Chapter VI: Introduction (4)

When music waking, speaks the skylark nigh, Just starting from the corn, he cheerly sings, And trusts with conscious pride his downy wings; Still louder breathes, and in the face of day Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark his way. Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, And forms a friendly telescope, that lends Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, And place the wandering bird before his sight, That oft beneath a light cloud sweeps along, Lost for a while, yet pours the varied song. The eye still follows, and the cloud moves by; Again he stretches up the clear blue sky.

His form, his motion, undistinguish’d quite, Save when he wheels direct from shade to light; E’en then the songster a mere speck become, Gliding like fancy’s bubbles in a dream, The gazer sees * * * * ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 1766–1823.

THE MOORS OF JUTLAND.

FROM THE DANISH.

I lay on my heathery hills all alone,
The storm-winds rush’d o’er me in turbulence loud;
My head rested lone on the gray moorland stone,
My eyes wandered starward from cloud unto cloud.

There wandered my eyes, but my thoughts onward passed,
Far, far beyond cloud-track or tempests’ career;
At times I hummed songs, and the desolate waste
Was the first the sad chimes of my spirit to hear.

Gloomy and gray are the moorlands, where rest
My fathers, yet there doth the wild heather bloom;
And amid the old cairns the lark buildeth her nest,
And sings in the desert, o’er hill-top, and tomb!
_Translation of_ MRS. HOWITT. BLICKER.

THE RISING OF THE LARK.

For so have I seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and, soaring upward, sing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven, and climb above the clouds; but the poor bird was beaten back with the loud sighings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irregular and inconstant, descending more and more at every breath of the tempest than it could recover by the libration and frequent weighing of his wings; till the little creature was forced to sit down and pant, and stay till the storm was over, and then it made a prosperous flight, and did rise and sing, as if it had learned music and motion from an angel, as he passed sometimes through the air about his ministries here below: so is the prayer of a good man.

JEREMY TAYLOR, 1613–1667.

THE LARK.

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matins o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay, and loud,
Far in the downy cloud;
Love gives it energy—love gave it birth:
Where, on thy dewy wing—
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven—thy love is on earth.

O’er fell and fountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
O to abide in the desert with thee!
JAMES HOGG.

LARK.

To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain
(’Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain;
Yet might’st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine;
Type of the wise who soar but never roam;
Twin to the kindred points of Heaven and home.
WORDSWORTH.

LINES.

So when the lark, poor bird! afar espyeth
Her yet unfeathered children, whom to save
She strives in vain—slain by the fatal scythe,
Which from the meadow her green locks do shave,
That their warm nest is now become their grave.
The woful mother up to heaven springs,
And all about her plaintive notes she flings,
And their untimely fate most pitifully sings.
GILES FLETCHER, 1588–1623.

]

VI.
=May.=

What, alas! will become of those luckless wights—the future poets of Caffreland and New Zealand, of Patagonia and Pitcairn’s Island—when they suddenly awake to the miserable reality that there is no May in their year. May! The very word in itself is charming; pleasing to the eye, falling sweetly on the ear, gliding naturally into music and song, dowered with innumerable images of beauty and delight, imaginary bliss, and natural joy. What, we ask again, will be the melancholy consequences to the southern hemisphere when they become fully conscious that they have lost the “merry month,” the “soote season,” from their calendar—that with them January must forever linger in the lap of May. Conceive of Hottentot elegies and Fejee sonnets enlarging upon the balmy airs and soft skies of November; raving about the tender young blossoms of December, and the delicate fruits of January. Will the world ever become really

accustomed to such a change of key? We doubt it. After all, there is something in primogeniture; it naturally gives all the honors of precedence. Those writers who first caught the ear of the listening earth will always have the best of it; their successors must fain be content to yield a certain homage to long-established privileges. It will be a great while yet—at least a thousand years or so—before the Dryden of Port Sidney or the Camoens of Paraguay shall venture to say hard things of May!

MAY MORNING.

SONG.

Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flow’ry May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing; Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long! JOHN MILTON

EMILIA ON MAY DAY.

FROM “PALAMON AND ARCITE.”

Thus year by year they pass, and day by day, Till once, ’twas on the morn of cheerful May, The young Emilia, fairer to be seen Than the fair lily on the flowery green— More fresh than May herself in blossoms new— For with the rosy color strove her hue— Waked, as her custom was, before the day, To do th’ observance due to sprightly May: For sprightly May commands our youth to keep The vigils of her nights, and breaks their sluggard sleep. Each gentle breath with kindly warmth she moves; Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves. In this remembrance, Emily, ere day, Arose, and dress’d herself in rich array; Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair, Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair; A ribbon did the braided tresses bind, The rest was loose, and wanton’d in the wind, Aurora had but newly chas’d the night, And purpled o’er the sky with blushing light, When to the garden walk she took her way To sport and trip along in cool of day, And offer maiden vows in honor of the May. At every turn she made a little stand, And thrust among the thorns her lily hand, To draw the rose; and every rose she drew, She shook the stalk, and brush’d away the dew; Then parti-colored flowers of white and red She wove, to make a garland for her head: This done, she sung and carrol’d out so clear, That men and angels might rejoice to hear: Our wandering Philomel forgot to sing, And learned from her to welcome in the spring. JOHN DRYDEN.

