Chapter III: Preface (3)

I’ve seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling,
I’ve tasted her favours, and felt her decay;
Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing,
But soon it is fled,—it is fled far away.

I’ve seen the forest adorn’d of the foremost,
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay;
Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming,
But now they are wither’d and a’ wede away.

I’ve seen the morning, with gold the hills adorning,
And the red storm roaring, before the parting day;
I’ve seen Tweed’s silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams,
Turn drumly and dark, as they roll’d on their way.

O fickle Fortune! why this cruel sporting?
Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day?
Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me,
Since the flowers of the forest are a’ wede away.

MARY MASTERS

c. 1733

_62. To One who Questioned her being the Author of some Verses_

Search but those strains, you think so much excel,
Scan ev’ry verse, and try the numbers well:
You’ll plainly see, in almost ev’ry line,
Distinguishing defects to prove them mine.

_63. Answer to a Panegyrick by one who supposed her handsome_

My songs th’ attentive nymphs with pleasure hear,
Because in me no rival charms they fear.
My shape erroneous, and my stature low
Can to the eye no dang’rous beauty show.
The list’ning youths who at a distance hear,
Secure of freedom, may approach more near.
All I can boast, is this one single grant,
Just sense enough to know how much I want.

JUDITH MADAN

c. 1750

_64. Written in her brother’s Coke upon Littleton_

O thou, who labour’st in this rugged mine,
Mayst thou to gold th’ unpolished ore refine!
May each dark page unfold its haggard brow!
Doubt not to reap, if thou can’st bear to plough.
To tempt thy care, may, each revolving night,
Purses and maces swim before thy sight!
From hence in times to come, advent’rous deed!
May’st thou essay to look and speak like Mead!
When the black bag and rose no more shall shade
With martial air the honours of thy head;
When the full wig thy visage shall enclose,
And only leave to view thy learned nose.
Safely may’st thou defy beaux, wits, and scoffers,
While tenants, in fee-simple, stuff thy coffers.

ELIZABETH CARTER

1717-1806

_65. Epitaph on an Infant_

Though infant years no pompous honours claim,
The vain parade of monumental fame,
To better praise the last great day shall rear
The spotless innocence that slumbers here.

MARY LEAPOR

1722-1746

_66. Upon her Play being returned to Her Stained with Claret_

Welcome, dear wanderer, once more!
Thrice welcome to thy native cell!
Within this peaceful humble door
Let thou and I contented dwell!

But say, O whither hast thou rang’d?
Why dost thou blush a crimson hue?
Thy fair complexion’s greatly chang’d:
Why, I can scarce believe ’tis you.

Then tell, my son, O tell me, where
Didst thou contract this sottish dye?
You kept ill company, I fear,
When distant from your parent’s eye.

Was it for this, O graceless child,
Was it for this you learn’d to spell?
Thy face and credit both are spoil’d;
Go drown thyself in yonder well.

I wonder how thy time was spent:
No news (alas!) hast thou to bring?
Hast thou not climb’d the Monument?
Nor seen the lions, nor the King?

But now I’ll keep you here secure:
No more you view the smoaky sky:
The court was never made (I’m sure)
For idiots, like thee and I.

_67. Hope (Where it may reasonably be cherished)_

If trifling Hope has any room to plead,
’Tis that where Nature’s simple dictates lead:
So the wet hind, who travels o’er the plain
Through the cold mire and the afflicting rain;
Tho’ his low roofs with trickling showers run,
May hope next morn to see the chearful sun:
Or when keen hunger at the evening tide
Drives home the shepherd to his rustick bride,
His honest reason haply might not stray,
Tho’ he should dream of dumpling all the way.

_68. Of Friendship_

Of all companions I would choose to shun
Such, whose blunt truths are like a bursting gun.

