Chapter VI: Part THE THIRD: CXXXV (1)

_ODE ON SOLITUDE._

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

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 10
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please 15
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie. 20
_Alexander Pope._

CXXXVI

_STELLA’S BIRTHDAY. 1720._

All travellers at first incline
Where’er they see the fairest sign;
And, if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend 5
The Angel-inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decayed,
The house will never lose its trade:
Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us, 10
As fine as daubers’ hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We think it both a shame and sin
To quit the true old Angel-inn.
Now this is Stella’s case in fact, 15
An angel’s face a little cracked:
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-six:)
This drew us in at first to find
In such a form an angel’s mind; 20
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella’s eyes.
See at her levee crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense; 25
And puts them but to small expense;
Their mind so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives; 30
And, had her stock been less, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.
Then who can think we’ll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Or stop and light at Chloe’s head, 35
With scraps and leavings to be fed?
Then, Chloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints that Stella is no chicken; 40
Your inuendos, when you tell us
That Stella loves to talk with fellows;
And let me warn you to believe
A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That, should you live to see the day 45
When Stella’s locks must all be grey,
When age must print a furrowed trace
On every feature of her face;
Though you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe, 50
To make you look like Beauty’s Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;
No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind:
All men of sense will pass your door, 55
And crowd to Stella’s at fourscore.
_Jonathan Swift._

CXXXVII

_ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA._

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame.

In happy climes, where from the genial sun 5
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true.

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides, and virtue rules, 10
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools.

There shall be sung another Golden Age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage, 15
The wisest heads and noblest hearts:

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung. 20

Westward the course of empire take its way;
The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time’s noblest offspring is the last.
_George Berkeley._

CXXXVIII

_THE LAWYER’S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE._

As, by some tyrant’s stem command,
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemned to roam,
An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the destined way; 5
And dreads to go; nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighbouring mountain’s brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: 10
So I, thus doomed from thee to part,
Gay Queen of fancy and of art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.
Companion of my tender age, 15
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,
Where fervent bees with humming voice
Around the honied oak rejoice, 20
And agèd elms with awful bend
In long cathedral walks extend!
Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheered by the warbling of the woods,
How blest my days, my thoughts how free, 25
In sweet society with thee!
Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded rolled along:
But now the pleasing dream is o’er,
These scenes must charm me now no more. 30
Lost to the fields, and torn from you,--
Farewell! a long, a last adieu!
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw:
There selfish faction rules the day, 35
And pride and avarice throng the way;
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose revelry, and riot bold,
In frighted streets their orgies hold; 40
Or, where in silence all is drowned,
Fell murder walks his lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you;
Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu!
Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, 45
Nor all the art of Addison,
Pope’s heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller’s ease,
Nor Milton’s mighty self, must please:
Instead of these a formal band,
In furs and coifs, around me stand; 50
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,
That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;
And points with tottering hand the ways 55
That lead me to the thorny maze.
There, in a winding close retreat,
Is Justice doomed to fix her seat;
There fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe; 60
And there, from vulgar sight retired,
Like eastern queens, is more admired.
O let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with reverend awe, 65
The guardian of Britannia’s law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
The united boast of many an age;
Where mixed, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years; 70
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true;
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite 75
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end:
While mighty Alfred’s piercing soul
Pervades and regulates the whole. 80
Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate, 85
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!
Thus though my noon of life be passed,
Yet let my setting sun, at last, 90
Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where sage Retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence, and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe, 95
Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;
No orphan’s cry to wound my ear;
My honour and my conscience clear;
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace descend. 100
_Sir William Blackstone._