]

SALUTATION OF MAIA.

FROM THE “MASQUE OF THE PENATES.”

If every pleasure were distilled Of every flower in every field, And all that Hybla’s hives do yield, Were into one broad mazer filled; If thereto added all the gums And spice that from Panchaïs comes, The odor that Hydaspes lends, Or Phœnix proves before she ends; If all the air my Flora drew, Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew, Were put therein; and all the dew That every rosy morning knew; Yet all diffused upon this bower, To make one sweet detaining hour, Were much too little for the grace And honor you vouchsafe the place; But if you please to come again, We vow we will not then with vain And empty pastimes entertain Your so desired, though grieved, pain;

For we will have the wanton fawns, That frisking skip about the lawns, The Panisks and the Sylvans rude, Satyrs, and all that multitude, To dance their wilder rounds about, To cleave the air with many a shout, As they would hunt poor Echo out Of yonder valley, who doth flout, Their rustic noises, to visit whom, You shall behold whole bevies come Of gaudy nymphs, whose tender calls Well tuned unto the many falls Of sweet and several sliding rills, That stream from tops of those less hills, Like so many silver quills, When Zephyr them with music fills. For them Favonius here shall blow New flowers, that you shall see to grow— Of which each hand a part shall take, And for your heads fresh garlands make, Wherewith, while they your temples round, An air of several birds shall sound An Io Pæon, that shall drown The acclamation at your crown. All this, and more than I have give gift of saying, May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying. BEN JONSON, 1574–1637.

SONG

FROM THE GERMAN OF THE MINNESINGERS.

Up, up! let us greet
The season so sweet,
For winter is gone,
And the flowers are springing,
And little birds singing,
Their soft notes ringing,
And bright is the sun!
Where all was dressed
In a snowy vest;
There grass is growing,
With dew-drops glowing,
And flowers are seen
On beds of green.

All down in the grove,
Around, above,
Sweet music floats;
As now loudly vying,
Now softly sighing,
The nightingale’s plying
Her tuneful notes;
And joyous at spring,
Her companions sing,
Up, maidens, repair
To the meadows so fair,
And dance we away,
This merry May.
_Translation of_ E. TAYLOR. GOTTFRIED VON NIFEN, _about 1200_.

MAY.

FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.

May, sweet May, again is come— May, that frees the land from gloom; Children, children, up and see All her stores of jollity! On the laughing hedgerow’s side She hath spread her treasures wide; She is in the greenwood shade, Where the nightingale hath made Every branch and every tree Ring with her sweet melody; Hill and dale are May’s own treasures. Youths, rejoice! In sportive measures Sing ye! join the chorus gay! Hail this merry, merry May!

Up, then, children! we will go Where the blooming roses grow; In a joyful company We the bursting flowers will see: Up; your festal dress prepare! Where gay hearts are meeting—there May hath pleasures most inviting, Heart, and sight, and ear delighting. Listen to the bird’s sweet song; Hark! how soft it floats along!

Courtly dames our pleasures share! Never saw I May so fair; Therefore dancing will we go. Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow! Sing ye! join the chorus gay! Hail this merry, merry May!

Our manly youths, where are they now? Bid them up and with us go, To the sporters on the plain: Bid adieu to care and pain, Now, thou pale and wounded lover! Thou thy peace shalt soon recover, Many a laughing lip and eye Speaks the light heart’s gayety; Lovely flowers around we find, In the smiling verdure twined; Richly steeped in May-dews glowing. Youths, rejoice! the flowers are blowing! Sing ye! join the chorus gay! Hail this merry, merry May!

O, if to my love restored— To her, o’er all her sex adored— What supreme delight were mine! How would care her sway resign? Merrily in the bloom of May Would I weave a garland gay. Better than the best is she, Purer than all purity; For her spotless self alone, I will praise this changeless one: Thankful, or unthankful, she Shall my song, my idol be. Youths, then join the chorus gay! Hail this merry, merry May! _Translation of_EDGAR TAYLOR. CONRAD V. KIRCHBERG, _about 1170_.

SONG.

FROM “ANGLING REMINISCENCES.”

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Meet the morn upon the lea;
Are the emeralds of the spring
On the angler’s trysting-tree?

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Have you met the honey bee,
Circling upon rapid wing,
'Round the angler’s trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see!
Are there bees at our willow-tree?
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Are the fountains gushing free?
Is the south wind wandering
Through the angler’s trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Is there wind up our willow-tree?
Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Wile us with a merry glee;
To the flowery haunts of spring—
To the angler’s trysting-tree.
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?
Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?
STODDART.

