Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

But other doom was his. That very night
A troop of tumblers came into the village,
Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank,--on wire,
On rope, on horse, with cup and balls, intent
To please the gaping multitude, and win
The coin from labour's pocket--small perhaps
Each separate piece of money, but when join'd
Making a good round sum, destined ere long
All to be melted, (so these lawless folk
Name spending coin in loose debauchery)
Melted into ale--or haply stouter cheer,
Gin diuretic, or the liquid flame
Of baneful brandy, by the smuggler brought
From the French coast in shallop many-oar'd,
Skulking by night round headland and through bay,
Afraid of the King's cutter, or the barge
Of cruising frigate, arm'd with chosen men,
And with her sweeps across the foamy waves
Moving most beautiful with measured strokes.

It chanced that as he threw a somerset
Over three horses (each of larger size
Than our small mountain-breed) one of the troop
Put out his shoulder, and was otherwise
Considerably bruised, especially
About the loins and back. So he became
Useless unto that wandering company,
And likely to be felt a sore expense
To men just on the eve of bankruptcy,
So the master of the troop determined
To leave him in the workhouse, and proclaim'd
That if there was a man among the crowd
Willing to fill his place and able too,
Now was the time to show himself. Hugh Thwaites
Heard the proposal, as he stood apart
Striving with his own soul--and with a bound
He leapt into the circle, and agreed
To supply the place of him who had been hurt.
A shout of admiration and surprise
Then tore heaven's concave, and completely fill'd
The little field, where near a hundred people
Were standing in a circle round and fair.
Oft have I striven by meditative power,
And reason working 'mid the various forms
Of various occupations and professions,
To explain the cause of one phenomenon,
That, since the birth of science, hath remain'd
A bare enunciation, unexplain'd
By any theory, or mental light
Stream'd on it by the imaginative will,
Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine,
The Penetralia of the immortal soul.
I now allude to that most curious fact,
That 'mid a given number, say threescore,
Of tailors, more men of agility
Will issue out, than from an equal show
From any other occupation--say
Smiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like.
Let me not seem presumptuous, if I strive
This subject to illustrate; nor, while I give
My meditations to the world, will I
Conceal from it, that much I have to say
I learnt from one who knows the subject well
In theory and practice--need I name him?
The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms,
Illustrious more for leaping than for song.

First, then, I would lay down this principle,
That all excessive action by the law
Of nature tends unto repose. This granted,
All action not excessive must partake
The nature of excessive action--so
That in all human beings who keep moving,
Unconscious cultivation of repose
Is going on in silence. Be it so.
Apply to men of sedentary lives
This leading principle, and we behold
That, active in their inactivity,
And unreposing in their long repose,
They are, in fact, the sole depositaries
Of all the energies by others wasted,
And come at last to teem with impulses
Of muscular motion, not to be withstood,
And either giving vent unto themselves
In numerous feats of wild agility,
Or terminating in despair and death.

Now, of all sedentary lives, none seems
So much so as the tailor's.--Weavers use
Both arms and legs, and, we may safely add,
Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't move
Without the body--as the waving branch
Of the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk.
Not so the Tailor--for he sits cross-legg'd,
Cross-legg'd for ever! save at time of meals,
In bed, or when he takes his little walk
From shop to ale-house, picking, as he goes,
Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere,
Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns,
Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing wheel
Bruised to attenuation 'gainst the stones.

Here then we pause--and need no farther go,
We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail.
Now let me trace the effect upon his mind
Of this despised profession. Deem not thou,
O rashly deem not, that his boyish days
Past at the shop-board, when the stripling bore
With bashful feeling of apprenticeship
The name of Tailor, deem not that his soul
Derived no genial influence from a life,
Which, although haply adverse in the main
To the growth of intellect, and the excursive power,
Yet in its ordinary forms possessed
A constant influence o'er his passing thoughts,
Moulded his appetences and his will,
And wrought out, by the work of sympathy,
Between his bodily and mental form,
Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity!
Perfect--complete--and fading not away.
While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit,
Shaping of various garments, to his mind
An image rose of every character
For whom each special article was framed,
Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soul
Was like a storehouse, filled with images,
By musing hours of solitude supplied.
Nor did his ready fingers shape the cut
Of villager's uncouth habiliments
With greater readiness, than did his mind
Frame corresponding images of those
Whose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paper
In many a mystic notch for ay retain'd.
Hence, more than any man I ever knew,
Did he possess the power intuitive
Of diving into character. A pair
Of breeches to his philosophic eye
Were not what unto other folks they seem,
Mere simple breeches, but in them he saw
The symbol of the soul--mysterious, high
Hieroglyphics! such as Egypt's Priest
Adored upon the holy Pyramid,
Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old,
But raised by wise philosophy, that sought
By darkness to illumine, and to spread
Knowledge by dim concealment--process high
Of man's imaginative, deathless soul.
Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the life
Which stern necessity had made his own,
Did he not recognise a genial power
Of soul-ennobling fortitude. He heard
Unmoved the witling's shallow contumely,
And thus, in spite of nature, by degrees
He saw a beauty and a majesty
In this despised trade, which warrior's brow
Hath rarely circled--so that when he sat
Beneath his sky-light window, he hath cast
A gaze of triumph on the godlike sun,
And felt that orb, in all his annual round,
Beheld no happier nobler character
Than him, Hugh Thwaites, a little tailor-boy.

Thus I, with no unprofitable song,
Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood,
Chaunted the heroic youthful attributes
Of him the Flying Tailor. Much remains
Of highest argument, to lute or lyre
Fit to be murmur'd with impassion'd voice;
And when, by timely supper and by sleep
Refresh'd, I turn me to the welcome task,
With lofty hopes,--Reader, do thou expect
The final termination of my lay.
For, mark my words,--eternally my name
Shall last on earth, conspicuous like a star
'Mid that bright galaxy of favour'd spirits,
Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they publish'd,
Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews,
Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursed
Journal, the Edinburgh Review, that lives
On tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and blood.

