet here himself told _Love's Secret!_

157 177 l. 1 _Aeolian lyre_: the Greeks ascribed the origin of their
Lyrical Poetry to the Colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor.

158 -- _Thracia's hills_ (l. 9) supposed a favourite resort of Mars.
_Feather'd king_ (l. 13) the Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by
Pindar in a passage here imitated by Gray. _Idalia_ (l. 19) in Cyprus,
where _Cytherea_ (Venus) was especially worshipped.

159 -- l. 6 _Hyperion_: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets of the
Islands and Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England.

160 -- l. 27 _Theban Eagle_: Pindar.

163 178 l. 5 _chaste-eyed Queen_: Diana.

164 179 From that wild rhapsody of mingled grandeur, tenderness, and
obscurity, that 'medley between inspiration and possession,' which
poor Smart is believed to have written whilst in confinement for
madness.

165 181 _the dreadful light_: of life and experience.

166 182 _Attic warbler_: the nightingale.

168 184 _sleekit_, sleek: _bickering brattle_, flittering flight: _laith_,
loth: _pattle_, ploughstaff: _whyles_, at times: _a daimenicker_, a
corn-ear now and then: _thrave_, shock: _lave_, rest: _foggage_,
after-grass: _snell_, biting: _but hald_, without dwelling-place: _thole_,
bear: _cranreuch_, hoar-frost: _thy lane_, alone: _a-gley_, off the right
line, awry.

175 188 _stoure_, dust-storm; _braw_, smart.

176 189 _scaith_, hurt: _tent_, guard: _steer_, molest.

177 191 _drumlie_, muddy: _birk_, birch.

178 192 _greet_, cry: _daurna_, dare not.--There can hardly exist a
poem more truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, perhaps,
Sappho excepted, has any Poetess equalled it.

180 193 _fou_, merry with drink: _coost_, carried: _unco skeigh_, very
proud: _gart_, forced: _abeigh_, aside: _Ailsa craig_, a rock in the Firth
of Clyde: _grat his een bleert_, cried till his eyes were bleared:
_lowpin_, leaping: _linn_, waterfall: _sair_, sore: _smoor'd_, smothered:
_crouse_ and _canty_, blithe and gay.

181 194 Burns justly named this 'one of the most beautiful songs in
the Scots or any other language.' One stanza, interpolated by Beattie,
is here omitted:--it contains two good lines, but is out of harmony
with the original poem. _Bigonet_, little cap: probably altered from
_béguinette_: _thraw_, twist: _caller_, fresh.

182 195 Burns himself, despite two attempts, failed to improve this
little absolute masterpiece of music, tenderness, and simplicity: this
'Romance of a life' in eight lines.--_Eerie_: strictly, scared:
uneasy.

183 196 _airts_, quarters: _row_, roll: _shaw_, small wood in a
hollow, spinney: _knowes_, knolls. The last two stanzas are not by
Burns.

184 197 _jo_, sweetheart: _brent_, smooth: _pow_, head.

-- 198 _leal_, faithful. St. 3 _fain_, happy.

185 199 Henry VI founded Eton.

188 200 Written in 1773, towards the beginning of Cowper's second
attack of melancholy madness--a time when he altogether gave up
prayer, saying, 'For him to implore mercy would only anger God the
more.' Yet had he given it up when sane, it would have been 'maior
insania.'

191 203 The Editor would venture to class in the very first rank this
Sonnet, which, with 204, records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose
affectionate care for many years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to
a life radically wretched. Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal
grace and a more perfect finish; Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's
stand supreme in stateliness; Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But
Cowper's unites with an exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the
ancients would have called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness
peculiar to his loving and ingenuous nature.--There is much mannerism,
much that is unimportant or of now exhausted interest in his poems:
but where he is great, it is with that elementary greatness which
rests on the most universal human feelings. Cowper is our highest
master in simple pathos.

193 205 Cowper's last original poem, founded upon a story told in
Anson's 'Voyages.' It was written March 1799; he died in next year's
April.

195 206 Very little except his name appears recoverable with regard
to the author of this truly noble poem, which appeared in the
'Scripscrapologia, or Collins' Doggerel Dish of All Sorts,' with three
or four other pieces of merit, Birmingham, 1804.--_Everlasting_; used
with side-allusion to a cloth so named, at the time when Collins
wrote.