MAY.

I feel a newer life in every gale;
The winds that fan the flowers,
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours—
Of hours that glide unfelt away,
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air;
And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there.
The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,
To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;
And from its darkening shadow floats,
A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
The tresses of the woods,
With the light dallying of the west-wind play,
And the full-brimming floods,
As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.
JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

VII.
=The Flock.=

Dyer’s poem of “The Fleece,” though little read now-a-days, has found warm admirers among the great poets of England. Akenside once remarked that he should regulate his opinion of the public taste by the reception of “The Fleece;” for if it were not to succeed, “he should think it no longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence.” And Mr. Wordsworth appears to have been very much of the same opinion:

“Bard of 'The Fleece,’ whose skillful genius made
That work a living landscape, fair and bright,

* * * * *

Though party Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd’s bleating flock shall stray
O’er naked Snowdon’s wide aerial waste—
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill.”

Dyer is one of those writers whose higher efforts have been little heeded, while his lesser works have been much liked. “Grongar Hill” and “The Country Walk” have been always read with pleasure, while the “Ruins of Rome” and “The Fleece” lie on the shelf unopened. The saucy critic, who on hearing, shortly after the publication of “The Fleece,” that Dyer was growing old, exclaimed, “He will be buried in woolen!” has proved at least a true seer. The world never forgives a man of approved talent, who, having once fixed its attention agreeably, fails in some higher and later aim. The game of authorship is, in this sense, like many other games, where, if the last throw is a blank, you lose all that has been previously won from the pool of fame and fortune. The public has very little patience. But, on the other hand, we can not always adhere implicitly to the opinion of some wiser judge, though he be of the higher court, who may desire to revoke the earlier general decision. The literary man usually makes up his mind regarding a book upon very different grounds from the general reader; the public decides rapidly, from first impressions, from general views; it has neither time nor ability to waste on analysis; the critic delights in looking very closely at his subject, and his enjoyment of perfection of detail is often too great. The public is, no doubt, the best judge of the interest of a work, since it considers little else. The man of letters holds the best gauge of talent; he appreciates more justly excellency of workmanship and accuracy of finish. But a really great book is not written for one class only—it should satisfy the best of all classes; it must have more than one kind of merit—it must possess interest for the careless reader, skill and good workmanship for the critic, power and inspiration to strike the spark from kindred genius. There is quite a large class of poetical works especially, which, while they meet with more or less approbation from the critic, fail to please generally; they lack interest; the writer has had talent enough to introduce much that is good, or, perhaps, even admirable passages, at intervals; but he has not been endowed

with the genius which grasps, and controls, and shapes, and vivifies every subject which it handles. Among this class may be placed “The Fleece.” The writer, John Dyer, was a Welshman of respectable parentage, born in 1700, who first studied law, then became a painter, and finally took orders in the Church of England. The extract we have given from “The Fleece” scarcely does justice to the merits of the poem, but we have selected it from its predictions regarding our own country; not only do Virginia and Massachusetts appear on the scene, but even California figures in these verses, written more than a hundred years ago.

ON A RURAL IMAGE OF PAN.

FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

Sleep, ye rude winds! Be every murmur dead
On yonder oak-crowned promontory’s head!
Be still, ye bleating flocks—your shepherd calls.
Hang silent on your rocks, ye waterfalls!
Pan on his oaten pipe awakes the strains,
And fills with dulcet sounds the pastoral plains.
Lured by his notes, the nymphs their bowers forsake,
From every fountain, running stream, and lake,
From every hill and ancient grove around,
And to symphonious measures strike the ground.
_Translation of_ J. H. MERIVALE.

PASTORAL SCENE FROM “THE ARCADIA.”

There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows enameled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam’s comfort; here a shepherd’s boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, 1554–1586.

FROM THE “FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.”

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up, for the air 'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course hath run. See the dew-drops, how they kiss Every little flower that is Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a rope of crystal beads; See the heavy clouds low-falling, And bright Hesperus down calling The dead night from underground; At whose rising, mists unsound, Damps and vapors fly apace, Hovering o’er the wanton face Of those pastures where they come, Striking dead both bud and bloom. Therefore, from such danger lock Every one his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come as a scout From the mountain, and, ere day, Bear a lamb or kid away; Or the crafty, thievish foe Break upon your simple flocks. To secure yourself from these, Be not too secure in ease; Let one eye his watches keep, While the other eye doth sleep; So you shall good shepherds prove, And for ever hold the love Of our great God. Sweetest slumbers, And soft silence, fall in numbers On your eyelids! so farewell! Thus I end my evening knell! JOHN FLETCHER, 1576–1625.

THE SHEPHERD’S LIFE.

Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd’s life and state, When courts are happiness’ unhappy pawns! His cottage low, and safely humble gate Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns;

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep:
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride: His lambs’ warm fleece well fits his little need, Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed: No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright; Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite: But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music and base flattering tongues, Which wait to first salute my Lord’s uprise; The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, And birds’ sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes: In country plays is all the strife he uses, Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses; And, but in music’s sports, all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets and rich content: The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noon-tide’s rage is spent: His life is neither tost in boist’rous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease; Pleas’d and full bless’d he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place: His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father’s face: Never his humble house or state torment him; Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him. PHINEAS FLETCHER, 1584–1650.

THE SHEPHERD’S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE.

Good Muse, rocke me aslepe
With some swete harmony:
This wearie eyes is not to kepe
Thy wary company.

Sweete Love, begone a while,
Thou seest my heavinesse;
Beautie is borne but to beguyle
My harte of happinesse.

See how my little flocke,
That lovde to feede on highe,
Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke,
And in the valley dye.

The bushes and the trees,
That were so freshe and greene,
Doe all their daintie colors leese,
And not a leafe is seene.

The blacke bird and the thrushe,
That made the woodes to ringe,
With all the rest, are now at hushe,
And not a note they singe.

Swete Philomele, the birde
That hath the heavenly throte,
Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde
Recordinge of a note.

The flowers have had a frost,
The herbes have lost their savoure;
And Phillada the faire hath lost
For me her wonted favour.

Thus all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That now to hope upon delights
It is but mere deceite.

And therefore my sweete muse,
That knoweth what helpe is best,
Doe nowe thy heavenlie cunning use
To sett my harte at rest.

And in a dream bewraie
What fate shall be my friende;
Whether my life shall still decaye,
Or when my sorrowes ende.
NICHOLAS BRETON, _about 1570_.

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.[9]

In the merrie moneth of Maye, In a morne by break of daye, With a troope of damsells playing, Forth I yode forsooth a maying;

Where anon by a wood side, Where as May was in his pride, I espied all alone Phillida and Corydon.

Much adoe there was, God wot; He wold love, and she wold not. She sayde never man was trewe; He sayes none was false to you.

He sayde hee had lovde her longe: She sayes love should have no wronge. Corydon wold kisse her then: She sayes maids must kisse no men,

Tyll they doe for good and all. When she made the shepperde call All the heavens to wytnes truthe, Never lov’d a truer youthe.

Then with many a prettie othe, Yea, and naye, and faithe and trothe; Such as seelie shepperdes use When they will not love abuse;

Love that had bene long deluded Was with kisses swete concluded; And Phillida with garlands gaye Was made the ladye of the Maye. N. BRETON.

SHEARING TIME.

FROM “THE FLEECE.”

If verdant elder spreads
Her silver flowers; if humble daisies yield
To yellow crowfoot and luxuriant grass,
Gay shearing-time approaches. First, howe’er,
Drive to the double fold, upon the brim
Of a clear river; gently drive the flock,
And plunge them one by one into the flood.
Plunged in the flood, not long the struggler sinks,
With his white flakes, that glisten through the tide;
The sturdy rustic, in the middle wave
Awaits to seize him rising; one arm bears
His lifted head above the limpid stream,
While the full, clammy fleece the other laves
Around, laborious with repeated toil,
And then resigns him to the sunny bank,
Where, bleating loud, he shakes his dripping locks.

Now to the other hemisphere, my muse!
A new world found, extend thy daring wing.
Be thou the first of the harmonious nine
From high Parnassus, the unwearied toils
Of industry and valor, in that world
Triumphant, to reward with tuneful song.

Happy the voyage o’er the Atlantic brine,
By active Raleigh made, and great the joy
When he discern’d, above the foaming surge,
A rising coast, for future colonies,
Opening her bays, and figuring her capes,
E’en from the northern tropic to the pole.
No land gives more employment for the loom,
Or kindlier feeds the indigent; no land
With more variety of wealth rewards
The hand of labor: thither, from the wrongs
Of lawless rule, the free-born spirit flies;

Thither affliction, thither poverty,
And arts and sciences; thrice happy clime,
Which Britain makes th’ asylum of mankind.
But joy superior far his bosom warms,
Who views those shores in every culture dressed;
With habitations gay, and numerous towns
On hill and valley; and his countrymen
Formed into various states, powerful and rich,
In regions far remote; who from our looms
Take largely for themselves, and for those tribes
Of Indians, ancient tenants of the land,
In amity conjoin’d, of civil life
The comforts taught, and various new desires
Which kindle arts, and occupy the poor,
And spread Britannia’s flocks o’er every dale.
Ye, who the shuttle cast along the loom,
The silkworm’s thread inweaving with the fleece,
Pray for the culture of the Georgian track,
Nor slight the green savannas and the plains
Of Carolina, where thick woods arise
Of mulberries, and in whose watered fields
Upsprings the verdant blade of thirsty rice.
Where are the happy regions which afford
More implements of commerce and of wealth?
Fertile Virginia, like a vigorous bough,
Which overshades some crystal river, spreads
Her wealthy cultivations wide around,
And, more than many a spacious realm, rewards
The fleecy shuttle: to her growing marts
The Iroquese, Cheroquese, and Oubaches come,
And quit their feathery ornaments uncouth
For woolly garments; and the cheers of life—
The cheers, but not the vices, learn to taste.
Blush, Europeans! whom the circling cup
Of luxury intoxicates; ye routs,
Who, for your crimes, have fled your native land;
And ye voluptuous idle, who in vain
Seek easy habitations, void of care:
The sons of Nature with astonishment
And detestation mark your evil deeds,
And view, no longer aw’d, your nerveless arms,
Unfit to cultivate Ohio’s banks.
See the bold emigrants of Acadie
And Massachuset, happy in those arts
That join the politics of trade and war,