THE CHERUB.

(COLERIDGE)

Was it not lovely to behold
A Cherub come down from the sky,
A beauteous thing of heavenly mould,
With ringlets of the wavy gold,
Dancing and floating curiously?
To see it come down to the earth
This beauteous thing of heavenly birth!
Leaving the fields of balm and bliss,
To dwell in such a world as this!

I heard a maiden sing the while,
A strain so holy, it might beguile
An angel from the radiant spheres,
That have swum in light ten thousand years;
Ten times ten thousand is too few--
Child of heaven, can this be true?
And then I saw that beauteous thing
Slowly from the clouds descending,
Brightness, glory, beauty blending,
In the 'mid air hovering.
It had a halo round its head,
It was not of the rainbow's hue,
For in it was no shade of blue,
But a beam of amber mixed with red,
Like that which mingles in the ray
A little after the break of day.
Its raiment was the thousand dyes
Of flowers in the heavenly paradise;
Its track a beam of the sun refined,
And its chariot was the southern wind;
My heart danced in me with delight,
And my spirits mounted at the sight,
And I said within me it is well;
But where the bower, or peaceful dell,
Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell?
Then I bethought me of the place,
To lodge the messenger of grace;
And I chose the ancient sycamore,
And the little green by Greta's shore;
It is a spot so passing fair,
That sainted thing might sojourn there.

Go tell yon stranger artisan,
Build as quickly as he can.
Heaven shield us from annoy!
What shall form this dome of joy?
The leaf of the rose would be too rude
For a thing that is not flesh and blood;
The walls must be of the sunny air,
And the roof the silvery gossamer,
And all the ceiling, round and round,
Wove half of light, and half of sound;
The sounds must be the tones that fly
From distant harp, just ere they die;
And the light the moon's soft midnight ray,
When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey.
And such a bower of light and love,
Of beauty, and of harmonie,
In earth below, or heaven above,
No mortal thing shall ever see.

The dream is past, it is gone away!
The rose is blighted on the spray;
I look behind, I look before,
The happy vision is no more!
But in its room a darker shade
Than eye hath pierced, or darkness made;
I cannot turn, yet do not know,
What I would, or whither go;
But I have heard, to heart of sin,
A small voice whispering within,
'Tis all I know, and all I trust,--
'That man is weak, but God is just.'

ISABELLE.

(COLERIDGE)

Can there be a moon in heaven to-night,
That the hill and the grey cloud seem so light?
The air is whiten'd by some spell,
For there is no moon, I know it well;
On this third day, the sages say,
('Tis wonderful how well they know,)
The moon is journeying far away,
Bright somewhere in a heaven below.

It is a strange and lovely night,
A greyish pale, but not white!
Is it rain, or is it dew,
That falls so thick I see its hue?
In rays it follows, one, two, three,
Down the air so merrily,
Said Isabelle, so let it be!

Why does the Lady Isabelle
Sit in the damp and dewy dell
Counting the racks of drizzly rain,
And how often the Rail cries over again?
For she's harping, harping in the brake,
Craik, craik--Craik, craik.
Ten times nine, and thrice eleven;--
That last call was an hundred and seven.
Craik, craik--the hour is near--
Let it come, I have no fear!
Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis,
Such doings in a night like this!

Sounds the river harsh and loud?
The stream sounds harsh, but not loud.
There is a cloud that seems to hover,
By western hill the churchyard over,
What is it like?--'Tis like a whale;
'Tis like a shark with half the tail,
Not half, but third and more;
Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar;
Its face is raised--it cometh here;
Let it come--there is no fear.
There's two for heaven, and ten for hell,
Let it come--'tis well--'tis well!
Said the Lady Isabelle.

What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp,
That it continues to yelp, yelp?
Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eye
Up to the tree and half to the sky,
Half to the sky and full to the cloud,
And still it whines and barks aloud.
Why I should dread I cannot tell;
There is a spirit; I know it well!
I see it in yon falling beam--
Is it a vision, or a dream?
It is no dream, full well I know,
I have a woful deed to do!
Hush, hush, thou little murmurer;
I tell thee hush--the dead are near!

If thou knew'st all, poor tailless whelp,
Well might'st thou tremble, growl, and yelp;
But thou know'st nothing, hast no part,
(Simple and stupid as thou art)
Save gratitude and truth of heart.
But they are coming by this way
That have been dead for a year and a day;
Without challenge, without change,
They shall have their full revenge!
They have been sent to wander in woe
In the lands of flame, and the lands of snow;
But those that are dead
Shall the green sward tread,
And those that are living
Shall soon be dead!
None to pity them, none to help!
Thou may'st quake, my cut-tail'd whelp!

There are two from the grave
That I fain would save;
Full hard is the weird
For the young and the brave!
Perchance they are rapt in vision sweet,
While the passing breezes kiss their feet;
And they are dreaming of joy and love!--
Well, let them go--there's room above.

There are three times three, and three to these,
Count as you will, by twos or threes!
Three for the gallows, and three for the wave,
Three to roast behind the stone,
And three that shall never see the grave
Until the day and the hour are gone!
For retribution is mine alone!
The cloud is redder in its hue,
The hour is near, and vengeance due;
It cannot, and it will not fail,--
'Tis but a step to Borrowdale!
Why shouldst thou love and follow me,
Poor faithful thing? I pity thee!

Up rose the Lady Isabelle,
I may not of her motion tell,
Yet thou may'st look upon her frame;
Look on it with a passing eye,
But think not thou upon the same,
Turn away, and ask not why;
For if thou darest look again,
Mad of heart and seared of brain,
Thou shalt never look again!

What can ail that short-tail'd whelp?
'Tis either behind or far before,
And it hath changed its whining yelp
To a shorten'd yuff--its little core
Seems bursting with terror and dismay,
Yuff, yuff,--hear how it speeds away.
Hold thy peace, thou yemering thing,
The very night-wind's slumbering,
And thou wilt wake to woe and pain
Those that must never wake again.

Meet is its terror and its flight,
There's one on the left and two on the right!
But save the paleness of the face,
All is beauty, and all is grace!
The earth and air are tinged with blue;
There are no footsteps in the dew;
Is this to wandering spirits given,
Such stillness on the face of heaven?
The fleecy clouds that sleep above,
Are like the wing of beauteous dove,
And the leaf of the elm-tree does not move!
Yet they are coming! and they are three!
Jesu! Maria! can it be?

THE CONCLUSION.

Sleep on, fair maiden of Borrowdale!
Sleep! O sleep! and do not wake!
Dream of the dance, till the foot so pale,
And the beauteous ancle shiver and shake;
Till thou shalt press, with feeling bland,
Thine own fair breast for lover's hand.
Thy heart is light as summer breeze,
Thy heart is joyous as the day;
Man never form of angel sees,
But thou art fair as they!
So lovers ween, and so they say,
So thine shall ween for many a day!
The hour's at hand, O woe is me!
For they are coming, and they are three!

THE CURSE OF THE LAUREATE.

(SOUTHEY)

CARMEN JUDICIALE.

I.

In vale of Thirlemere, once on a time,
When birds sung sweet and flowers were in the spring,
While youth and fancy wanton'd in their prime,
I laid me down in happy slumbering;
The heavens in balmy breezes breathed deep,
My senses all were lull'd in grateful, joyous sleep.

II.

Sleep had its visions-fancy all unsway'd
Revelled in fulness of creative power:
I ween'd that round me countless beings stray'd,
Things of delight, illusions of an hour;
So great the number of these things divine,
Scarce could my heart believe that all the imps were mine.

III.

Yet mine they were, all motley as they moved;
Careless I viewed them, yet I loved to view;
The world beheld them, and the world approved,
And blest the train with smiles and plaudits due:
Proud of approval, to myself I said,
From out the group I'll chuse, and breed one favourite maid.

IV.

Joan I chose, a maid of happy mien;
Her form and mind I polished with care;
A docile girl she proved, of moping vein,
Slow in her motions, haughty in her air;
Some mention'd trivial blame, or slightly frown'd;
Forth to the world she went, her heavenly birth it own'd.

V.

The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman;
With creeds and dogmas I was hard bested,
For which was right or wrong I could not tell,
So I resolved my offspring should be bred
As various as their lives--the lad I loved,
A boy of wild unearthly mien he proved.

VI.

Then first I noted in my mazy dream
A being scarcely of the human frame,
A tiny thing that from the north did seem,
With swaggering, fuming impotence he came;
I fled not, but I shudder'd at his look;
Into his tutelage my boy he took.

VII.

Each principle of truth and purity,
And all that merited the world's acclaim,
This fiend misled--nor could I ever free
From his destroying grasp my darling's fame;
But yet I could not ween that heart of gall
Could be a foe to one, whose heart beat kind to all.

VIII.

My third, a Christian and a warrior true,
A bold adventurer on foreign soil,
And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu,
I rear'd with hope, with joy, and painful toil.
Alas! my hopes were vain! I saw them both
Reft by an emmet!--crush'd before a moth!

IX.

Still could I not believe his vengeful spite,
For in his guise a speciousness appear'd;
My bitterness of heart I feigned light;
But wholly as he urged my next I reared;
He said of all the gang he was the best,
And wrung his neck before mine eyes in jest.

X.

From that time forth, an independent look,
A bold effrontery I did essay;
But of my progeny no pains I took,
Like lambs I rear'd them for the lion's prey;
And still as playful forth they pass'd from me,
I saw them mock'd and butcher'd wantonly.

XI.

'Just heaven!' said I, 'to thy awards I bow,
For truth and vengeance are thine own alone;
Are these the wreaths thou deignest to bestow
On bard, whose life and lays to virtue prone,
Have never turn'd aside on devious way?
Is this the high reward, to be of fools the prey?'

XII.

A laugh of scorn the welkin seem'd to rend,
And by my side I saw a form serene;
'Thou bard of honour, virtue's firmest friend,'
He said, 'can'st thou thus fret? or dost thou ween
That such a thing can work thy fame's decay?
Thou art no fading bloom--no flow'ret of a day!

XIII.

'When his o'erflowings of envenom'd spleen
An undistinguish'd dunghill mass shall lie,
The name of SOUTHEY, like an evergreen,
Shall spread, shall blow, and flourish to the sky;
To Milton and to Spenser next in fame,
O'er all the world shall spread thy laurell'd name,'

XIV.

'Friend of the bard,' I said, 'behold thou hast
The tears of one I love o'er blushes shed;
Has he not wrung the throb from parent's heart,
And stretch'd his hand to reave my children's bread?
For every tear that on their cheeks hath shone,
O may that Aristarch with tears of blood atone!'

XV.

'If cursing thou delight'st in,' he replied,
'If rage and execration is thy meed,
Mount the tribunal--Justice be thy guide,
Before thee shall he come his rights to plead;
To thy awards his fate forthwith is given,
Only, be justice thine, the attribute of heaven,'

XVI.

Gladly I mounted, for before that time
Merit had crown'd me with unfading bays.
Before me was brought in that man of crime,
Who with unblushing front his face did raise;
But when my royal laurel met his sight,
He pointed with his thumb, and laughed with all his might.

XVII.

Maddening at impudence so thorough-bred,
I rose from off my seat with frown severe,
I shook my regal sceptre o'er his head--
'Hear, culprit, of thy crimes, and sentence hear!
Thou void of principle! of rule! of ruth!
Thou renegade from nature and from truth!

XVIII.

'Thou bane of genius!--party's sordid slave!
Mistaken, perverse, crooked is thy mind!
No humble son of merit thou wilt save,
Truth, virtue, ne'er from thee did friendship find;
And while of freedom thou canst fume and rave,
Of titles, party, wealth, thou art the cringing slave!

XIX.

'Thou hast renounced Nature for thy guide,
A thousand times hast given thyself the lie,
And raised thy party-curs to wealth and pride,
The very scavengers of poetry.
Thy quibbles are from ray of sense exempt,
Presumptuous, pitiful, below contempt!

XX.

'Answer me, viper! here do I arraign
Thy arrogant, self-crowned majesty!
Hast thou not prophesied of dole and pain,
Weakening the arms of nations and of me?
Thou foe of order!--Mercy lingers sick--
False prophet! Canker! Damned heretic!'

XXI.

Then pointing with my sceptre to the sky,
With vehemence that might not be restrain'd,
I gave the awful curse of destiny!
I was asleep, but sore with passion pain'd.
It was a dreadful curse; and to this day,
Even from my waking dreams it is not worn away.

THE CURSE.

May heaven and earth,
And hell underneath,
Unite to ensting thee
In horrible wrath.
May scorning surround thee,
And conscience astound thee,
High genius o'erpower,
And the devil confound thee.
The curse be upon thee
In pen and in pocket,
Thy ink turn to puddle,
And gorge in the socket;
Thy study let rats destroy,
Vermin and cats annoy,
Thy base lucubrations
To tear and to gnaw,
Thy false calculations
In Empire and Law.
The printers shall harass,
The devils shall dun thee,
The trade shall despise thee,
And C--t--e shun thee.
The judge shall not hear thee,
But frown and pass by thee,
And clients shall fear thee,
And know thee, and fly thee!
I'll hunt thee, I'll chase thee,
To scorn and deride thee,
The cloud shall not cover,
The cave shall not hide thee;
The scorching of wrath
And of shame shall abide thee,
Till the herbs of the desert
Shall wither beside thee.
Thou shalt thirst for revenge
And misrule, as for wine,
But genius shall flourish!
And royalty shine!
And thou shalt remain
While the Laureate doth reign,
With a fire in thy heart,
And a fire in thy brain,
And Fame shall disown thee
And visit thee never,
And the curse shall be on thee
For ever and ever!

THE GUDE GREYE KATT.

(JAMES HOGG)

There wase ane katt, and ane gude greye katt,
That duallit in the touir oi Blain,
And mony haif hearit of that gude katt,
That neuir shall heare agayn.

Scho had ane brynd upon her backe.
And ane brent abone hir bree;
Hir culoris war the merilit heuis
That dappil the krene-berrye.

But scho had that withyn her ee
That man may neuir declaire,
For scho had that withyn hir ee
Quhich mortyl dochtna beare.

Sumtymis ane ladye sochte the touir,
Of rych and fayre beautye:
Sumtymis are maukyn cam therin,
Hytchyng rycht wistfullye.

But quhan they serchit the touir of Blain,
And socht it sayre and lang,
They fande nocht but the gude greye katt
Sittyng thrummyng at hir sang;

And up scho rase and pacit hir wayis
Full stetlye oure the stene,
And streikit out hir braw hint-leg,
As nocht at all had bene.

Weil mocht the wyfis in that kintrye
Rayse up ane grefous stir,
For neuir ane katt in all the lande
Durst moop or melle wyth hir.

Quhaneuir theye lukit in hir fece
Their fearis greue se ryfe,
Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte,
And rann for dethe and lyfe.

The lairde of Blain he had ane spouis,
Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde;
But scho had gane to the landis of pece,
And left him sadd behynde;

He had seuin dochteris all se fayre,
Of mayre than yerdlye grece,
Seuin bonnyer babis neuir braithit ayre,
Or smylit in parentis fece.

Ane daye quhan theye war all alane,
He sayde with hevye mene;
'Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babis,
Now quhan your moderis gene?

'O quha will leide your tendyr myndis,
The pethe of ladyhoode,
To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke,
And feele as mayden sholde?

'Weil mot it kythe in maydenis mynde,
And maydenis modestye,
The want of hir that weil wase fit
For taske unmeite for me!'

But up then spak the gude greye katt,
That satt on the herthe stene,
'O hald yer tung, my deire maister,
Nor mak se sayre ane mene;

'For I will breide your seuin dochteris,
To winsum ladyhoode,
To thynk as ladyis ocht to thynke,
And feile as maydenis sholde.

'I'll breide them fayre, I'll breide them free
From every seye of syn,
Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute,
And pure in herte withyn.'

Rychte sayre astoundit wase the lairde,
Ane frychtenit man wase he;
But the sueite babyis war full faine,
And chicklit joyfullye.

May Ella tooke the gude greye katt
Rychte fondlye on hir knee,
'And hethe my pussye lernit to speike?
I troue scho lernit of me.'

The katt, scho thrummyt at hir sang,
And turnit hir haffet sleike,
And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side,
Againste the babyis cheike.

But the lairde he was ane cunnyng lairde,
And he saide with speechis fayre,
'I haif a feste in hall to nychte,
Sweite pussye, be you there.'

The katt scho set ane luke on him,
That turnit his herte til stene;
'If you haif feste in hall to nychte,
I shall be there for ane.'

The feste wase laide, the tabil spread
With rych and nobil store,
And there wase set the Byschope of Blain,
With all his holy kore;

He wase ane wyce and wylie wychte
Of wytch and warlockrye,
And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome,
Or hangit on ane tre.