CXXXIX

_THE JUGGLERS._

A Juggler long through all the town
Had rais’d his fortune and renown;
You’d think (so far his art transcends)
The devil at his fingers’ ends.
Vice heard his fame, she read his bill; 5
Convinced of his inferior skill,
She sought his booth, and from the crowd
Defied the man of art aloud.
‘Is this then he so famed for sleight?
Can this slow bungler cheat your sight? 10
Dares he with me dispute the prize?
I leave it to impartial eyes.’
Provoked, the Juggler cried, ’Tis done;
In science I submit to none.’
Thus said, the cups and balls he played; 15
By turns this here, that there, conveyed.
The cards, obedient to his words,
Are by a fillip turned to birds.
His little boxes change the grain:
Trick after trick deludes the train. 20
He shakes his bag, he shows all fair;
His fingers spread, and nothing there;
Then bids it rain with showers of gold;
And now his ivory eggs are told;
But, when from thence the hen he draws, 25
Amazed spectators hum applause.
Vice now stept forth, and took the place,
With all the forms of his grimace.
‘This magic looking-glass,’ she cries,
‘(There, hand it round) will charm your eyes.’ 30
Each eager eye the sight desired,
And every man himself admired.
Next, to a senator addressing,
‘See this bank-note; observe the blessing.
Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! ’tis gone.’ 35
Upon his lips a padlock shown.
A second puff the magic broke;
The padlock vanished, and he spoke.
Twelve bottles ranged upon the board,
All full, with heady liquor stored, 40
By clean conveyance disappear,
And now two bloody swords are there.
A purse she to a thief exposed;
At once his ready fingers closed.
He opes his fist, the treasure’s fled: 45
He sees a halter in its stead.
She bids Ambition hold a wand;
He grasps a hatchet in his hand.
A box of charity she shows.
‘Blow here;’ and a churchwarden blows. 50
’Tis vanish’d with conveyance neat,
And on the table smokes a treat.
She shakes the dice, the board she knocks,
And from all pockets fills her box.
A counter, in a miser’s hand, 55
Grew twenty guineas at command.
She bids his heir the sum retain,
And ’tis a counter now again.
A guinea with her touch you see
Take every shape but Charity; 60
And not one thing you saw, or drew,
But changed from what was first in view.
The Juggler now, in grief of heart,
With this submission owned her art:
‘Can I such matchless sleight withstand? 65
How practice hath improved your hand!
But now and then I cheat the throng;
You every day, and all day long.’
_John Gay._

CXL

_RULE BRITANNIA._

When Britain first at Heaven’s command
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of her land,
And guardian angels sung the strain:
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! 5
Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee
Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all. 10

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

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; 15
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine; 20
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned, 25
And manly hearts to guard the fair:--
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never shall be slaves!
_James Thomson._

CXLI

_ADMIRAL HOSIER’S GHOST._

ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO BY ADMIRAL VERNON. NOV. 22, 1739.

As near Porto-Bello lying
On the gently swelling flood,
At midnight with streamers flying
Our triumphant navy rode:
There while Vernon sat all-glorious 5
From the Spaniards’ late defeat;
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England’s fleet;

On a sudden, shrilly sounding,
Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; 10
Then each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appeared,
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And with looks by sorrow clouded, 15
Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleamed the moon’s wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave: 20
O’er the glimmering wave he hied him,
Where the Burford reared her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail:

‘Heed, O heed, our fatal story. 25
I am Hosier’s injured ghost,
You, who now have purchased glory
At this place where I was lost;
Though in Porto-Bello’s ruin
You now triumph free from fears, 30
When you think on our undoing,
You will mix your joy with tears.

‘See these mournful spectres, sweeping
Ghastly o’er this hated wave,
Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; 35
These were English captains brave:
Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold,
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told. 40

‘I, by twenty sail attended,
Did this Spanish town affright:
Nothing then its wealth defended
But my orders not to fight:
Oh! that in this rolling ocean 45
I had cast them with disdain,
And obeyed my heart’s warm motion,
To have quelled the pride of Spain.

‘For resistance I could fear none,
But with twenty ships had done 50
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Hast achieved with six alone.
Then the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the sea the sad receiver 55
Of this gallant train had been.

‘Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though condemned for disobeying,
I had met a traitor’s doom; 60
To have fall’n, my country crying
He has played an English part,
Had been better far than dying
Of a grieved and broken heart.

‘Unrepining at thy glory, 65
Thy successful arms we hail;
But remember our sad story,
And let Hosier’s wrongs prevail;
Sent in this foul clime to languish,
Think what thousands fell in vain, 70
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.