Bearing the palm in either; they appear
Better exemplars; and that hardy crew
Who, on the frozen beach of Newfoundland,
Hang their white fish amid the parching winds;
The kindly fleece, in webs of Duffield woof,
Their limbs, benumb’d, infold with cheerly warmth;
And frieze of Cambria, worn by those who seek
Through gulfs and dales of Hudson’s winding bay
The beaver’s fur, though oft they seek in vain;
While Winter’s frosty rigor checks approach
E’en in the fiftieth latitude. Say why
(If ye, the travel’d sons of commerce, know),
Wherefore lie bound their rivers, lakes, and dales
Half the sun’s annual course in chains of ice,
While the Rhine’s fertile shore, and Gallic realms,
By the same zone encircled, long enjoy
Warm beams of Phœbus, and, supine, behold
Their plains and hillocks blush with clustering vines?
Must it be ever thus? or may the hand
Of mighty labor drain their gusty lakes,
Enlarge the brightening sky, and, peopling, warm
The opening valleys and the yellowing plains?
Or, rather, shall we burst strong Darien’s chain,
Steer our bold fleets between the cloven rocks,
And through the great Pacific every joy
Of civil life diffuse? Are not her isles
Numerous and large? Have they not harbors calm,
Inhabitants, and manners? Haply, too,
Peculiar sciences, and other forms
Of trade, and useful products, to exchange
For woolly vestures? * * *

* * * * *

A day will come, if not too deep we drink
The cup which luxury, on careless wealth,
Pernicious gift! bestows. A day will come,
When, through new channels sailing, we shall clothe
The Californian coast, and all the realms
That stretch from Anian’s straits to proud Japan.
DYER’S _Fleece_, 1700–1758.

]

A FAYRE AND HAPPY MILK-MAID.

Is a countrey wench, that is so farre from making her selfe beautifull by art, that one looke of hers is able to put _all face physicke_ out of countenance. She knowes a faire looke is but a _dumbe orator_ to commend

virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolne upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparall (which is her selfe) is farre better than outsides of tisseu; for though she be not arraied in the spoile of the silke-worme, shee is deckt in _innocency_, a farre better wearing. She doth not, with lying long abed, spoile both her _complexion_ and _conditions_. Nature hath taught her too immoderate sleepe is rust to the soule; she rises, therefore, with _chaunticleare_, her dame’s cock, and at night makes the _lambe_ her _curfew_. In milking a cow, a-straining the _teats_ through her fingers, it seems that so sweete a milk-presse makes the milk the whiter or sweeter; for never came _almond glove_, or _aromatique oyntment_ on her palme to taint it. The golden eares of corne fall and kisse her feet when she reapes them, as if they wisht to be bound, and led prisoners by the same hand that fell’d them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the yeare long of _June_, like a new-made hay-cocke. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pity; and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her mery wheele) she sings a defiance to the giddy _wheele of fortune_. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems _ignorance_ will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to doe well. She bestowes her yeare’s wages at next faire; and in chusing her garments, counts no bravery i’ the world like decency. The _garden_ and _bee-hive_ are all her physick and chyrurgerye, and shee lives the longer for’t. She dares goe alone, and unfold sheepe i’ the night, and feares no manner of ill, because she meanes none; yet to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still accompanied with _old songs_, _honest thoughts_, and _prayers_, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not pauled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly: her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Fridaie’s dream is all her _superstition_: that shee conceales for feare of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is that she may die in the _spring-time_, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet.

SIR THOMAS OVERBURY, 1581–1613.

SHEEP-PASTURES.

The Teviot takes its course through wide valleys of smooth, extended pasturage, sloping down to it in all directions, and in general forming beautiful lines, though otherwise void of all those circumstances, and that variety of objects, particularly of wood, which give beauty to landscape. In some parts these valleys are also contracted, but in a different manner from those of the Esk. The same breadth of feature is still preserved which we had in the more open parts, only it is here brought nearer to the eye. Though the lofty skreens rush down precipitately to the river, and contract the valleys, you see plainly they are the parts of

a large-featured country, and in a style of landscape very different from those little irriguous valleys which we had left.

The downy sides of all these valleys are covered with sheep, which often appear to hang upon immense green walls. So steep is the descent in some parts, that the eye from the bottom scarce distinguishes the slope from a perpendicular. Several of these mountainous slopes (for some of them are very lofty) are finely tinted with mosses of different hues, which give them a very rich surface. This, however, is probably the garb which nature wears only in the summer months. She has a variety of dresses for all seasons, and all so becoming, that when she deposits one, and assumes another, she is always adorned with beauties peculiar to herself.

GILPIN’S “_Highlands of Scotland_.”

THE SPINNER’S SONG.

Turn, busy wheel, turn, busy wheel,
And pile upon the circling reel
A thread as fine and free
As that the insect artist weaves,
In autumn mornings, 'midst the leaves,
Of yon old apple-tree,
The moss-grown apple-tree,
The dewy, filmy apple-tree!

Turn, busy wheel, turn swiftly round,
And blend with my wild song thy sound
Of peaceful industry;
Such sound as loads the summer breeze,
When, gathering their sweet store, the bees
Crowd yon broad linden-tree,
The flowery, shadowy linden-tree!
MARY R. MITFORD.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING-WHEEL.

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF
WESTMORELAND.

Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel! Night has brought the welcome hour, When the weary fingers feel Help as if from fairy power; Dewy night o’ershades the ground, Turn the swift wheel round and round.

Now beneath the starry sky Rest the widely-scattered sheep; Ply the pleasant labor, ply, For the spindle, while they sleep, With a motion smooth and fine, Gathers up a trustier line.

Short-lived likings may be bred By a glance of feeble eyes; But true love is like the thread Which the kindly wool supplies, When the flocks are all at rest, Sleeping on the mountain’s breast. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

WURTHA.

Through the autumn mists so red
Shot the slim and golden stocks
Of the ripe corn; Wurtha said,
“Let us cut them for our flocks.”

Answered I, “When morning leaves
Her bright footprints on the sea,
As I cut and bind the sheaves,
Wurtha, thou shalt glean for me.”

“Nay; the full moon shines so bright,
All along the vale below,
I could count our flocks to-night;
Haco, let us rise and go;
For when bright the risen morn
Leaves her footprints on the sea,
Thou may’st cut and bind the corn,
But I can not glean for thee.”

And as I my reed so light
Blowing sat, her fears to calm,
Said she, “Haco, yesternight,
In my dream, I missed a lamb;
And as down the misty vale
Went I pining for the lost,
Something shadowy and pale
And phantom-like my pathway crossed—
Saying, 'In a chilly bed,
Low and dark, but full of peace,
For your coming, softly spread,
Is the dead lamb’s snowy fleece.’”

Passed the sweetest of all eves—
Morn was breaking for our flocks;
“Let us go and bind the sheaves,
All the slim and golden stocks;
Wake, my Wurtha, wake”—but still
Were her lips as still could be,
And her folded hands too chill
Ever more to glean for me.
ALICE CAREY.

TO MEADOWS.

Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been filled with flowers;
And ye the walks have been
Where maids have spent their hours.

Ye have beheld where they
With wicker arks did come,
To kiss and bear away
The richer cowslips home.

You’ve heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round;
Each virgin, like the spring,
With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here
Whose silvery feet did tread,
And with disheveled hair
Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock, and needy grown,
You’re left here to lament
Your poor estates alone.
ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

FRENCH SONG.

Dear the felicity,
Gentle, and fair, and sweet,
Love and simplicity,
When tender shepherds meet:

Better than store of gold,
Silver and gems untold,
Manners refined and cold,
Which to our lords belong!
We, when our toil is past,
Softest delight can taste,
While summer’s beauties last,
Dance, feast, and jocund song;
And in our hearts a joy
No envy can destroy.
_Translated by_ LOUISA COSTELLO. MARTIAL D’AUVERGNE, 1440–1508.

VIII.
=The Garland.=

Among the pieces in the following group will be found some old verses of Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld. This ancient Scottish poet and Church dignitary was a son of the famous Archibald, earl of Argus, surnamed Bell-the-Cat, from his share in one of the peculiar conspiracies of that strange period—a conspiracy which resulted in hanging a number of the royal favorites of James III., chiefly architects and musicians, ennobled by that prince. James was in this respect too liberal in his tastes to please the fierce old barons surrounding his throne, though doubtless his favor was often weakly lavished upon those in whose society he took pleasure. But one would hardly have expected to find the leader of such a conspiracy the father of a distinguished poet; such, however, was the fact. Bishop Gawain was a great clerk in his day. He wrote a metrical version of the Æneid in the Scottish dialect, and many lesser poetical works, admitted to possess

great merit. Sir Walter Scott has introduced both father and son in Marmion. He makes old Bell-the-Cat appear in his true character:

“A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed!
At first in heart it liked me ill,
When the king praised his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line;
So swore I, and I swear it still—
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.”
_Canto VI._

And in another passage we have the poet-bishop himself:

“Amid that dim and smoky light,
Checkering the silver moonshine bright—
A bishop by the altar stood,
A noble lord of Douglas’ blood.
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.
Yet show’d his meek and thoughtful eye,
But little pride of prelacy;
More pleased that in a barbarous age
He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page,
Than that beneath his rule he held
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.”
_Canto VI._

Bishop Gawain was compelled by the troubles in Scotland to flee from his native country, and to take refuge at the court of Henry VIII., where he lived for years an honored exile, dying in 1522, at London, of the plague. He was born in 1474. Each canto of his translation of Virgil was preceded by an original prologue; the address to Spring—whence the extract on flowers is taken—is one of the most pleasing of these, and forms his introduction to the 12th Canto of the Æneid. Far from regretting the Scotticisms of his style, the bishop only mourned that his verses were still so English in their aspect: a defect which will not be likely to strike the modern reader. But in spite of the obsolete words and rugged style, the touch of a poetical spirit, and something of the freshness of the natural blossoms still lingers about Bishop Gawain’s Spring chaplet.

FLOWERS.

Through their beauty, and variety of coloure, and exquisite forme, they do bringe to a liberal and gentle minde the remembrance of honestie, comelinesse, and all kinds of virtues; for it would be an unseemly thing (as a certain wise man saith) for him that doth look upon and handle faire and beautiful things, and who frequenteth and is conversant in faire and beautiful places, to have his minde not faire also.

JOHN GERARDE, 1545–1607.

SPRING-FLOWERS.

And blissful blossoms in the bloomed sward,
Submit their heads in the young sun’s safeguard;
Ivy-leaves rank o’erspread the barkmekyn wall;
The bloomed hawthorn clad his pykis all
Forth of fresh burgeons; the wine-grapis ying,
Endlong the twistis did on trestles hing.
The locked buttons on the gummed trees,
O’erspreadant leaves of nature’s tapestries;
Soft, grassy verdure, after balmy showers,
On curland stalkis smiland to their flowers,
Beholdant them so maine devirs hue:
Some pers, some pale, some burnet, and some blue;
Some gray, some gules, some purpure, some sanguene,
Blanchet, or brown, fauch-colour many one—
Some heavenly-coloured in celestial gré,
Some watery-hued, as the haw-waly sea;
And some depeint in freckles red and white;
Some bright as gold, with aureate levis lite.
The daisie did unbraid her crownal small,
And every flower unlapped in the dale.
The flower-de-luce forth spread out his heavenly hue,
Flower-damas, and columbo black and blue,
Sere downis smale on dandelion sprung,
The young green-bloomed strawberry leaves among;
Gimp gilliflowers their own leaves unshet
Fresh primrose, and the purpure violet.
The rose-knobbis tetand forth their heads.
Gen chip and kyth their vernal lippis red,
Crisp scarlet leaves sheddant baith at aines,
Cast fragrant smell amid from golden grains.
Heavenly lilies with lockerand toppis white
Opened, and shew their crestis redemite,
The balmy vapour from their silver croppis
Distilland wholesome sugared honey-droppis,
So that ilke burgeon, scion, herb, or flower
Wose all embalmed of the sweet liquore
And bathed did in dulce humoures flete
Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet.
GAWAIN DOUGLAS, _Bishop of Dunkeld_.

]

_Barmekyn_, barbican; _pers_, light blue; _burnet_, brownish; _gules_,
scarlet; _fauch-colour_, fawn; _celestial gre_, sky-blue; _haw-waly_,
dark-waved; _lite_, little; _flower-damas_, damask rose; _rose-knobbis
tetand_, rose-buds peeping; _kyth_, show; _locherand_, curling;
_redemite_, crowned; _croppis_, heads.

ARRANGEMENTS OF A BOUQUET.

Here damask roses, white and red,
Out of my lap first take I,
Which still shall run along the thread
My chiefest flower this make I.

Among these roses in a row,
Next place I pinks in plenty,
These double pansies then for show,
And will not this be dainty?

The pretty pansy then I’ll tie
Like stones some chain enchasing;
And next to them, their near ally,
The purple violet placing.

The curious choice clove July flower,
Whose kind hight the carnation,
For sweetness of most sovereign power,
Shall help my wreath to fashion;

Whose sundry colors of one kind,
First from one root derived,
Them in their several suits I’ll bind:
My garland so contrived.

A course of cowslips then I’ll stick,
And here and there (so sparely)
The pleasant primrose down I’ll prick,
Like pearls that will show rarely;

Then with these marigolds I’ll make
My garland somewhat swelling,
These honeysuckles then I’ll take,
Whose sweets shall help their smelling.

The lily and the fleur-de-lis,
For color much contending,
For that I them do only prize,
They are but poor in scenting;

The daffodil most dainty is,
To match with these in meetness;
The columbine compared to this,
All much alike for sweetness.