_Summary of Book Fourth_

It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry,
that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard
of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few
exceptions composed during the first thirty years of the Nineteenth
century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely
sudden appearance of individual genius: that, however, which assigns
the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry to an impulse
from the France of the first Republic and Empire is inadequate. The
first French Revolution was rather one result,--the most conspicuous,
indeed, yet itself in great measure essentially retrogressive,--of
that wider and more potent spirit which through enquiry and attempt,
through strength and weakness, sweeps mankind round the circles (not,
as some too confidently argue, of Advance, but) of gradual
Transformation: and it is to this that we must trace the literature of
Modern Europe. But, without attempting discussion on the motive causes
of Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley, and others, we may observe that these
Poets carried to further perfection the later tendencies of the
Century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human
Passion and Character in every sphere, and love of Nature for
herself:--that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art
made since the Restoration, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and
depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan writers:--that,
lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in language
and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a tenderness
and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the Soul
and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger sense of
Humanity,--hitherto scarcely attained, and perhaps unattainable even
by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the
Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, may fairly claim that
during six centuries it has proved itself the most richly gifted of
all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to
itself--hence the many phases of thought and style they present:--to
sympathize with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and
without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of
the soul. For purity in taste is absolutely proportionate to
strength--and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to
delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most
wisely.

But the gallery which this Book offers to the reader will aid him more
than any preface. It is a royal Palace of Poetry which he is invited
to enter:

    Adparet domus intus, et atria longa patescunt--

though it is, indeed, to the sympathetic eye only that its treasures
will be visible.

PAGE NO.

197 208 This beautiful lyric, printed in 1783, seems to anticipate in
its imaginative music that return to our great early age of song,
which in Blake's own lifetime was to prove,--how gloriously! that the
English Muses had resumed their 'ancient melody':--Keats, Shelley,
Byron,--he overlived them all.

199 210 _stout Cortez_: History would here suggest _Balbóa_: (A.T.) It
may be noticed, that to find in Chapman's Homer the 'pure serene' of
the original, the reader must bring with him the imagination of the
youthful poet;--he must be 'a Greek himself,' as Shelley finely said
of Keats.

202 212 The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems.

203 213 This poem exemplifies the peculiar skill with which Scott
employs proper names:--a rarely misleading sign of true poetical
genius.

213 226 Simple as _Lucy Gray_ seems, a mere narrative of what 'has
been, and may be again,' yet every touch in the child's picture is
marked by the deepest and purest ideal character. Hence, pathetic as
the situation is, this is not strictly a pathetic poem, such as
Wordsworth gives us in 221, Lamb in 264, and Scott in his _Maid of
Neidpath_,--'almost more pathetic,' as Tennyson once remarked, 'than a
man has the right to be.' And Lyte's lovely stanzas (224) suggest,
perhaps, the same remark.

222 235 In this and in other instances the addition (or the change) of
a Title has been risked, in hope that the aim of the piece following
may be grasped more clearly and immediately.

228 242 This beautiful Sonnet was the last word of a youth, in whom,
if the fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise,
England lost one of the most rarely gifted in the long roll of her
poets. Shakespeare and Milton, had their lives been closed at
twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less
excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the
London surgery, passed at once to a place with them of 'high
collateral glory.'

230 245 It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so
little in this sweet and genuinely national style.

231 246 A masterly example of Byron's command of strong thought and
close reasoning in verse:--as the next is equally characteristic of
Shelley's wayward intensity.

240 253 Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in
Chillon on the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of his
country against the tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during
the first half of the Seventeenth century.--This noble Sonnet is
worthy to stand near Milton's on the Vaudois massacre.

241 254 Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon in 1800:
Venice in 1797 (255).

243 259 This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians
under Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near
Munich. _Hohen Linden_ means _High Limetrees_.

247 262 After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. Moore
retreated before Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst
covering the embarkation of his troops.

257 272 The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and
other choice spirits of that age.

258 273 _Maisie_: Mary.--Scott has given us nothing more complete and
lovely than this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic
power to a wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn,
far less any conscious analysis of feeling attempted:--the pathetic
meaning is left to be suggested by the mere presentment of the
situation. A narrow criticism has often named this, which maybe called
the Homeric manner, superficial, from its apparent simple facility;
but first-rate excellence in it is in truth one of the least common
triumphs of Poetry.--This style should be compared with what is not
less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner feeling, the
expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart of Nature
and of the Soul within the Soul,--the analytical method, in
short,--most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shelley.

263 277 Wolfe resembled Keats, not only in his early death by
consumption and the fluent freshness of his poetical style, but in
beauty of character:--brave, tender, energetic, unselfish, modest. Is
it fanciful to find some reflex of these qualities in the _Burial_ and
_Mary_? Out of the abundance of the _heart_ ...

264 278 _correi_: covert on a hillside. _Cumber_: trouble.

265 250 This book has not a few poems of greater power and more
perfect execution than _Agnes_ and the extract which we have ventured
to make from the deep-hearted author's _Sad Thoughts_ (No. 224). But
none are more emphatically marked by the note of exquisiteness.

266 281 st. 3 _inch_: island.

270 283 From _Poetry for Children_ (1809), by Charles and
Mary Lamb. This tender and original little piece seems clearly to
reveal the work of that noble-minded and afflicted sister, who was at
once the happiness, the misery, and the life-long blessing of her
equally noble-minded brother.

278 289 This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an
exquisiteness of expression, which place it in the highest rank among
the many masterpieces of its illustrious Author.

289 300 _interlunar swoon_: interval of the moon's invisibility.

294 304 _Calpe_: Gibraltar. _Lofoden_: the Maelstrom whirlpool off the
N.W. coast of Norway.

295 305 This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by Hamilton
on the subject better treated in 163 and 164.

307 315 _Arcturi_: seemingly used for _northern stars_. _And wild
roses, &c._ Our language has perhaps no line modulated with more
subtle sweetness.

308 316 Coleridge describes this poem as the fragment of a
dream-vision,--perhaps, an opium-dream?--which composed itself in his
mind when fallen asleep after reading a few lines about 'the Khan
Kubla' in Purchas' _Pilgrimage_.

312 318 _Ceres' daughter_: Proserpine. _God of Torment_: Pluto.

320 321 The leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's
landscape in Italy appears to be--On the voyage of life are many
moments of pleasure, given by the sight of Nature, who has power to
heal even the worldliness and the uncharity of man.

321 -- l. 23 Amphitrite was daughter to Ocean.

325 322 l. 21 _Maenad_: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on Dionysos in the
Greek mythology. May we not call this the most vivid, sustained, and
impassioned amongst all Shelley's magical personifications of Nature?

326 -- l. 5 Plants under water sympathize with the seasons of the
land, and hence with the winds which affect them.

327 323 Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's
brother John. This poem may be profitably compared with Shelley's
following it. Each is the most complete expression of the innermost
spirit of his art given by these great Poets:--of that Idea which, as
in the case of the true Painter, (to quote the words of Reynolds,)
'subsists only in the mind: The sight never beheld it, nor has the
hand expressed it: it is an idea residing in the breast of the artist,
which he is always labouring to impart, and which he dies at last
without imparting.'

328 -- _the Kind_: the human race.

331 327 _the Royal Saint_: Henry VI.

331 328 st. 4 _this_ folk: _its_ has been here plausibly but, perhaps,
unnecessarily, conjectured.--Every one knows the general story of the
Italian Renaissance, of the Revival of Letters.--From Petrarch's day
to our own, that ancient world has renewed its youth: Poets and
artists, students and thinkers, have yielded themselves wholly to its
fascination, and deeply penetrated its spirit. Yet perhaps no one more
truly has vivified, whilst idealizing, the picture of Greek country
life in the fancied Golden Age, than Keats in these lovely (if
somewhat unequally executed) stanzas:--his quick imagination, by a
kind of 'natural magic,' more than supplying the scholarship which his
youth had no opportunity of gaining.

105 134 These stanzas are by Richard Verstegan (--c. 1635), a poet and
antiquarian, published in his rare Odes (1601), under the title _Our
Blessed Ladies Lullaby_, and reprinted by Mr. Orby Shipley in his
beautiful _Carmina Mariana_ (1893). The four stanzas here given form
the opening of a hymn of twenty-four.