MARY JONES

?-1778

_69. An Epistle to Lady Bowyer_

How much of paper’s spoil’d! what floods of ink!
And yet how few, how very few can think!
The knack of writing is an easy trade;
But to think well requires—at least a head.
Once in an age, one genius may arise,
With wit well cultur’d, and with learning wise:
Like some tall oak, behold his branches shoot!
No tender scions springing at the root.
Whilst lofty Pope erects his laurell’d head,
No lays, like mine, can live beneath his shade:
Nothing but weeds and moss, and shrubs are found:
Cut, cut them down, why cumber they the ground?
And yet you’d have me write? For what? for whom?
To curl a favourite in a dressing room?
To mend a candle when the snuff’s too short?
Or save rappee for chamber-maids at court?
Glorious ambition! noble thirst of fame!
No, but you’d have me write—to get a name.
Alas! I’d live unknown, unenvy’d too;
’Tis more than Pope with all his wit can do;
’Tis more than you, with wit and beauty join’d,
A pleasing form and a discerning mind.
The world and I are no such cordial friends;
I have my purpose, they their various ends.
I say my prayers, and lead a sober life,
Nor laugh at Cornus, or at Cornus’ wife.
What’s fame to me, who pray, and pay my rent?
If my friends know me honest, I’m content.
Well, but the joy to see my works in print!
Myself too pictur’d in a mezzo-tint!
The preface done, the dedication fram’d,
With lies enough to make a lord asham’d!
Thus I step forth; an authoress in some sort:
My patron’s name? ‘O choose some lord at court.
One that has money which he does not use,
One you may flatter much, that is, abuse.
For if you’re nice, and cannot change your note,
Regardless of the trimm’d or untrimm’d coat,
Believe me, friend, you’ll ne’er be worth a groat.’
Well then, to cut this mighty matter short,
I’ve neither friend, nor interest, at court.
Quite from St. James’s to thy stairs, Whitehall,
I hardly know a creature, great or small,
Except one maid of honour, worth them all.
I have no business there—Let those attend
The courtly levee, or the courtly friend,
Who more than fate allows them dare to spend.
Or those whose avarice, with much, craves more,
The pension’d beggar, or the titled poor.
These are the thriving breed, the tiny great!
Slaves! wretched slaves! the journeymen of state!
Philosophers! who calmly bear disgrace,
Patriots who sell their country for a place!
Shall I for these disturb my brains with rhyme?
For these, like Bavius, creep, or Glencus, climb?
Shall I go late to rest, and early rise,
To be the very creature I despise?
With face unmov’d, my poem in my hand,
Cringe to the porter, with the footman stand?
Perhaps my lady’s maid, if not too proud,
Will stoop, you’ll say, to wink me from the crowd;
Will entertain me till his lordship’s drest,
With what my lady eats, and how she rests:
How much she gave for such a birth-day gown,
And how she trampt to every shop in town.
Sick at the news, impatient for my lord,
I’m forced to hear, nay smile, at every word.
Tom raps at last,—‘his lordship begs to know
Your name? your business?’—Sir, I’m not a foe;
I come to charm his lordship’s listening ears
With verses, soft as music of the spheres.
‘Verses!—alas! his lordship seldom reads:
Pedants indeed with learning stuff their heads;
But my good lord, as all the world can tell,
Reads not even tradesmen’s bills, and scorns to spell.
But trust your lays with me—some things I’ve read,
Was born a poet, tho’ no poet bred:
And if I find they’ll bear my nicer view,
I’ll recommend your poetry—and you.’
Shock’d at his civil impudence, I start,
Pocket my poem, and in haste depart;
Resolv’d no more to offer up my wit,
Where footmen in the seat of critics sit.
Is there a Lord whose great unspotted soul,
Not places, pensions, ribbons can controul;
Unlac’d, unpowder’d, almost unobserv’d,
Eats not on silver while his train are starv’d;
Who, tho’ to nobles or to kings ally’d,
Dares walk on foot, while slaves in coaches ride;
With merit humble, and with greatness free,
Has bow’d to Freeman, and has din’d with me;
Who, bred in foreign courts, and early known,
Has yet to learn the cunning of his own;
To titles born, yet heir to no estate,
And harder still, too honest to be great?
If such an one there be, well-bred, polite,
To him I’ll dedicate, for him I’ll write.
Peace to the rest—I can be no man’s slave;
I ask for nothing, tho’ I nothing have.
By fortune humbled, yet not sunk so low
To shame a friend, or fear to meet a foe.
Meanness, in ribbons or in rags, I hate;
And have not learnt to flatter, even the great.
Few friends I ask, and those who love me well;
What more remains, these artless lines shall tell.
Of honest parents, not of great, I came;
Not known to fortune, quite unknown to fame,
Frugal and plain, at no man’s cost they eat,
Nor knew a baker’s or a butcher’s debt.
O be their precepts ever in my eye!
For one has learnt to live, and one to die.
Long may her widow’d age by Heaven be lent
Among my blessings! and I’m well content.
I ask no more, but in some calm retreat,
To sleep in quiet, and in quiet eat.
No noisy slaves attending round my room;
My viands wholesome, and my waiters dumb.
No orphans cheated, and no widow’s curse,
No household lord, for better or for worse.
No monstrous sums to tempt my soul to sin,
But just enough to keep me plain and clean.
And if sometimes, to smooth the rugged way,
Charlotte should smile, or you approve my lay,
Enough for me—I cannot put my trust
In lords; smile lies, eat toads, or lick the dust.
Fortune her favours much too dear may hold:
An honest heart is worth its weight in gold.