These in their natures only are
Fit to emboss the border,
Therefore I’ll take especial care
To place them in their order:

Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine,
One by another neatly:
Thus have I made this wreath of mine,
And finished it featly.
MICHAEL DRAYTON, 1563–1631.

HEART’S-EASE.

* * * * * * * I saw, Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm’d; a certain aim he took At a fair vestal throned in the west. And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon. And the imperial vot’ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, Will make a man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564–1616.

THE GARLAND.

The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, the lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look’d more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.

Undress’d at evening, when she found
Their odors lost, their colors past,
She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp’d sense distinct and clear,
As any Muse’s tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,
“My love, my life,” said I, “explain
This change of humor; pr’ythee tell:
That falling tear—what does it mean?”

She sigh’d; she smiled: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said—
“See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made!”

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty, are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay;
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow’d:
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kiss’d her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid the Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow.
MATTHEW PRIOR, 1664–1721.

TO PRIMROSES

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
Just as the modest morn
Teem’d her refreshing dew!
Alas! ye have not known that shower
That mars a flower;
Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warp’d as we,
Who think it strange to see
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why
Ye droop and weep;
Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?
Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?
Or brought a kiss
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown,
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read:
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.
ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

TO THE NARCISSUS.

Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise;
Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine,
Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame,
Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.

ECHO.

His name revives, and lifts me up from earth; See, see the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet Th’ untimely fate of that too beauteous boy, That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature, Who (now transform’d into this drooping flower) Hangs the repentant head back from the stream; As if it wish’d—would I had never look’d In such a flattering mirror! O, Narcissus! Thou that wast once (and yet art) my Narcissus, Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts, She would have dropped away herself in tears Till she had all turn’d waste, that in her (As in a true glass) thou might’st have gazed, And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection. But self-love never yet could look on truth But with blear’d beams; slick flattery and she Are twin-born sisters, and do mix their eyes, As if you sever one, the other dies. Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form, And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it? Why do I ask? ’Tis now the known disease That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense Of her own self-conceived excellence. O hadst thou known the worth of Heaven’s rich gift, Thou wouldst have turn’d it to a truer use, And not (with starved and covetous ignorance) Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem, The glance whereof to others had been more Than to thy famish’d mind the wide world’s store. BEN JONSON, 1574–1637.

THE ROSE.

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

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

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

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

Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;
And teach the maid
That goodness Time’s rude hand defies;
That virtue lives when beauty dies.
EDMUND WALLER, 1605–1687.

ANCIENT SERVIAN SONG.

O my fountain, so fresh and cool,
O my rose, so rosy red!
Why art thou blown out so early?
None have I to pluck thee for!
If I plucked thee for my mother—
Ah, poor girl, I have no mother.
If I plucked thee for my sister—
Gone is my sister with her husband.

If I plucked thee for my brother—
To the war my brother’s gone.
If I plucked thee for my lover—
Gone 's my lover far away!
Far away, o’er three green mountains,
Far away, o’er three cool fountains!
_Translated by_ TALVI.

TO BLOSSOMS.

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

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

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne’er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you awhile they glide,
Into the grave.
ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

CHILDREN’S POSIES.

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”

The amusements and fancies of children, when connected with flowers, are always pleasing, being generally the conceptions of innocent minds unbiased by artifice or pretense; and their love of them seems to spring from a genuine feeling and admiration—a kind of sympathy with objects as fair as their own untainted minds; and I think it is early flowers which constitute their first natural playthings; though summer presents a greater number and variety, they are not so fondly selected. We have our daisies strung and wreathed about our dress; our coronals of orchises and primroses, our cowslip balls, etc.; and one

application of flowers at this season I have noticed, which, though perhaps it is local, yet it has a remarkably pretty effect, forming, for the time, one of the gayest little shrubs that can be seen. A small branch or long spray of the whitethorn, with all its spines uninjured, is selected; and on these, its alternate thorns, a white and blue violet, plucked from their stalks, are stuck upright in succession, until the thorns are covered, and when placed in a flower-pot of moss, it has perfectly the appearance of a beautiful vernal flowering dwarf shrub, and as long as it remains fresh is an object of surprise and delight.

J. L. KNAPP.

LOVE’S WREATH.

When Love was a child, and went idling round
Among flowers the whole summer’s day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,
So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair,
A fountain ran darkly beneath;
’Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there,
Love knew it and jump’d at the wreath.

But Love did not know—and at his weak years,
What urchin was likely to know?—
That sorrow had made of her own salt tears,
That fountain which murmur’d below.

He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste,
As boys when impatient will do;
It fell in those waters of briny taste,
And the flowers were all wet through.

Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day;
And though it all sunny appears
With Pleasure’s own luster, each leaf, they say,
Still tastes of the fountain of tears.
THOMAS MOORE.

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet, the early-rising sun
Has not attain’d its noon.

Stay, stay,
Until the hastening day
Has run
But to the even song;
And having pray’d together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer’s rain,
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.
ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.