‘Hence, with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending, 75
Here I feed my constant woe:
Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recall our shameful doom,
And our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander through the midnight gloom. 80

‘O’er these waves for ever mourning
Shall we roam, deprived of rest,
If to Britain’s shores returning,
You neglect my just request.
After this proud foe subduing, 85
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England shamed in me.’
_Richard Glover._

CXLII

_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. 4

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

In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; 10
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- 15
The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

’Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. 20

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

CXLIII

_WAE’S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE._

A wee bird came to our ha’ door;
He warbled sweet and clearly;
And aye the o’ercome o’ his sang
Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’
Oh! when I heard the bonny, bonny bird, 5
The tears came drapping rarely;
I took my bonnet aff my head,
For weel I lo’ed Prince Charlie.

Quoth I; ‘My bird, my bonny, bonny bird,
Is that a tale ye borrow? 10
Or is’t some words ye’ve learned by rote,
Or a lilt o’ dool and sorrow?’
Oh no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang,
‘I’ve flown sin’ morning early;
But sic a day o’ wind and rain-- 15
Oh wae’s me for Prince Charlie!

O’er hills that are by right his ain
He roams a lonely stranger;
On ilka hand he’s pressed by want,
On ilka side by danger. 20
Yestreen I met him in the glen,
My heart near bursted fairly:
For sadly changed indeed was he--
Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!

‘Dark night came on; the tempest howled 25
Out owre the hills and valleys;
And whare was’t that your Prince lay down,
Whase hame should be a palace?
He rowed him in a Highland plaid,
Which covered him but sparely, 30
And slept beneath a bush o’ broom--
Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’

But now the bird saw some red coats,
And he shook his wings wi’ anger:
‘Oh, this is no a land for me-- 35
I’ll tarry here nae langer.’
A while he hovered on the wing,
Ere he departed fairly;
But weel I mind the farewell strain--
’Twas ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ 40
_William Glen._

CXLIV

_AN ODE._

IN IMITATION OF ALCÆUS.

What constitutes a State?
Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports, 5
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No:--men, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 10
In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;
Men, who their duties know,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,
Prevent the long-aimed blow, 15
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:
These constitute a State,
And sovereign Law, that State’s collected will,
O’er thrones and globes elate,
Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 20
Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapour sinks,
And e’en the all-dazzling Crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this heaven-loved isle, 25
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore!
No more shall Freedom smile?
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign,
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 30
’Tis folly to decline,
And steal inglorious to the silent grave.
_Sir William Jones._

CXLV

_ODE._

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country’s wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
_William Collins._

CXLVI

_ODE TO THE CUCKOO._

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green, 5
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers, 10
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, 15
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail. 20

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

Oh could I fly, I’d fly with thee! 25
We’d make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o’er the globe,
Companions of the spring.
_John Logan._

CXLVII

_ODE TO EVENING._

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

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired Sun 5
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; 10
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;
Now teach me, Maid composed, 15
To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return! 20

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

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, 25
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
Or find some ruin ’midst its dreary dells, 30
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain’s side 35
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires;
And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil. 40

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

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 45
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 50
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!
_William Collins._

CXLVIII

_TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY._

Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my power, 5
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet
Wi’ speckled breast, 10
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 15
Amid the storm;
Scarce reared above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa’s maun shield, 20
But thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod, or stane,
Adorns the histie stubble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies! 30

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity betrayed,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 35
Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life’s rough ocean luckless-starred!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore, 40
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven 45
To misery’s brink,
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruined, sink!

Even thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine--no distant date; 50
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight,
Shall be thy doom.
_Robert Burns._

CXLIX

_ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST._

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire,
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine, 5
A different object do these eyes require;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine,
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; 10
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear,
To warm their little loves the birds complain;
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
_Thomas Gray._