INDEX OF WRITERS

WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH


ALEXANDER, William (1580-1640)           29

BARBAULD, Anna Laetitia (1743-1825)     207
BARNEFIELD, Richard (16th Century)       45
BEAUMONT, Francis (1586-1616)            90
BLAKE, William (1757-1827)              174, 180, 181, 208
BURNS, Robert (1759-1796)               161, 168, 176, 184, 188, 189, 190,
                                        191, 193, 196, 197
BYRON, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824)   212, 214, 216, 234, 246,
                                        253, 266, 275

CAMPBELL, Thomas (1777-1844)            225, 231, 241, 250, 251, 259, 295,
                                        304, 310, 314, 332
CAMPION, Thomas (c. 1567-1620)           25, 26, 50, 52, 55, 59, 76, 79,
                                        101, 143
CAREW, Thomas (1589-1639)               112
CAREY, Henry (---- -1743)               167
CIBBER, Colley (1671-1757)              155
COLERIDGE, Hartley (1796-1849)          218
COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834)    211, 316, 329
COLLINS, John (18th Century)            206
COLLINS, William (1720-1756)            153, 160, 178, 186
COWLEY, Abraham (1618-1667)             130, 137
COWPER, William (1731-1800)             165, 170, 183, 200, 202, 203, 204,
                                        205
CRASHAW, Richard (1615?-1652)           103
CUNNINGHAM, Allan (1784-1842)           249

DANIEL, Samuel (1562-1619)               46
DEKKER, Thomas (---- -1638?)             75
DEVEREUX, Robert (1567-1601)             83
DONNE, John (1573-1631)                  12
DRAYTON, Michael (1563-1631)             49
DRUMMOND, William (1585-1649)             4, 61, 63, 77, 80, 81, 84
DRYDEN, John (1631-1700)                 86, 151

ELLIOTT, Jane (18th Century)            162

FLETCHER, John (1576-1625)              132

GAY, John (1685-1732)                   166
GOLDSMITH, Oliver (1728-1774)           175
GRAHAM, Robert (1735-1797)              169
GRAY, Thomas (1716-1771)                152, 156, 159, 177, 182, 187, 199,
                                        201
GREENE, Robert (1561?-1592)              60

HABINGTON, William (1605-1645)          148
HERBERT, George (1593-1632)              97
HERRICK, Robert (1591-1674?)            108, 113, 118, 119, 120, 124, 139,
                                        140
HEYWOOD, Thomas (---- -1649?)            73
HOOD, Thomas (1798-1845)                268, 274, 279

JONSON, Ben (1574-1637)                  96, 102, 116

KEATS, John (1795-1821)                 209, 210, 235, 237, 242, 243,
                                        272, 290, 292, 303, 318, 328, 333

LAMB, Charles (1775-1835)               264, 276, 282
LAMB, Mary (1764-1847)                  283
LINDSAY, Anne (1750-1825)               192
LODGE, Thomas (1556-1625)                19, 71
LOGAN, John (1748-1788)                 163
LOVELACE, Richard (1618-1658)           109, 127, 128
LYLYE, John (1554-1600)                  72
LYTE, Henry Francis (1793-1847)         224, 280

MARLOWE, Christopher (1562-1593)          7
MARVELL, Andrew (1620-1678)              88, 105, 141, 142, 146
MICKLE, William Julius (1734-1788)      194
MILTON, John (1608-1674)                 85, 87, 89, 93, 94, 99, 100, 111,
                                        144, 145, 147
MOORE, Thomas (1780-1852)               229, 245, 261, 265, 269

NAIRN, Carolina (1766-1845)             198
NASH, Thomas (1567-1601?)                 1
NORRIS, John (1657-1711)                149

PHILIPS, Ambrose (1671-1749)            157
POPE, Alexander (1688-1744)             154
PRIOR, Matthew (1662-1721)              173

QUARLES, Francis (1592-1644)            123

ROGERS, Samuel (1762-1855)              171, 185

SCOTT, Walter (1771-1832)               213, 227, 230, 236, 238, 240, 248,
                                        273, 278, 281, 285, 311
SEDLEY, Charles (1639-1701)             106, 126
SHAKESPEARE, William (1564-1616)          2, 3, 5, 6, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15,
                                         16, 17, 18, 23, 24, 27, 31, 35,
                                         37, 38, 39, 41, 42, 43, 48, 51,
                                         56, 62, 64, 65, 67, 68, 69, 78, 82
SHELLEY, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)       215, 219, 228, 232, 239, 247, 270,
                                        287, 293, 300, 307, 308, 312, 315,
                                        321, 322, 324, 334, 335, 339
SHIRLEY, James (1596-1666)               91, 92
SIDNEY, Philip (1554-1586)               13, 32, 40, 47, 58
SMART, Christopher (1722-1770)          179
SOUTHEY, Robert (1774-1843)             260, 271
SPENSER, Edmund (1553-1598-9)            74
SUCKLING, John (1608-9-1641)            129
SYLVESTER, Joshua (1563-1618)            34

THOMSON, James (1700-1748)              158, 172

VAUGHAN, Henry (1621-1695)               98, 138, 150

WALLER, Edmund (1605-1687)              115, 122
WEBSTER, John (---- -1638?)              66
WILMOT, John (1647-1680)                107
WITHER, George (1588-1667)              131
WOLFE, Charles (1791-1823)              262, 277
WORDSWORTH, William (1770-1850)         217, 220, 221, 222, 223, 226, 233,
                                        244, 252, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258,
                                        263, 267, 284, 286, 288, 289, 291,
                                        294, 296, 297, 298, 299, 301, 302,
                                        305, 306, 309, 313, 317, 319, 320,
                                        323, 325, 326, 327, 330, 331, 336,
                                        337, 338
WOTTON, Henry (1568-1639)                95, 110
WYAT, Thomas (1503-1542)                 28, 44

ANONYMOUS,                                8, 20, 21, 22, 30, 33, 36, 53,
                                         54, 57, 70, 104, 114, 117, 121,
                                        125, 133, 135, 136, 164, 195

134 is by Richard Verstegan (-c. 1635).




INDEX OF FIRST LINES

PAGE

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound                          211
A child's a plaything for an hour                           270
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by                     305
A slumber did my spirit seal                                210
A sweet disorder in the dress                                95
A weary lot is thine, fair maid                             225
A wet sheet and a flowing sea                               235
Absence, hear thou this protestation                          8
Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit                             86
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh                            217
All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd                       149
All thoughts, all passions, all delights                    199
And are ye sure the news is true                            181
And is this--Yarrow?--This the Stream                       297
And thou art dead, as young and fair                        231
And wilt thou leave me thus                                  26
Ariel to Miranda:--Take                                     288
Art thou pale for weariness                                 305
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers                 50
As it fell upon a day                                        27
As I was walking all alane                                  107
As slow our ship her foamy track                            251
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears         288
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly     230
Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones          64
Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake                                  157
Awake, awake, my Lyre                                       101

Bards of Passion and of Mirth                               197
Beauty sat bathing by a spring                               13
Behold her, single in the field                             287
Being your slave, what should I do but tend                   9
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed                   277
Best and brightest, come away                               299
Bid me to live, and I will live                              97
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy               125
Blow, blow, thou winter wind                                 34
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art             228

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren                    41
Calm was the day, and through the trembling air              45
Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms                       75
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the Sable Night                   28
Come away, come away, Death                                  38
Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me                    51
Come little babe, come silly soul                            35
Come live with me and be my Love                              5
Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace              24
Come unto these yellow sands                                  2
Crabbed Age and Youth                                         6
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd                                 44
Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench                 80

Daughter of Jove, relentless power                          188
Daughter to that good Earl, once President                   89
Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord                   283
Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move              54
Down in yon garden sweet and gay                            147
Drink to me only with thine eyes                             92
Duncan Gray cam here to woo                                 180

Earl March look'd on his dying child                        228
Earth has not anything to show more fair                    281
E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks                    96
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind                        240
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky                       273
Ever let the Fancy roam                                     310

Fain would I change that note                                 6
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see                              111
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree                             110
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing                25
Fear no more the heat o' the sun                             40
Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new         22
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow                          30
For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove                          155
Forget not yet the tried intent                              18
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year                   339
From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony                          63
From Stirling Castle we had seen                            295
Full fathom five thy father lies                             40

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may                             87
Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even                            218
Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn                  93
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine                               152
Go, lovely Rose                                              91

Hail thou most sacred venerable thing                       128
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit                                 274
Happy the man, whose wish and care                          136
Happy those early days, when I                               78
Happy were he could finish forth his fate                    55
He that loves a rosy cheek                                   90
He is gone on the mountain                                  264
Hence, all you vain delights                                103
Hence, loathéd Melancholy                                   116
Hence, vain deluding Joys                                   120
He sang of God, the mighty source                           164
High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be                     9
How happy is he born and taught                              76
How like a winter hath my absence been                       10
How sleep the brave who sink to rest                        144
How sweet the answer Echo makes                             217
How vainly men themselves amaze                             113

I am monarch of all I survey                                190
I arise from dreams of Thee                                 205
I cannot change, as others do                                87
I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way                     307
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden                            208
I have had playmates, I have had companions                 250
I have no name                                              165
I heard a thousand blended notes                            312
I meet thy pensive, moonlight face                          211
I met a traveller from an antique land                      282
I remember, I remember                                      254
I saw Eternity the other night                              129
I saw her in childhood                                      265
I saw my lady weep                                           19
I saw where in the shroud did lurk                          268
I travell'd among unknown men                               208
I wander'd lonely as a cloud                                291
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile                  327
I wish I were where Helen lies                              106
If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song                     170
If doughty deeds my lady please                             153
If I had thought thou couldst have died                     263
If Thou survive my well-contented day                        41
If to be absent were to be                                  100
I'm wearing awa', Jean                                      184
In a drear-nighted December                                 222
In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining          195
In the sweet shire of Cardigan                              248
In this still place, remote from men                        329
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan                                    308
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free                    303
It is not growing like a tree                                77
It was a dismal and a fearful night                         108
It was a lover and his lass                                   8
It was a summer evening                                     244
I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking                  145

Jack and Joan, they think no ill                            115
John Anderson my jo, John                                   185

Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting                      43
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son                    79
Let me not to the marriage of true minds                     20
Life! I know not what thou art                              196
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore             25
Like to the clear in highest sphere                          12
Love in my bosom, like a bee                                 43
Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise                        90
Love not me for comely grace                                 98
Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours                            166

Many a green isle needs must be                             320
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings                      191
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour                242
Mine be a cot beside the hill                               169
Mortality, behold and fear                                   73
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes                       309
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold                 199
Music, when soft voices die                                 346
My days among the Dead are past                             257
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains                 279
My heart leaps up when I behold                             341
My Love in her attire doth shew her wit                      96
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow                39
My thoughts hold mortal strife                               38
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his                   20

Never love unless you can                                    16
Never seek to tell thy love                                 156
No longer mourn for me when I am dead                        42
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note                    247
Not, Celia, that I juster am                                 98
Now the golden Morn aloft                                   133
Now the last day of many days                               301

O blithe new-comer! I have heard                            278
O Brignall banks are wild and fair                          203
O Friend! I know not which way I must look                  242
O happy shades! to me unblest                               188
O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm                 18
O leave this barren spot to me                              283
O listen, listen, ladies gay                                266
O lovers' eyes are sharp to see                             227
O Mary, at thy window be                                    175
O me! what eyes hath love put in my head                     31
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming                       22
O my Luve's like a red, red rose                            177
O never say that I was false of heart                        11
O saw ye bonnie Lesley                                      176
O say what is that thing call'd Light                       136
O talk not to me of a name great in story                   202
O Thou, by Nature taught                                    134
O waly waly up the bank                                     104
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms                         224
O wild West Wind, thou breath Of Autumn's being             325
O World! O Life! O Time                                     340
Obscurest night involved the sky                            193
Of all the girls that are so smart                          151
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw                           183
Of Nelson and the North                                     237
Of Neptune's empire let us sing                              80
Of this fair volume which we World do name                   53
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray                                213
Oft in the stilly night                                     255
Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom                          262
On a day, alack the day                                      17
On a Poet's lips I slept                                    329
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee                  241
One more Unfortunate                                        259
One word is too often profaned                              233
On Linden, when the sun was low                             243
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd      306
Over the mountains      84

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day                          45
Phoebus, arise                                                2
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu                                       233
Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth                     52
Proud Maisie is in the wood                                 258

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair                          81

Rough Wind, that moanest loud                               339
Ruin seize thee, ruthless King                              140

Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness                      293
See with what simplicity                                     85
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day                       15
Shall I, wasting in despair                                 102
She dwelt among the untrodden ways                          208
She is not fair to outward view                             207
She walks in beauty, like the night                         206
She was a Phantom of delight                                206
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea          4
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part             30
Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me                   31
Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile                        154
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright                                 165
Souls of Poets dead and gone                                257
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king         1
Star that bringest home the bee                             304
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God                          239
Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind                     230
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes                        90
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower                          285
Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory              14
Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade               154
Swiftly walk over the western wave                          219

Take, O take those lips away                                 29
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense                   331
Tell me not, Sweet, I an unkind                              88
Tell me where is Fancy bred                                  42
That time of year thou may'st in me behold                   23
That which her slender waist confined                        96
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day                   172
The forward youth that would appear                          65
The fountains mingle with the river                         216
The glories of our blood and state                           74
The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King                55
The lovely lass o' Inverness                                144
The man of life upright                                      52
The merchant, to secure his treasure                        155
The more we live, more brief appear                         338
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth                   28
The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade               167
There be none of Beauty's daughters                         204
There is a flower, the lesser Celandine                     253
There is a garden in her face                                92
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 252
There's not a nook within this solemn Pass                  340
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream             341
The sea hath many thousand sands                             33
The sun is warm, the sky is clear                           256
The sun upon the lake is low                                304
The twentieth year is well-nigh past                        192
The world is too much with us; late and soon                330
They are all gone into the world of light                   109
They that have power to hurt, and will do none               26
This is the month, and this the happy morn                   56
This Life, which seems so fair                               51
Though others may her brow adore                             21
Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white                 34
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness                    331
Three years she grew in sun and shower                      209
Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream                         146
Timely blossom, Infant fair                                 138
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry                54
Toll for the Brave                                          148
To me, fair Friend, you never can be old                     11
To one who has been long in city pent                       282
Turn back, you wanton flyer                                  16
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won                     129
'Twas on a lofty vase's side                                137
Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea                     241

Under the greenwood tree                                      7
Upon my lap my sovereign sits                               105

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying                      333
Victorious men of earth, no more                             74

Waken, lords and ladies gay                                 272
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie                    168
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee                      37
Weep you no more, sad fountains                              14
Were I as base as is the lowly plain                         21
We talk'd with open heart, and tongue                       336
We walk'd along, while bright and red                       334
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night                    265
Whenas in silks my Julia goes                                95
When Britain first at Heaven's command                      139
When first the fiery-mantled Sun                            294
When God at first made Man                                   78
When he who adores thee has left but the name               246
When icicles hang by the wall                                23
When I consider how my light is spent                        76
When I have borne in memory what has tamed                  243
When I have fears that I may cease to be                    229
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced                  4
When I survey the bright                                    126
When I think on the happy days                              182
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes                 10
When in the chronicle of wasted time                         15
When lovely woman stoops to folly                           156
When Love with unconfinéd wings                              99
When maidens such as Hester die                             262
When Music, heavenly maid, was young                        161
When Ruth was left half desolate                            313
When the lamp is shatter'd                                  226
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame        178
When thou must home to shades of underground                 37
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought                 24
When we two parted                                          221
Where art thou, my beloved Son                              270
Where shall the lover rest                                  222
Where the bee sucks, there suck I                             2
Where the remote Bermudas ride                              124
Whether on Ida's shady brow                                 197
While that the sun with his beams hot                        32
Whoe'er she be                                               82
Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant                    220
Why so pale and wan, fond lover                             100
Why weep ye by the tide, ladie                              215
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies          36
With little here to do or see                               291
With sweetest milk and sugar first                          112

Ye banks and braes and streams around                       177
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon                           157
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers                        185
Ye Mariners of England                                      235
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye                    284
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more                   68
You meaner beauties of the night                             88


RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,

LONDON AND BUNGAY.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.

     Uniformly printed, with Vignette Titles by Sir J. E.
     MILLAIS, Sir NOEL PATON, T. WOOLNER, W. HOLMAN HUNT, ARTHUR
     HUGHES, &c., engraved on Steel. In uniform binding. Pott
     8vo, 2s. 6d. net each.

THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL

Poems in the English Language. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by
Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE. The First and Second Series, separately, or 2
Vols. in box, 5s. net.


POET'S WALK. An Introduction to English Poetry, chosen and arranged by
MOWBRAY MORRIS. New and Revised Edition.

LYRIC LOVE: An Anthology. Edited by WILLIAM WATSON.

THE CHILDREN'S GARLAND FROM THE BEST POETS. Selected by COVENTRY
PATMORE.

CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF LYRICAL POETRY. Arranged by F. T. PALGRAVE.

THE FAIRY BOOK. The Best Popular Fairy Stories. Selected by Mrs.
CRAIK.

THE JEST BOOK. The Choicest Anecdotes and Sayings. Arranged by MARK
LEMON.

A BOOK OF GOLDEN THOUGHTS. By HENRY ATTWELL.

THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY FOR THE YOUNG. Selected by C. F. ALEXANDER.

GOLDEN TREASURY PSALTER. The Student's Edition. Being an Edition with
briefer Notes of "The Psalms Chronologically arranged by Four
Friends."

THE BOOK OF PRAISE. From the best English Hymn Writers. Selected by
ROUNDELL, EARL OF SELBORNE.

THEOLOGIA GERMANICA. Translated by S. WINKWORTH. Preface by C.
KINGSLEY.

THE BALLAD BOOK. A Selection of the Choicest British Ballads. Edited
by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE SONG BOOK. Words and Tunes selected and arranged by JOHN HULLAH.

LA LYRE FRANÇAISE. Selected and arranged with Notes by G. MASSON.

BALLADEN UND ROMANZEN. Being a Selection of the Best German Ballads
and Romances. Edited with Introduction and Notes by Dr. BUCHHEIM.

DEUTSCHE LYRIK. The Golden Treasury of the best German Lyrical Poems.
Selected by Dr. BUCHHEIM.

HEINRICH HEINE'S LIEDER UND GEDICHTE. Selected and arranged, with
Notes and a Literary Introduction, by C. A. BUCHHEIM, Ph.D. With
Portrait.

THE ESSAYS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. Edited by J. R. GREEN.

SELECTED POEMS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD.

BACON'S ESSAYS, AND COLOURS OF GOOD AND EVIL. With Notes and
Glossarial Index by W. ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI; LETTER TO A Friend, &c., and
Christian Morals. Edited by W. A. GREENHILL, M.D.

HYDRIOTAPHIA, AND THE GARDEN OF CYRUS. Edited by W. A. GREENHILL, M.D.

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT which is to come. By
JOHN BUNYAN.

POETRY OF BYRON. Chosen and arranged by MATTHEW ARNOLD.

SELECTED POEMS OF A. H. CLOUGH.

TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS. By AN OLD BOY.

LETTERS OF WILLIAM COWPER. Edited, with Introduction, by Rev. W.
BENHAM.

SELECTIONS FROM COWPER'S POEMS. With an Introduction by Mrs. OLIPHANT.

THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. Edited by J. W. CLARK, M.A.

BALTHASAR GRACIAN. Art of Worldly Wisdom. Translated by J. JACOBS.

CHRYSOMELA. A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick. By
Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE.

THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS. Edited by Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE.

KEBLE. The Christian Year. Edited by C. M. YONGE.

LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. Edited by Rev. ALFRED AINGER, M.A.

SELECTIONS FROM WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Edited by SIDNEY COLVIN.

THE SPEECHES AND TABLE TALK OF THE PROPHET MOHAMMAD. Translated by
STANLEY LANE-POOLE.

THE CAVALIER AND HIS LADY. Selections from the Works of the first Duke
and Duchess of Newcastle. With an Introductory Essay by EDWARD
JENKINS.

RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. The Astronomer-Poet of Persia. Rendered into
English Verse.

MISCELLANIES (including Euphranor, Polonius, etc.). By EDWARD
FITZGERALD.

TWO ESSAYS ON OLD AGE AND FRIENDSHIP. Translated from the Latin of
Cicero, with Introduction, by E. S. SHUCKBURGH.

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS TO HIMSELF. An English Version of the Works
of Marcus Aurelius. By Rev. Dr. G. H. RENDALL.

THE HOUSE OF ATREUS: being the Agamemnon, Libation-Bearers, and Furies
of Æschylus. Translated into English verse by E. D. A. MORSHEAD, M.A.

THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. Translated by J. LL. DAVIES, M.A., and D. J.
VAUGHAN.

THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. Being the Euthyphron, Apology, Crito,
and Phaedo of Plato. Translated by F. J. CHURCH.

PHAEDRUS, LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS OF PLATO. A New Translation by J.
WRIGHT.

SHAKESPEARE'S SONGS AND SONNETS. Edited with Notes, by F. T. PALGRAVE.

POEMS OF SHELLEY. Edited by S. A. BROOKE.

SOUTHEY. POEMS. Chosen and arranged by E. DOWDEN.

LYRICAL POEMS. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. Selected and Annotated by $1

IN MEMORIAM. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

THE PRINCESS. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

THEOCRITUS, BION, AND MOSCHUS. Rendered into English Prose by ANDREW
LANG.

POEMS, RELIGIOUS AND DEVOTIONAL. By J. G. WHITTIER.

POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. Edited by MATTHEW ARNOLD.

A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS OF ALL TIMES AND ALL COUNTRIES. By C. M. YONGE.

A BOOK OF WORTHIES. By C. M. YONGE.

THE STORY OF THE CHRISTIANS AND MOORS IN SPAIN. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.


MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED, LONDON.

       *       *       *       *       *