He kenit their merkis and molis of hell,
And made them joifully
Ryde on the reid-het gad of ern,
Ane pleasaunt sycht to se.

The Byschope said ane holye grace,
Unpatiente to begyn,
But nathyng of the gude greye katt
Wase funde the touir withyn;

But in there cam ane fayre ladye,
Cledd in the silken sheene,
Ane winsumer and bonnyer may
On yerde was neuir seene;

Scho tuke her sete at tabil heide,
With courtlye modestye,
Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufe
And waulit ilken ee.

Sueite wase hir voyce to all the ryng,
Unlesse the Lairde of Blain,
For he had hearit that very voyce,
From off his own herthe stene.

He barrit the doris and windois fast,
He barrit them to the jynne;
'Now in the grece of heuin,' said he,
'Your excercyse begyn;

'There is no grece nor happynesse
For my poor babyis soulis
Until you trye that weirdlye wytch,
And roste hir on the colis.

'If this be scho,' the Byschope saide,
'This beauteous cumlye may,
It is meite I try hir all alone
To heire quhat scho will saye.'

'No,' quod the Lairde, 'I suthelye sweire
None shall from this proceide,
Until I see that wycked wytch
Byrnt til ane izel reide.'

The Byschope knelit doune and prayit,
Quhill all their hayris did creipe;
And aye he hoonit and he prayit,
Quhill all war faste asleipe;

He prayit gain syn and Sauten bothe,
And deidis of shyft and schame;
But all the tyme his faithful handis
Pressit the cumlye dame.

Weil saw the Lairde, but nething saide,
He kenit, in holye zele,
He grepit for the merkis of hell,
Whilk he did ken ful weile.

And aye he pressit hir lillye hande,
And kyssit it ferventlye,
And prayit betweine, for och ane kynde
And lufyng preste was he!

The Byschope stappit and sterted sore,
Wyde gaipen with affrychte,
For och that fayre and lillye hande
Had turned ane paw outrychte!

Ane paw with long and crukit clawis!
That breste of heuinlye charme
Had turnit til brusket of ane katt,
Ful hayrie and ful warme!

And there scho satt on lang-settil,
With een of glentyng flame,
And theye war on the Byschope sett
Lyke poynter on his game.

The Byschope turnit him runde aboute
To se quhat he mocht se,
Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug,
And throu the rofe did flee.

The katt went throu withouten stop
Lyke schado throu the daye,
But the great Byschopis fleschlye forme
Made all the rofe gif waye;

The silyng faldit lyke ane buke,
The serker crashit amayne,
And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenis
Fell to the grunde lyke rayne.

The braide ful mone wase up the lyft,
The nychte wase lyke ane daye,
As the greate Byschope tuke his jante
Up throu the milkye-waye;

He cryit se loude and lustilye
The hillis and skyis war riuen;
Och sicken cryis war neuir hearit
Atwene the yerde and heuin!

They sawe him spurryng in the ayre,
And flynging horredlye,
And than he prayit and sang ane saum,
For ane fearit wycht was he;

But ay his waylingis fainter greue
As the braide lyft he crossit,
Quhill sum saide that theye hearit them still,
And sum saide all wase loste.

There was ane herd on Dollar-Lawe,
Turnyng his flockis by nychte,
Or stealyng in ane gude haggyse
Before the mornyng lychte.

He hearit the cryis cum yont the heuin,
And sawe them bethe passe bye;
The katt scho skreuit up hir taile
As sayrlye pinchit to flye.

But aye scho thrummyt at hir sang,
Though he wase sore in thrall,
Like katt that hethe are jollye mouse
Gaun murryng thro' the hall.

That greye kattis sang it wase se sweete,
As on the nychte it fell,
The Murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryng
Arunde the hether bell;

The Foumartis jyggit by the brukis,
The Maukinis by the kaile,
And the Otar dancit ane minowaye
As he gaed ouir the daile;

The Hurchanis helde ane kintrye dance
Alang the brumye knowe,
And the gude Toop-hogg rase fra his layre
And ualtzit with the youe.

THE GREYE KATTIS SANG.

Murr, my Lorde Byschope,
I syng to you;
Murr, my Lorde Byschope,
Bawlillilu!
Murr, my Lorde Byschope, &c.

That nycht ane hynde on Border syde
Chancit at his dore to be;
He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone,
And ben the house ran he;

He laide ane wisp upon the colis,
And bleue full lang and sayre,
And rede the Belfaste Almanake,
But the clypse it wase not there.

Och but that hynde wase sor aghaste,
And haf to madnesse driuen,
For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng man
Syching alangis the heuin.

That nychte ane greate Filossofere
Had watchit on Etnyis height,
To merk the rysing of the sonne,
And the blythsum mornyng lychte;

And all the lychtlye lynis of goude,
As on the se they fell,
And watch the fyir and the smoke,
Cum rummilyng up fra hell.

He luket este, the daye cam on,
Upon his gladsum pethe,
And the braid mone hang in the west,
Her paleness wase lyke dethe;

And by her sat are littil stern,
Quhan all the laife war gane,
It was lyke ane wee fadyng geme
In the wyde worild its lane.

Then the Filossofere was sadde,
And he turnit his ee awaye,
For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate,
In dethe or in decaye.

He turnit his face unto the north,
The fallyng teare to drie,
And he spyit ane thyng of wonderous maike,
Atwene the yerde and skie;

It wase lyke ane burd withoutten wyng,
Rychte wonderous to beholde,
And it bure are forked thyng alang,
With swiftnesse manyfolde:

But ay it greue as neare it dreue--
His herte bete wondir sayre!
The sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine,
He thocht of them ne mayre,
Quhan he behelde ane jollye preste
Cumyng swyggyng throu the ayre.

The katt scho helde him by the luggis
Atour the ausum hole,
And och the drede that he wase in
Wase mayre than man colde thole;

He cryit, 'O Pussye, hald your gryp,
O hald and dinna spaire;
O drap me in the yerde or se,
But dinna drap me there.'

But scho wase ane doure and deidlye katt,
And scho saide with lychtsum ayre,
'You kno heuin is ane blissit plece,
And all the prestis gang there.'

'Och sweete, sweete Pussye, hald your gryp,
Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe;
Is euir that lyke heuin abone,
In quhich am lyke to fa'?

And aye scho hang him by the luggis
Abone the ausum den,
Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out,
Sore was he quakyng then!

Doune went the Byschope, doune lyke leide
Into the hollowe nychte,
His goune wase flapyng in the ayre,
Quhan he wase out of sychte.

They hearit him honyng down the deep,
Till the croone it dyit awaye,
It wase lyke the stoune of ane greate bom-be
Gaun soundyng throu the daye.

All wase in sloomeryng quietnesse,
Quhan he went doune to hell,
But seckn an houre wase neuir seine,
Quhan the gude lorde Byschope fell.

Then cam the smouder and the smoke
Up roschyng vilentlye,
And it tourackit awaye til heuin
Ane gloryous sychte to se;

For ay it rowed its fleecye curlis
Out to the rysing sonne,
And the estern syde was gildit goude,
And all the westlin dunne.

Then the Filossofere wase muvit,
And he wist not quhat til say,
For he saw nochte of the gude greye katt;
But he saw ane ladye gay.

Hir goune wase of the gress-greene sylk,
And hir ee wase lyke the deue,
And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goude
That runde her shoulderis fleue.

Hir gairtenis war the raynbowis heme,
That scho tyit anethe hir knee,
And ay scho kemit hir yellow hayre,
And sang full pleasauntlye.

'I am the Queene of the Fairy Land,
I'll do ne harme to thee,
For I am the gardian of the gude,
Let the wycked be ware of me.

'There ar seuin pearlis in yonder touir,
Their number sune shall wane;
There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland,
I'll pu them ane by ane;

'And the weeist burd in all the bouir
Shall be the last that is taene;
The Lairde of Blain hethe seuin dochteris,
But sune he shall haif nane.

'I'll bathe them all in the krystal streime
Throu the Fairy Land that flouis,
I'll seike the bouris of paradyce
For the bonnyest flouir that blouis.

'And I'll distil it in the deue
That fallis on the hillis of heuin,
And the hues that luvelye angelis weire
Shall to these maidis be giuen.

'And I'll trie how luvelye and how fayre
Their formis may be to see,
And I'll trie how pure the maydenis mynde
In this ill worild may be.'

The Lairde of Blain he walkis the wode,
But he walkis it all alane;
The Lairde of Blain had seuin dochteris,
But now he hethe not ane.

They neuir war on dethbed layde,
But they elyit all awaye;
He lost his babyis ane by ane
Atween the nychte and day.

He kend not quhat to thynk or saye,
Or quhat did him beseime,
But he walkit throu this weirye worild
Lyke ane that is in a dreime.

Quhan seuin lang yearis, and seuin lang daies,
Had slowlye cumit and gane,
He walkit throu the gude grene wode,
And he walkit all alane;

He turnit his fece unto the skie,
And the teire stude in his ee,
For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe,
And his lost familye:

But aye his fayth was firm and sure,
And his trust in Heuin still,
For he hopet to meite them all agayne
Beyond the reiche of ill:

And ay the teiris fell on the grene,
As he knelit downe to praye,
But he wase se muvit with tendirnesse
That ane worde he colde not saye.

He lukit oure his left shouldir
To se quhat he mocht se:
There he behelde seuin bonnye maydis
Cumyng tryppyng oure the le!

Sic beautye ee had neuir seine,
Nor euir agayne shall se,
Sic luvelye formis of flesche and blude,
On yerde can neuir be;

The joie that bemit in ilken ee
Wase lyke the risyng sonne,
The fayriste blumis in all the wode
Besyde their formis war dunne;

There wase ane wrethe on ilken heide,
On ilken bosome thre,
And the brychtest flouris the worild e'er saw
War noddyng oure the bre.

But cese yer strayne, my gude auld herpe,
O cese and syng ne mayre!
Gin ye wolde of that meityng teil,
O I mocht reue it sayre!

There wolde ne ee in faire Scotland,
Nor luvelye cheike be drie;
The laveroke wolde forget hir sang,
And drap deide fra the skie;

And the desye wolde ne mayre be quhyte,
And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue,
For the blude-drapis wolde fal fra the mone,
And reiden the mornyng deue.

But quhan I tell ye oute my tale,
Ful playnlye ye will se,
That quhare there is ne syn nor schame
Ne sorroue there can be.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS.

(COLERIDGE, LAMB, AND CHARLES LLOYD)

I.

Pensive at eve on the _hard_ world I mus'd,
And _my poor_ heart was sad: so at the Moon
I gaz'd--and sigh'd, and sigh'd!--for, ah! how soon
Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'd
With tearful vacancy the _dampy_ grass
Which wept and glitter'd in the _paly_ ray;
And _I did pause me_ on my lonely way,
And _mused me_ on those _wretched ones_ who pass
_O'er the black heath_ of Sorrow. But, alas!
Most of _Myself_ I thought: when it befell
That the _sooth_ Spirit of the breezy wood
Breath'd in mine ear--'All this is very well;
But much of _one_ thing is for _no_ thing good.'
Ah! my _poor heart's_ INEXPLICABLE SWELL!

II.

_To Simplicity._

O! I do love thee, meek _Simplicity_!
For of thy lays the lulling simpleness
Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress,
Distress though small, yet haply great to me!
'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad
I amble on; yet, though I know not why,
_So_ sad I am!--but should a friend and I
Grow cool and _miff_, O! I am _very_ sad!
And then with sonnets and with sympathy
My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall;
Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,
Now raving at mankind in general;
But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,
All very simple, meek Simplicity!

III.

_On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country._

And this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd,
Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade?
Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet _aye_ she haunts the dale where _erst_ she stray'd;
And _aye_ beside her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

(THE DELLA CRUSCANS)

SONNET I.

_Delia at Play._

She held a _Cup and Ball_ of ivory white,
_Less white_ the ivory than her _snowy_ hand!
Enrapt, I watch'd her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in _innocent_ delight,
Her _taper_ fingers twirl'd the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with EAGLE _sight_,
Now on the pointed end _infix'd_ its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd,
Methought the BALL she play'd with was my HEART;
(Alas! that sport like _that_ should be her pride!)
And the _keen point_ which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was CUPID'S _dart_;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn
Who _on that dart_ IMPALES _my_ BOSOM'S GEM?

SONNET II.

_To a Painter attempting Delia's Portrait._

Rash Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY
In all its noontide glory? or portray
The DIAMOND, that athwart the _taper'd_ hall
_Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light_?
Even if thine art could boast such _magic might_,
Yet if it strove to paint _my Angel's_ EYE,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call
_Heaven's vengeance on thy sin_: Must thou be told
_The_ CRIME _it is to paint_ DIVINITY?
Rash Painter! should the world her charms behold,
Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,
They to their _old idolatry_ would fall,
And bend before her form the _pagan_ knee,
Fairer than VENUS, DAUGHTER OF THE SEA.

SONNET III.

_He proves the Existence of a Soul from his Love for Delia._

Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her everywhere;
_Her_ ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,
My _Goddess-Maid_, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR,
_For_ LOVE _annihilates the world to me_!
And when the weary SOL _around his bed_
_Closes the_ SABLE CURTAINS _of the night_,
SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight
SHE shines confest. When _every sound is dead_,
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to _roll_
The _surge of music_ o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my _Body_ drags its chain,
But sure with Delia _I exist_ A SOUL!

SONNET IV.

_The Poet expresses his Feelings respecting a Portrait in
Delia's Parlour._

I would I were that portly gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er
From books or needlework her looks arise,
On him _converge the_ SUNBEAMS _of her eyes_,
And he _unblamed_ may gaze upon MY FAIR,
And oft MY FAIR his _favour'd_ form surveys.
O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze;
I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the STRONG _glance_ of those _divinest_ charms
WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,
When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that portly gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.

LOVE ELEGIES.

ELEGY I.

_The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's Pocket-handkerchief._

'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare?
Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,
That left the _tempting corner_ hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,
After long travel to some distant shrine,
When at the relic of his saint he kneels,
For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with _filching fingers_ I drew near,
Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein;
And when the _finish'd deed_ removed my fear,
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What though the Eighth Commandment rose to mind,
It only served a moment's qualm to move;
For thefts like this it could not be design'd,
_The Eighth Commandment_ WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here when she took the macaroons from me,
She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet!
Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips in thee!
Lips _sweeter_ than the _macaroons_ she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw,
That made my Love so _delicately_ sneeze,
Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,
And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,
SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane;
For thou hast touch'd the _rubies_ of my fair,
And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.

ELEGY II.

_The Poet invokes the Spirits of the Elements to approach
Delia.--He describes Her Singing._

YE SYLPHS, who _banquet_ on my Delia's blush,
Who on her locks of FLOATING GOLD repose,
_Dip in her cheek your_ GOSSAMERY BRUSH,
And with its bloom of beauty _tinge_ THE ROSE.

Hover around her lips on _rainbow wing_,
Load from her honey'd breath your _viewless_ feet,
Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring
And make the lily and the violet sweet.

Ye GNOMES, whose toil through many a dateless year
Its nurture to the infant gem supplies,
From central caverns bring your diamonds here,
To _ripen in the sun_ OF DELIA'S EYES.

And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs,
Spirits of fire! to see my love advance;
Fly, SALAMANDERS, on ASBESTOS' wings,
To wanton in my Delia's _fiery_ glance.

She weeps, she weeps! her eye with anguish swells,
Some tale of sorrow melts my FEELING GIRL!
NYMPHS! catch the tears, and in Your lucid shells
Enclose them, EMBRYOS OF THE ORIENT PEARL.

She sings! the Nightingale with envy hears,
The CHERUB listens from his starry throne,
And motionless are stopt the attentive SPHERES,
To hear _more heavenly music_ than their own.

Cease, Delia, cease! for all the ANGEL THRONG,
Hearkening to thee, let sleep their golden wires!
Cease, Delia, cease, that _too surpassing_ song,
Lest, _stung to envy_, they should break their lyres.

Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven
By the strong joy! Cease, Delia, lest my soul,
Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN,
_And burst the feeble Body's frail control_.

ELEGY III.

_The Poet Expatiates on the Beauty of Delia's Hair._

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straitening curls of gold so _beamy bright_,
Not spotless merely from the touch remains,
But issues forth _more pure_, more _milky white_.

The rose-pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads
Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,
_But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair_.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair
With licensed fingers uncontrol'd may rove!
And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,
Who died to make pomatum for my LOVE.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays
Might _curl those lovely locks_ with conscious pride,
Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's praise,
I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,
The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart;
From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line
Wherewith the urchin _angled for_ MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, _self-interr'd_, proceed;
Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate
My captive _heart_ has _handcuff'd_ in a chain,
Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,
THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair
In _flowing lustre_ bathe their brightening wings;
And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care
The ringlets rob for FAERY FIDDLE-STRINGS.

ELEGY IV.

_The Poet relates how he stole a Lock of Delia's Hair,
and her Anger._

Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth!
Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise!
Fall on me, Mountains! and thou merciful Earth,
Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes!

Let universal Chaos now return,
Now let the central fires their prison burst,
AND EARTH AND HEAVEN AND AIR AND OCEAN burn...
For Delia FROWNS... SHE FROWNS, _and I am curst_!

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight
Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life;
Would storm VOLCANO BATTERIES with delight,
And grapple with GRIM DEATH in glorious strife.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove,
When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies;
What is _his wrath_ to that of HER I love?
What is his LIGHTNING to my DELIA'S EYES?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;
Ye _serpent_ CURLS, ye _poison-tendrils_, go!
Would I could tear thy memory from my mind,
ACCURSED LOCK,... thou cause of all my woe!

Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly!
Demons of Darkness, guard the infernal roll,
That thence your cruel vengeance when I die
May _knit the_ KNOTS OF TORTURE _for my_ SOUL.

Last night,... oh, hear me, Heaven, and grant my prayer!
The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay,
And let me from its ample records tear
_Only the single_ PAGE OF YESTERDAY.

Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight,
And I will STOP HIM on his restless way:
Omnipotent in Love's resistless might,
_I'll force him back the_ ROAD OF YESTERDAY.

Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair,
My Delia bent _deliciously_ to grieve,
I stood a _treacherous loiterer_ by her chair,
And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve:

And would that at that instant o'er my thread
The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had open'd then;
And when I reft the lock from Delia's head,
Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide,
And whilst my heart with transport panted big,
She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried,
'You stupid PUPPY,... you have spoil'd my Wig!'

CHARLES LAMB.

EPICEDIUM--GOING OR GONE.

(DRAYTON)

Fine merry franions,
Wanton companions,
My days are ev'n banyans
With thinking upon ye;
How Death, that last stinger,
Finis-writer, end-bringer,
Has laid his chill finger,
Or is laying on ye.

There's rich Kitty Wheatley,
With footing it featly
That took me completely,
She sleeps in the Kirk House;
And poor Polly Perkin,
Whose Dad was still firking
The jolly ale firkin,
She's gone to the Work-house;

Fine gard'ner, Ben Carter
(In ten counties no smarter)
Has ta'en his departure
For Proserpine's orchards;
And Lily, postilion,
With cheeks of vermilion,
Is one of a million
That fill up the church-yards;

And, lusty as Dido,
Fat Clemitson's widow
Flits now a small shadow
By Stygian hid ford;
And good Master Clapton
Has thirty years nap't on
The ground he last hap't on,
Intomb'd by fair Widford;

And gallant Tom Dockwra,
Of nature's finest crockery,
Now but thin air and mockery,
Lurks by Avernus,
Whose honest grasp of hand
Still, while his life did stand,
At friend's or foe's command,
Almost did burn us.

Roger de Coverley
Not more good man than he;
Yet has he equally
Push'd for Cocytus,
With drivelling Worral,
And wicked old Dorrell,
'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,
Whose end might affright us!--

Kindly hearts have I known;
Kindly hearts, they are flown;
Here and there if but one
Linger yet uneffaced,
Imbecile tottering elves,
Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,
These scarce are half themselves,
With age and care crazed.

But this day Fanny Hutton
Her last dress has put on;
Her fine lessons forgotten,
She died, as the dunce died:
And prim Betsy Chambers,
Decay'd in her members,
No longer remembers
Things, as she once did;

And prudent Miss Wither
Not in jest now doth _wither_,
And soon must go--whither
Nor I well, nor you know;
And flaunting Miss Waller,
_That_ soon must befall her,
Whence none can recall her,
Though proud once as Juno!

HYPOCHONDRIACUS.

(ROBERT BURTON)

By myself walking,
To myself talking,
When as I ruminate
On my untoward fate,
Scarcely seem I
Alone sufficiently,
Black thoughts continually
Crowding my privacy;
They come unbidden,
Like foes at a wedding,
Thrusting their faces
In better guests' places,
Peevish and malecontent,
Clownish, impertinent,
Dashing the merriment:
So in like fashions
Dim cogitations
Follow and haunt me,
Striving to daunt me,
In my heart festering,
In my ears whispering,
'Thy friends are treacherous,
Thy foes are dangerous,
Thy dreams ominous.'
Fierce Anthropophagi,
Spectra, Diaboli,
What scared St. Anthony
Hobgoblins, Lemures,
Dreams of Antipodes,
Night-riding Incubi
Troubling the fantasy,
All dire illusions
Causing confusions;
Figments heretical,
Scruples fantastical,
Doubts diabolical,
Abaddon vexeth me,
Mahu perplexeth me,
Lucifer teareth me--
_Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici._

NONSENSE VERSES.

(LAMB)

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up, and peep!
The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.
There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills;
Who is to give her her bolus and pills?
Twenty fine angels must come into town,
All for to help you to make your new gown:
Dainty Aerial Spinsters, and Singers;
Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?
Delicate hands, unaccustomed to reels,
To set 'em a working a poor body's wheels?
Why they came down is to me all a riddle,
And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle;
Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut--
To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.
Angel-duck, angel-duck, wingèd, and silly,
Pouring a watering-pot over a lily,
Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf,
Leave her to water her lily herself,
Or to neglect it to death if she choose it:
Remember the loss is her own, if she lose it.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

(SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS)

We want more Churches and more Clergymen.--_Bishop of London's
late Charge._

Rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus, augent.--CLAUDIAN _in Eutrop_.

Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do ye ask us how many we crave?

Oh, there can't be too many rich Livings
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Cocker's misgivings,
To numbers can ne'er be confin'd.

Count the cormorants hovering about,
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.