CL

_TO THE HONOURABLE MISS CARTERET._

Bloom of beauty, early flower
Of the blissful bridal bower,
Thou, thy parents’ pride and care,
Fairest offspring of the fair,
Lovely pledge of mutual love, 5
Angel seeming from above,
Was it not thou day by day
Dost thy very sex betray,
Female more and more appear,
Female, more than angel dear, 10
How to speak thy face and mien,
(Soon too dangerous to be seen)
How shall I, or shall the Muse,
Language of resemblance choose,
Language like thy mien and face, 15
Full of sweetness, full of grace?
By the next returning spring,
When again the linnets sing,
When again the lambkins play,
Pretty sportlings full of May, 20
When the meadows next are seen,
Sweet enamel, white and green,
And the year in fresh attire
Welcomes every gay desire,
Blooming on shalt thou appear 25
More inviting than the year,
Fairer sight than orchard shows,
Which beside a river blows:
Yet another spring I see,
And a brighter bloom in thee: 30
And another round of time,
Circling, still improves thy prime:
And beneath the vernal skies
Yet a verdure more shall rise,
Ere thy beauties, kindling slow, 35
In each finished feature glow,
Ere in smiles and in disdain
Thou exert thy maiden reign,
Absolute to save or kill
Fond beholders at thy will. 40
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men,
Who, in courtship greatly sped,
Wins the damsel to his bed,
Bears the virgin prize away, 45
Counting life one nuptial day:
For the dark-brown dusk of hair,
Shadowing thick thy forehead fair,
Down the veiny temples growing,
O’er the sloping shoulders flowing, 50
And the smoothly penciled brow,
Mild to him in every vow,
And the fringèd lid below,
Thin as thinnest blossoms blow,
And the hazely-lucid eye, 55
Whence heart-winning glances fly,
And that cheek of health, o’erspread
With soft-blended white and red,
And the witching smiles which break
Round those lips, which sweetly speak, 60
And thy gentleness of mind,
Gentle from a gentle kind,
These endowments, heavenly dower!
Brought him in the promised hour,
Shall for ever bind him to thee, 65
Shall renew him still to woo thee.
_Ambrose Philips._

CLI

_TO MISS GEORGIANA CARTERET._

Little charm of placid mien,
Miniature of Beauty’s Queen,
Numbering years, a scanty nine,
Stealing hearts without design,
Young inveigler, fond in wiles, 5
Prone to mirth, profuse in smiles,
Yet a novice in disdain,
Pleasure giving without pain,
Still caressing, still caressed,
Thou and all thy lovers blessed, 10
Never teased, and never teasing,
Oh for ever pleased and pleasing!
Hither, British Muse of mine,
Hither, all the Grecian Nine,
With the lovely Graces Three, 15
And your promised nursling see:
Figure on her waxen mind
Images of life refined;
Make it as a garden gay,
Every bud of thought display, 20
Till, improving year by year,
The whole culture shall appear,
Voice, and speech, and action, rising,
All to human sense surprising.
Is the silken web so thin 25
As the texture of her skin?
Can the lily and the rose
Such unsullied hue disclose?
Are the violets so blue
As her veins exposed to view?
Do the stars in wintry sky 30
Twinkle brighter than her eye?
Has the morning lark a throat
Sounding sweeter than her note?
Who e’er knew the like before thee? 35
They who knew the nymph that bore thee.
From thy pastime and thy toys,
From thy harmless cares and joys,
Give me now a moment’s time:
When thou shalt attain thy prime, 40
And thy bosom feel desire,
Love the likeness of thy sire,
One ordained through life to prove
Still thy glory, still thy love.
Like thy sister, and like thee, 45
Let thy nurtured daughters be:
Semblance of the fair who bore thee,
Trace the pattern set before thee.
Where the Liffy meets the main,
Has thy sister heard my strain: 50
From the Liffy to the Thames,
Minstrel echoes, sing their names,
Wafting to the willing ear
Many a cadence sweet to hear,
Smooth as gently breathing gales 55
O’er the ocean and the vales,
While the vessel calmly glides
O’er the level glassy tides,
While the summer flowers are springing,
And the new-fledged birds are singing. 60
_Ambrose Philips._

CLII

_THE DYING LOVER._

Dear Love, let me this evening die,
Oh smile not to prevent it;
Dead with my rivals let me lie,
Or we shall both repent it.
Frown quickly then, and break my heart, 5
That so my way of dying
May, though my life was full of smart,
Be worth the world’s envying.

Some, striving knowledge to refine,
Consume themselves with thinking; 10
And some, who friendship seal in wine,
Are kindly killed with drinking.
And some are wrecked on the Indian coast,
Thither by gain invited;
Some are in smoke of battle lost, 15
Whom drums, not lutes, delighted.

Alas! how poorly these depart,
Their graves still unattended!
Who dies not of a broken heart
Is not of Death commended. 20
His memory is only sweet,
All praise and pity moving,
Who kindly at his mistress’ feet
Does die with over-loving.