JANE ELLIOT

1727-1805

_70. A 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 daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and grey;
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 swankies are roaming
’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk maid sits eerie, lamenting her dearie,
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

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

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our 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.

JENNY GRAHAME

18th century

_71. Wedlock_

Alas! my son, you little know,
The sorrows which from wedlock flow:
Farewell, sweet hours of mirth and ease,
When you have gotten a wife to please.
Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,
Ye little ken what’s to betide ye yet,
The half o’ that will gane you yet
If a wayward wife obtain you yet.

Your hopes are high, your wisdom small,
Woe has not had you in its thrall;
The black cow on your foot ne’er trod,
Which makes you sing along the road.

When I, like you, was young and free,
I valued not the proudest she;
Like you my boast was bold and vain,
That men alone were born to reign.

Great Hercules and Sampson too
Were stronger far than I or you,
Yet they were baffled by their dears,
And felt the distaff and the shears.

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls,
Are proof ’gainst swords and cannon-balls;
But nought is found, by sea or land,
That can a wayward wife withstand.

ISOBEL PAGAN

1741-1821

_72. Ca’ the Yowes_

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them whare the heather grows,
Ca’ them whare the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed doun the water side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He rowed me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca’d me his dearie.

‘Will ye gang doun the water side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu’ clearly.’

I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool;
And a’ the day to sit in dool,
And naebody to see me.

‘Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep,
And ye sall be my dearie.’

‘If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said,
I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad;
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.’

‘While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death sall blin’ my e’e
Ye aye shall be my dearie.’

ANNE HUNTER

1742-1821

_73. My Mother Bids me Bind my Hair_

My mother bids me bind my hair,
With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
And lace my bodice blue.

‘For why’, she cries, ‘sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?’
Alas! I scarce can go or creep
While Lubin is away.

’Tis sad to think the days are gone
When those we love were near;
I sit upon this mossy stone
And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead,
Now Lubin is away.

ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD

1743-1825

_74. To a Lady with Some Flowers_

Flowers to the Fair! to you these flowers I bring,
And strive to greet you with an earlier spring.
Flowers sweet and gay, and delicate like you,
Emblems of innocence and beauty, too.
With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair,
And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear.
Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew,
In Eden’s pure and guiltless garden grew.
To loftier forms are rougher tasks assign’d,
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind—
The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows;
But this soft family, to cares unknown,
Were born for pleasure and delight alone.
Gay without toil, and lovely without art,
They spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart.
Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these;
Your best, your sweetest empire is—to please.

_75. Life_

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.
But this I know, when thou art fled,
Where’er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be
As all that then remains to me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly?
Where bend unseen thy trackless course?
And in this strange divorce,
Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame
From whence thy essence came
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed
From matter’s base encumbering weed?
Or dost thou, hid from sight,
Wait, like some spell-bound knight,
Through blank oblivious years th’ appointed hour
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?
Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?
O say, what art thou, when no more thou’rt thee?
Life! we have 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!

FRANCES BROOKE

1724-1789

_76. Song_

Her mouth, which a smile,
Devoid of all guile,
Half opens to view,
Is the bud of the rose
In the morning that blows,
Impearl’d with the dew.

More fragrant her breath
Than the flow’r-scented heath
At the dawning of day;
The hawthorn in bloom,
The lily’s perfume,
Or the blossoms of may.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE

1747-1794

_77. Song_

And ye shall walk in silk attire,
And siller ha’e to spare,
Gin ye’ll consent to be his bride,
Nor think o’ Donald mair.
Oh, wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi’ a puir broken heart?
Or what’s to me a siller crown,
Gin frae my love I part?

The mind wha’s every wish is pure
Far dearer is to me;
And ere I’m forced to break my faith,
I’ll lay me down and dee:
For I ha’e pledged my virgin troth
Brave Donald’s fate to share.
And he has gi’en to me his heart,
Wi a’ its virtues rare.

His gentle manners wan my heart,
He gratefu’ took the gift;
Could I but think to tak’ it back,
It wad be waur than theft.
For langest life can ne’er repay
The love he bears to me;
And ere I’m forced to break my troth
I’ll lay me down and dee.

CHARLOTTE SMITH

1749-1806

_78. Sonnet Written at the Close of Spring_

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,
Each simple flower which she has nurs’d in dew,
Anemones, that spangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell
And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.
Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair,
And the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care
Bid all thy fairy colours flee away!
Another May new birds and flowers shall bring;
Ah! why has happiness no second spring?

LADY ANNE (LINDSAY) BARNARD

1750-1825

_79. Auld Robin Gray_

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at 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 crown he had naething else beside:
To make the crown a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the crown 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 maintained 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 urged me sair: my mother didna speak;
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break
They gied 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 bade 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 to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

HENRIETTA, LADY O’NEILL

1758-1793

_80. On Seeing Her Two Sons at Play_

Sweet age of blest delusion! blooming boys,
Ah! revel long in childhood’s thoughtless joys,
With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop
To follow sportively the rolling hoop;
To watch the sleeping top with gay delight,
Or mark with raptur’d gaze the sailing kite;
Or eagerly pursuing Pleasure’s call,
Can find it centr’d in the bounding ball!
Alas! the day _will_ come, when sports like these
Must lose their magic, and their power to please;
Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth
Shall yield their fairy-charms to mournful Truth;
Even now, a mother’s fond prophetic fear
Sees the dark train of human ills appear;
Views various fortune for each lovely child,
Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild;
Beholds already those expressive eyes
Beam a sad certainty of future sighs;
And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know
In their long passage through a world of woe;
Perchance predestin’d every pang to prove,
That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love;
For ah! how few have found existence sweet,
Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit!

JOANNA BAILLIE

1762-1851

_81. A Mother to Her Waking Infant_

Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye,
Thy curled nose and lip awry,
Uphoisted arms and noddling head,
And little chin with crystal spread,
Poor helpless thing! what do I see
That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come,
Which can but rub thy toothless gum:
Small understanding boasts thy face;
Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace:
A few short words thy feats may tell;
And yet I love thee well.

When wakes the sudden bitter shriek,
And redder swells thy little cheek;
When rattled keys thy woes beguile,
And through thine eyelids gleams the smile;
Still for thy weakly self is spent
Thy little silly plaint.

But when thy friends are in distress,
Thou’lt laugh and chuckle ne’ertheless;
Nor with kind sympathy be smitten
Though all are sad but thee and kitten;
Yet, puny varlet that thou art,
Thou twitchest at the heart.

Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm;
Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm;
Thy silken locks that scantly peep,
With gold-tipp’d ends, where circles deep,
Around thy neck in harmless grace
So soft and sleekly hold their place,
Might harder hearts with kindness fill,
And gain our right good will.

Each passing clown bestows his blessing,
Thy mouth is worn with old wives’ kissing:
E’en lighter looks the gloomy eye
Of surly sense when thou art by;
And yet, I think, whoe’er they be,
They love thee not like me.

Perhaps when time shall add a few
Short months to thee, thou’lt love me too;
And after that, through life’s long way.
Become my sure and cheering stay:
Wilt care for me and be my hold,
When I am weak and old.

Thou’lt listen to my lengthen’d tale,
And pity me when I am frail—
—But see! the sweepy swimming fly,
Upon the window takes thine eye.
Go to thy little senseless play;
Thou dost not heed my lay.

_82. The Kitten_

Wanton drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic’s closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing faggot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil’d, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife’s spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadows throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear’st, with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high:
Tho’ ne’er a madam of them all
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger’s gaze.

Doth power in varied measures dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted be the modern muse
Expression technical to use,)
These mock the deftest rhymer’s skill,
But poor in art, tho’ rich in will.

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains,
To do what costs thee little pains,
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopp’d the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too _thy_ feats repay:
For then, beneath some urchin’s hand,
With modest pride thou tak’st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy purr;
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;
While softly from thy whisker’d cheek,
Thy half-clos’d eyes peer mild and meek.

But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfetter’d fancy, fly
Thro’ airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with alter’d air,
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper’d toe.
The widow’d dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter’d page,
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravell’d skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp’s unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol’st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss,
The magic power to charm us thus?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney-corner snugly fill,
A lion darting on the prey,
A tiger at his ruthless play?
Or is it, that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem view’d with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil’d,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom’st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favour’d playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove
When time hath spoil’d thee of our love;
Still be thou deem’d, by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish’d oft with savoury food.

Nor when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;
But gently borne on goodman’s spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,
And children show, with glistening eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lies.

_83. Song_

The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock’s in the sky,
And colley on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh no! sad and slow!
I hear nae welcome sound;
The shadow of our trysting-bush,
It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo’e best,
Alack! I canna hear!
Oh no! sad and slow!
The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi’ clacking din;
And Luckey scolding frae the door,
To bring the bairnies in.
Oh no! sad and slow!
These are nae the sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting-bush,
It creeps sae drearily!

I coft yestreen from chapman Tam
A snood o’ bonnie blue,
And promis’d when our trysting cam,
To tie it round her brow.
Oh no! sad and slow!
The time it winna pass!
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tether’d on the grass.

O now I see her on the way,
She’s past the Witch’s knowe;
She’s climbing up the Brownie’s brae;
My heart is in a lowe.
Oh no! sad and slow!
’Tis glamrie I hae seen;
The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e’en.

My book o’ grace I’ll try to read,
Tho’ con’d wi’ little skill;
When colley barks, I’ll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
Oh no! ’tis nae so!
The time will ne’er be gane!
The shadow of the trysting-bush
Is fix’d like ony stane.

_84. The Outlaw_

The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wild-fire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray,
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!
It is our opening day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And clos’d is every flower,
And winking tapers faintly peep
High from my Lady’s bower;
Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken
Shrink on their murky way,
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!
It is our opening day.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof nor latchèd door,
Nor kind mate bound by holy vow
To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day,
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!
And use it as ye may.

CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE

1765-1834

_85. A Riddle on the Letter H_

’Twas in heaven pronounced—it was mutter’d in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess’d.
’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death:
Presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown’d.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion is drown’d.
’Twill not soften the heart; and tho’ deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,
Ah, breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.

MARY LAMB

1764-1847

_86. A Child_

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 grievèd soul.

Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber-up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways
Then life and all shall cease.

CAROLINE, LADY NAIRNE

1766-1845

_87. The Land o’ the Leal_

I’m wearin’ awa’, John,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,
I’m wearin’ awa’
To the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, John:
There’s neither cauld nor care, John,
The day is aye fair
In the land o’ the leal.

Our bonnie bairn’s there, John;
She was baith guid and fair, John;
And, oh! we grudged her sair
To the land o’ the leal.
But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,
And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John,
The joy that’s aye to last
In the land o’ the leal.

Sae dear that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu’ man e’er brought
To the land o’ the leal.
O dry your glistening e’e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me
To the land o’ the leal.

O haud ye leal and true, John;
Your day it’s wearin’ through, John,
And I’ll welcome you
To the land o’ the leal.
Now fareyeweel, my ain John:
This warld’s cares are vain, John;
We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain,
In the land o’ the leal.

_88. The Auld House_

Oh, the auld house, the auld house
What though the rooms were wee?
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,
And bairnies fu’ o’ glee!
The wild rose and the jessamine
Still hang upon the wa’—
How mony cherished memories
Do they, sweet flowers, reca’!

Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird,
Sae canty, kind, and crouse!
How mony did he welcome to
His ain wee dear auld house!
And the leddy, too, sae genty,
There sheltered Scotland’s heir,
And clipt a lock wi’ her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair.

The mavis still doth sweetly sing,
The blue-bells sweetly blaw;
The bonnie Earn’s clear winding still,
But the auld house is awa’.
The auld house, the auld house!
Deserted though ye be,
There ne’er can be a new house
Will seem sae fair to me.

Still flourishing the auld pear tree,
The bairnies liked to see;
And oh, how aften did they speir
When ripe they a’ wad be!
The voices sweet, the wee bit feet
Aye rinnin’ here and there;
The merry shout—oh! whiles we greet
To think we’ll hear nae mair.

For they are a’ wide scattered now,
Some to the Indies gane,
And ane, alas! to her lang hame;
Not here we’ll meet again.
The Kirkyaird! the Kirkyaird!
Wi’ flowers o’ every hue,
Sheltered by the holly’s shade,
An’ the dark sombre yew.

The setting sun, the setting sun,
How glorious it gaed doun!
The cloudy splendour raised our hearts
To cloudless skies abune!
The auld dial, the auld dial!
It tauld how time did pass:
The wintry winds ha’e dung it doun,
Now hid ’mang weeds and grass.

_89. Caller Herrin’_

_Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?_
_They’re bonnie fish and halesome farin’:_
_Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’,_
_New drawn frae the Forth?_

When ye were sleepin’ on your pillows,
Dreamed ye aught o’ our puir fellows
Darkling as they faced the billows,
A’ to fill the woven willows?

Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?
They’re no brought here without brave darin’,
Buy my caller herrin’,
Hauled through wind and rain.

Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?
Oh, ye may ca’ them vulgar farin’;
Wives and mithers, ’maist despairin’,
Ca’ them lives o’ men.

When the creel o’ herrin’ passes,
Ladies, clad in silks and laces,
Gather in their braw pelisses,
Cast their heads, and screw their faces.

Caller herrin’s no got lightly;
Ye can trip the spring fu’ tightly;
Spite o’ tauntin’, flauntin’, flingin’,
Gow[3] has set you a’ a-singin’.

Neebour wives, now tent my tellin’
When the bonnie fish ye’re sellin’,
At ae word be in your dealin’,
Truth will stand when a’ thing’s failin’.

FOOTNOTES

[3] A famous fiddler.

_90. Heavenward_

Would you be young again?
So would not I—
One tear to memory giv’n,
Onward I’d hie.
Life’s dark flood forded o’er,
All but at rest on shore,
Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?

If you might, would you now
Retrace your way?
Wander through thorny wilds,
Faint and astray?
Night’s gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hope’s smiles around us shed,
Heavenward—away.

Where are they gone, of yore
My best delight?
Dear and more dear, tho’ now
Hidden from sight.
Where they rejoice to be,
There is the land for me;
Fly time—fly speedily!
Come, life and light.

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS

1762-1827

_91. Sonnet to Twilight_

Meek Twilight! soften the declining day,
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;
When o’er the mountain slow descends the ray
That gives to silence the deserted groves.
Ah, let the happy court the morning still,
When, in her blooming loveliness array’d,
She bids fresh beauty light the vale, or hill,
And rapture warble in the vocal shade.
Sweet is the odour of the morning’s flower,
And rich in melody her accents rise;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,
At which her blossoms close, her music dies—
For then, while languid nature droops her head,
She wakes the tear ’tis luxury to shed.

_92. Sonnet to Hope_

O ever skill’d to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,
That Fancy’s radiance, Friendship’s precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune’s gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charm’d my eye,
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

ANNE M’VICAR GRANT OF LAGGAN

1755-1838

_93. Postscript_

Jean, fetch that heap of tangled yarn,
And bring those stockings here to darn,
And get from Anne the dairy keys,
That I may go and count my cheese;
To every useful occupation,
Befitting of my place or station,
I’ll henceforth dedicate my time,
And if again I write in rhyme,
’Twill be a shrewd severe lampoon
On country wives who fly to town,
And leave their dairy and relations,
To curl their hair and follow fashions:
Or else an acrimonious satire
On matrons who, in spite of Nature,
With common useful duties quarrel,
To plant in vain the barren laurel.

AMELIA OPIE

1769-1853

_94. A Lament_

There was an eye whose partial glance
Could ne’er my numerous failings see;
There was an ear that heard untired
When others spoke in praise of me.

There was a heart time only taught
With warmer love for me to burn;
A heart whene’er from home I roved
Which fondly pined for my return.

There was a lip which always breathed
E’en short farewells in tones of sadness;
There was a voice whose eager sound
My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness.

There was a mind whose vigorous power
On mine its own effulgence threw,
And called my humble talents forth,
While thence its dearest joys it drew.

There was a love which for my weal
With anxious fears would overflow;
Which wept, which pray’d for me, and sought
From future ills to guard—But now!—

That eye is closed, and deaf that ear,
That lip and voice are mute for ever;
And cold that heart of anxious love,
Which Death alone from mine could sever:

And lost to me that ardent mind,
Which loved my various tasks to see;
And oh! of all the praise I gain’d
His was the dearest far to me!

Now I unloved, uncheered, _alone_,
Life’s weary wilderness must tread,
Till He who heals the broken heart
In mercy bids me join the dead.

CAROLINE SOUTHEY

1786-1854

_95. To Death_

Come not in terrors clad, to claim
An unresisting prey:
Come like an evening shadow, Death!
So stealthily, so silently!
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;
Then willingly, O willingly,
With thee I’ll go away.

What need to clutch with iron grasp
What gentlest touch may take?
What need with aspect dark to scare,
So awfully, so terribly,
The weary soul would hardly care,
Call’d quietly, call’d tenderly,
From thy dread power to break?

’Tis not as when thou markest out
The young, the blest, the gay,
The loved, the loving—they who dream
So happily, so hopefully;
Then harsh thy kindest call may seem,
And shrinkingly, reluctantly,
The summon’d may obey.

But I have drunk enough of life—
The cup assign’d to me
Dash’d with a little sweet at best,
So scantily, so scantily—
To know full well that all the rest
More bitterly, more bitterly,
Drugg’d to the last will be.

And I may live to pain some heart
That kindly cares for me:
To pain, but not to bless, O Death!
Come quietly—come lovingly—
And shut mine eyes and steal my breath;
Then willingly, O willingly,
I’ll go away with thee.

EMMA (HART) WILLARD

1787-1870

_96. Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep_

Rocked in the cradle of the deep
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save.
I know Thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall;
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

When in the dead of night I lie
And gaze upon the trackless sky,
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll,
The boundless waters as they roll,—
I feel Thy wondrous power to save
From perils of the stormy wave:
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I calmly rest and soundly sleep.

And such the trust that still were mine,
Though stormy winds swept o’er the brine,
Or though the tempest’s fiery breath
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death.
In ocean cave, still safe with Thee
The germ of immortality!
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

1793-1835

_97. Night-Blowing Flowers_

Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly,
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy,
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
To solemn things and deep,
To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified
From earth, ye seem allied,
O dedicated flowers!

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling,
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined;
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.
So doth love’s dreaming heart
Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose
The inmost thought, which glows
With its pure life entwined.

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
So doth lone prayer arise
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.

_98. Casabianca_

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm—
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike, form.

The flames rolled on—he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud:—‘Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!’
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

‘Speak, father!’ once again he cried,
‘If I may yet be gone!’
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted yet once more aloud,
‘My father! must I stay?’
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above that gallant child
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound—
The boy—Oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!—
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.

_99. A Dirge_

Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now!
Ee’n while with us thy footstep trod,
His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!—
They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.

SARA COLERIDGE

1802-1852

_100. O Sleep, my Babe_

O sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave,
Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring strays
To drink thy balmy breath,
And sigh one long farewell.

Soon shall it mourn above thy wat’ry bed,
And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore,
Deep murm’ring in reproach,
Thy sad untimely fate.

Ere those dear eyes had open’d to the light,
In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,
O waken’d but to sleep,
Whence it can wake no more!

A thousand and a thousand silken leaves
The tufted beech unfolds in early spring,
All clad in tenderest green,
All of the self-same shape;

A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet,
Each year sends forth, yet every mother views
Her last not least beloved
Like its dear self alone.

Its musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped
The face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal,
No heart hath e’er conceived
What love that face will bring.

O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the gale
To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath,
As when it deeply sighs
O’er autumn’s latest bloom.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

1806-1861

_101. To George Sand. I. A Desire_

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man,
Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance,
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can!
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Of thine own nobler nature’s strength and science,
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light! that thou to woman’s claim,
And man’s, mightst join beside the angel’s grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame,—
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace,
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.

_102. II. A Recognition_

True genius, but true woman! dost deny
Thy woman’s nature with a manly scorn,
And break away the gauds and armlets worn
By weaker women in captivity?
Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry
Is sobbed in by a woman’s voice forlorn!—
Thy woman’s hair, my sister, all unshorn,
Floats back dishevelled strength in agony,
Disproving thy man’s name! and while before
The world thou burnest in a poet-fire,
We see thy woman-heart beat evermore
Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher,
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore,
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire.

_Sonnets from the Portuguese_

_103. i_

I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair,
And a voice said in mastery while I strove, ...
‘Guess now who holds thee.’—‘Death,’ I said. But, there,
The silver answer rang, ... ‘Not Death, but Love.’

_104. iii_

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine, to ply thy part
Of chief musician. What hast _thou_ to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, wandering singer, ... singing through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?
The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,—
And Death must dig the level where these agree.

_105. vi_

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forebore, ...
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

_106. xxii_

When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curvèd point,—what bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us, and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Belovèd,—where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

_107. xxviii_

My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white!—
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said, ... he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it!—this, ... the paper’s light ...
Said, _Dear, I love thee_; and I sank and quailed
As if God’s future thundered on my past.
This said, _I am thine_—and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this ... O Love, thy words have ill availed,
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

_108. xliii_

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

_109. A Musical Instrument_

I

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

II

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

III

High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

IV

He cut it short, did the great god Pan
(How tall it stood in the river!),
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sate by the river.

V

‘This is the way,’ laughed the great god Pan
(Laughed while he sate by the river),
‘The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.’
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

VI