And now thou frown’st, and now I die, 25
My corpse by lovers followed;
Which straight shall by dead lovers lie;
That ground is only hallowed.
If priests are grieved I have a grave,
My death not well approving, 30
The poets my estate shall have,
To teach them the Art of Loving.

And now let lovers ring their bells
For me, poor youth departed,
Who kindly in his love excels, 35
By dying broken-hearted.
My grave with flowers let lovers strow,
Which, if thy tears fall near them,
May so transcend in scent and show,
As thou wilt shortly wear them. 40

Such flowers how much will florists prize,
On lover’s grave that growing,
Are watered by his mistress’ eyes,
With pity ever-flowing.
A grave so deckt will, though thou art 45
Yet fearful to come nigh me,
Provoke thee straight to break thy heart,
And lie down boldly by me.

Then everywhere all bells shall ring,
All light to darkness turning; 50
While every quire shall sadly sing,
And nature’s self wear mourning.
Yet we hereafter may be found,
By destiny’s right placing,
Making, like flowers, love underground, 55
Whose roots are still embracing.
_Sir William Davenant._

CLIII

_THE SAILOR’S RETURN._

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he’s weel?
Is this a time to think o’ wark?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread, 5
When Colin’s at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I’ll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’; 10
There’s little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman’s awa’.

And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop’s satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie’s wife 15
That Colin’s in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockins pearly blue;
It’s a’ to pleasure our gudeman,
For he’s baith leal and true. 20

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 25
Their hose as white as snaw;
It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman,
For he’s been long awa.

There’s twa fat hens upo’ the coop
Been fed this month and mair; 30
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared 35
When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in’t
As he comes up the stair-- 40
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought,
In troth I’m like to greet!

If Colin’s weel, and weel content, 45
I hae nae mair to crave:
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I’m blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak? 50
I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought,
In troth I’m like to greet.
For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’;
There’s little pleasure in the house, 55
When our gudeman’s awa’.
_William Julius Mickle._

CLIV

_THE BANKS OF DOON._

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

Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 5
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.

Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate; 10
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o’ my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its love; 15
And sae did I o’ mine.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi’ me. 20
_Robert Burns._

CLV

_THE BRAES OF YARROW._

A. ‘Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
And think nae mair of the braes of Yarrow.’

B. ‘Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride, 5
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?’
A. ‘I gat her where I daurna weel be seen,
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.’

‘Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow, 10
Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.’

B. ‘Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why daur ye nae mair well be seen 15
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?’

A. ‘Lang maun she weep, lang lang maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep wi’ dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 20

‘For she has tint her lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I ha’e slain the comeliest swain
That ever pu’ed birks on the braes of Yarrow.

‘Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, reid? 25
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds,
Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow?

‘What’s yonder floats on the rueful flood?
What’s yonder floats? Oh, dule and sorrow! 30
Oh! ’tis the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful banks of Yarrow!

‘Wash, oh, wash his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 35
And lay him on the banks of Yarrow!

‘Then build, then build, ye sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi’ sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. 40

‘Curse ye, curse ye his useless shield,
The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow.

‘Did I not warn thee not to love, 45
And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow,
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm
Thou met’st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow,

‘Sweet smells the birk; green grows the grass,
Yellow on Yarrow’s braes the gowan, 50
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin’.

‘Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 55
The apple from its rocks as mellow.

‘Fair was thy love! fair, fair indeed thy love!
In flowery bands thou didst him fetter;
Though he was fair, and well-beloved again,
Than me he never loved thee better. 60

‘Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lo’e me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.’

C. ‘How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride, 65
How can I busk, a winsome marrow?
How lo’e him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my Love on the braes of Yarrow?

‘Oh, Yarrow fields! may never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 70
For there was basely slain my Love,
My Love, as he had not been a lover!

‘The boy put on his robes of green,
His purple vest, ’twas my ain sewin’:
Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew, 75
He was in these to meet his ruin.

‘The boy took out his milk-white steed,
Unmindful of my dule and sorrow;
But, ere the toofal of the night,
He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow. 80

‘Much I rejoiced that waeful day,
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my Love, and left me mourning.

‘What can my barbarous father do, 85
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My lover’s blood is on thy spear;
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

‘My happy sisters may be proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffing 90
May bid me seek on Yarrow’s braes
My lover nailèd in his coffin.

‘My brother Douglas may upbraid,
And strive with threatening words to move me;
My lover’s blude is on thy spear, 95
How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

‘Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,
With bridal-sheets my body cover;
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
Let in the expected husband-lover! 100

‘But who the expected husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.
Ah me! what ghastly spectre’s yon,
Comes in his pale shroud bleeding after?

‘Pale as he is, here lay him down, 105
Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow!
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.

‘Pale though thou art, yet best beloved,
Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee! 110
Yet lie all night between my breasts;
No youth lay ever there before thee.

‘Pale, pale indeed, O lovely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts; 115
No youth shall ever lie there after.’

A. Return, return, O mournful bride!
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow:
Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs;
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow! 120
_William Hamilton._

CLVI

_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; 5
But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa’ a week but only twa,
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; 10
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 toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi’ tears in his e’e 15
Said, Jennie, for their sakes, oh marry me!

My heart it said nay; I looked 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? 20

My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break:
They gi’ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 25
When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie’s wraith, for I couldna think it he--
Till he said, I’m come hame to marry thee.

O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away: 30
I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee;
And why was I born to say, Wae’s me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I’ll do my best a gude wife aye to be 35
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
_Lady Anne Lindsay._

CLVII

_THE PROGRESS OF POESY._

A PINDARIC ODE.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon’s harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow, 5
Drink life and fragrance as they flow,
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
Through verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain, 10
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

O Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares 15
And frantic Passions hear thy soft control:
On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War
Has curbed the fury of his car,
And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand 20
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 25
Tempered to thy warbled lay;
O’er Idalia’s velvet-green
The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen
On Cytherea’s day,
With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 30
Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet. 35
Slow-melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:
Where’er she turns, the Graces homage pay:
With arms sublime that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move 40
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Man’s feeble race what ills await,
Labour and penury, the racks of pain,
Disease, and sorrow’s weeping train,
And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! 45
The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews,
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, 50
He gives to range the dreary sky;
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion’s march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam, 55
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom,
To cheer the shivering native’s dull abode.
And oft, beneath the odorous shade
Of Chili’s boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 60
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where’er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame. 65

Woods that wave o’er Delphi’s steep,
Isles that crown the Ægean deep,
Fields that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander’s amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep, 70
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around;
Every shade and hallowed fountain 75
Murmured deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour,
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 80
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, O Albion, next thy sea-encircled coast.

Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 85
To him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntless Child
Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.
‘This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year: 90
Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.’

Nor second he, that rode sublime 95
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of the abyss to spy.
He passed the flaming bounds of place and time:
The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze, 100
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car,
Wide o’er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race, 105
With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding pace.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er,
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 110
But ah! ’tis heard no more--
O lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now? Though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban Eagle bear, 115
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray
With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun: 120
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the good how far!--but far above the great.
_Thomas Gray._

CLVIII

_SONNET._

When I behold thee, blameless Williamson,
Wrecked like an infant on a savage shore,
While others round on borrowed pinions soar,
My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun;
Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun, 5
While thus she speaks,--‘Those wings that from the store
Of virtue were not lent, howe’er they bore
In this gross air, will melt when near the sun.
The truly’ ambitious wait for nature’s time,
Content by certain, though by slow, degrees 10
To mount above the reach of vulgar flight;
Nor is that man confined to this low clime,
Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees,
And hears celestial echoes with delight.’
_Benjamin Stillingfleet._

CLIX

_TO THE RIVER LODON._

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun;
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! 5
While pensive Memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between,
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road; 10
Yet still one joy remains--that not obscure,
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,
From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature,
Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestowed.
_Thomas Warton._

CLX

_TO MARY UNWIN._

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 5
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings:--
But thou hast little need. There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 10
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright--
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.
_William Cowper._

CLXI

_TO THE SAME._

The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah would that this might be the last,
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 5
I see thee daily weaker grow--
’Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore, 10
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 15
My Mary!

But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary! 20

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 25
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see? 30
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine, 35
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary! 40

And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know 45
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past, 50
Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
My Mary!
_William Cowper._

CLXII

_TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON._