Chapter 2

The Spirit sings: SABRINA fair Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of Lillies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair, Listen for dear honour's sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen and save!

Listen and appear to us, In name of great Oceanus, By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, And Tethys grave majestick pace, By hoary Nereus wrincled look, And the Carpathian wisards hook, By scaly Tritons winding shell, And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell, By Leucothea's lovely hands, And her son that rules the strands, By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet, And the Songs of Sirens sweet, By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, And fair Ligea's golden comb, Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks Sleeking her soft alluring locks, By all the Nymphs that nightly dance Upon thy streams with wily glance, Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head From thy coral-pav'n bed, And bridle in thy headlong wave, Till thou our summons answered have. Listen and save!

Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank, Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, My sliding Chariot stayes, Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green That in the channell strayes, Whilst from off the waters fleet Thus I set my printless feet O're the Cowslips Velvet head, That bends not as I tread, Gentle swain at thy request I am here.

John Milton. 1608-1674

316. From 'Comus' iv

The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that ly Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky: There I suck the liquid ayr All amidst the Gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree: Along the crisped shades and bowres Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres, Thither all their bounties bring, That there eternal Summer dwels, And West winds, with musky wing About the cedar'n alleys fling Nard, and Cassia's balmy smels. Iris there with humid bow, Waters the odorous banks that blow Flowers of more mingled hew Than her purfl'd scarf can shew, And drenches with Elysian dew (List mortals, if your ears be true) Beds of Hyacinth, and roses Where young Adonis oft reposes, Waxing well of his deep wound In slumber soft, and on the ground Sadly sits th' Assyrian Queen; But far above in spangled sheen Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't, Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc't After her wandring labours long, Till free consent the gods among Make her his eternal Bride, And from her fair unspotted side Two blissful twins are to be born, Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. But now my task is smoothly don, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earths end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon. Mortals that would follow me, Love vertue, she alone is free. She can teach ye how to clime Higher then the Spheary chime; Or if Vertue feeble were, Heav'n it self would stoop to her.

John Milton. 1608-1674

317. Lycidas A Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear. Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may som gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a field, and both together heard What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the White thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: Ay me, I fondly dream! Had ye bin there--for what could that have don? What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, The Muse her self, for her inchanting son Whom Universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. Alas! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, Were it not better don as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my Oate proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea That came in Neptune's plea, He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked Promontory, They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatall and perfidious Bark Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake, Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake, How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Anow of such as for their bellies sake, Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make, Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, But that two-handed engine at the door, Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, That on the green terf suck the honied showres, And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, The glowing Violet. The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine. With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves Where other groves, and other streams along, With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet Societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills, While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the Western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

John Milton. 1608-1674

318. On His Blindness

WHEN I consider how my light is spent E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite.

John Milton. 1608-1674

319. To Mr. Lawrence

LAWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son, Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help wast a sullen day; what may be won From the hard Season gaining: time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre? He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

John Milton. 1608-1674

320. To Cyriack Skinner

CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause Pronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes, Which others at their Barr so often wrench: To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench In mirth, that after no repenting drawes; Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intend, and what the French. To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know Toward solid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

John Milton. 1608-1674

321. On His Deceased Wife

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused Saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave, Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint. Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint, Purification in the old Law did save, And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was vail'd, yet to my fancied sight, Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight. But O as to embrace me she enclin'd I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

John Milton. 1608-1674

322. Light

HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born, Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun, Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, Escap't the Stygian Pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne With other notes then to th' Orphean Lyre I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget Those other two equal'd with me in Fate, So were I equal'd with them in renown. Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old. Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair Presented with a Universal blanc Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd, And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou Celestial light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.

John Milton. 1608-1674

323. From 'Samson Agonistes' i

OH how comely it is and how reviving To the Spirits of just men long opprest! When God into the hands of thir deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the Earth, th' oppressour, The brute and boist'rous force of violent men Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour Truth; He all thir Ammunition And feats of War defeats With plain Heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour arm'd, Thir Armories and Magazins contemns, Renders them useless, while With winged expedition Swift as the lightning glance he executes His errand on the wicked, who surpris'd Lose thir defence distracted and amaz'd.

John Milton. 1608-1674

324. From 'Samson Agonistes' ii

ALL is best, though we oft doubt, What th' unsearchable dispose Of highest wisdom brings about, And ever best found in the close. Oft he seems to hide his face, But unexpectedly returns And to his faithful Champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns And all that band them to resist His uncontroulable intent. His servants he with new acquist Of true experience from this great event With peace and consolation hath dismist, And calm of mind all passion spent.

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

325. A Doubt of Martyrdom

O FOR some honest lover's ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strangely long to know Whether the noble chaplets wear Those that their mistress' scorn did bear Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crown'd T' have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoy'd.

What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and 's thither gone Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other's arms?

For there the judges all are just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear, Not his who loved her here. The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods, Give me the woman here!

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

326. The Constant Lover

OUT upon it, I have loved Three whole days together! And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.

But the spite on 't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

327. Why so Pale and Wan?

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

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

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

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

328. When, Dearest, I but think of Thee

WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted: For beauties that from worth arise Are like the grace of deities, Still present with us, tho' unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrow'd lights away, Till night's black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By love's quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that 's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!

Sir Richard Fanshawe. 1608-1666

329. A Rose

BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves, The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born-- Nay, force thy bud to blow--their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death!

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

330. To Chloe Who for his sake wished herself younger

THERE are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awaken'd sense; The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me and I loved you Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours: Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

331. Falsehood

STILL do the stars impart their light To those that travel in the night; Still time runs on, nor doth the hand Or shadow on the dial stand; The streams still glide and constant are: Only thy mind Untrue I find, Which carelessly Neglects to be Like stream or shadow, hand or star.

Fool that I am! I do recall My words, and swear thou'rt like them all, Thou seem'st like stars to nourish fire, But O how cold is thy desire! And like the hand upon the brass Thou point'st at me In mockery; If I come nigh Shade-like thou'lt fly, And as the stream with murmur pass.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

332. On the Queen's Return from the Low Countries

HALLOW the threshold, crown the posts anew! The day shall have its due. Twist all our victories into one bright wreath, On which let honour breathe; Then throw it round the temples of our Queen! 'Tis she that must preserve those glories green.

When greater tempests than on sea before Received her on the shore; When she was shot at 'for the King's own good' By legions hired to blood; How bravely did she do, how bravely bear! And show'd, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.

Courage was cast about her like a dress Of solemn comeliness: A gather'd mind and an untroubled face Did give her dangers grace: Thus, arm'd with innocence, secure they move Whose highest 'treason' is but highest love.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

333. On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that died suddenly

SHE who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex, Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, Accounted nothing death but t' be reprieved, And died as free from sickness as she lived. Others are dragg'd away, or must be driven, She only saw her time and stept to Heaven; Where seraphims view all her glories o'er, As one return'd that had been there before. For while she did this lower world adorn, Her body seem'd rather assumed than born; So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole, That body might have been another's soul; And equally a miracle it were That she could die, or that she could live here.

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 1612-1650

334. I'll never love Thee more

MY dear and only Love, I pray That little world of thee Be govern'd by no other sway Than purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part (Which virtuous souls abhor), And hold a synod in thine heart, I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all.

And in the empire of thine heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part Or dare to vie with me, Or if Committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect, And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt prove faithful then, And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen And famous by my sword; I'll serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee more and more.

Thomas Jordan. 1612?-1685

335. Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant

LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice! The changeable world to our joy is unjust, All treasure 's uncertain, Then down with your dust! In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence, For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly, Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy: Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea, Dame Venus, love's lady, Was born of the sea; With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense, For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'd And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground, Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendour That none but the stars Are thought fit to attend her, Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense, Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears, Turn all our tranquill'ty to sighs and to tears? Let 's eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us, 'Tis certain, Post mortem Nulla voluptas. For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense, Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

336. Wishes to His Supposed Mistress

WHOE'ER she be-- That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes.

Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displace The neighbour diamond, and outface That sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are:

Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed Heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm.

Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.

Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night First does the longing lover right.

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

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

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by th' absence of the day.

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

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

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

Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night.

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

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

Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise;

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

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

May she enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!

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

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

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

337. The Weeper

HAIL, sister springs, Parents of silver-footed rills! Ever bubbling things, Thawing crystal, snowy hills! Still spending, never spent; I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

Heavens thy fair eyes be; Heavens of ever-falling stars; 'Tis seed-time still with thee, And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.

Every morn from hence A brisk cherub something sips Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music: and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

When some new bright guest Takes up among the stars a room, And Heaven will make a feast, Angels with their bottles come, And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine.

The dew no more will weep The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more will sleep Nuzzled in the lily's neck: Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear.

When sorrow would be seen In her brightest majesty, --For she is a Queen-- Then is she drest by none but thee: Then and only then she wears Her richest pearls--I mean thy tears.

Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are For the Sun that dies, Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

Does the night arise? Still thy tears do fall and fall. Does night lose her eyes? Still the fountain weeps for all. Let day and night do what they will, Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

Not So long she lived Will thy tomb report of thee; But So long she grieved: Thus must we date thy memory. Others by days, by months, by years, Measure their ages, thou by tears.

Say, ye bright brothers, The fugitive sons of those fair eyes Your fruitful mothers, What make you here? What hopes can 'tice You to be born? What cause can borrow You from those nests of noble sorrow?

Whither away so fast For sure the sordid earth Your sweetness cannot taste, Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Sweet, whither haste you then? O say, Why you trip so fast away?

We go not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed, The rose's modest cheek, Nor the violet's humble head. No such thing: we go to meet A worthier object--our Lord's feet.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

338. A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa

LOVE, thou are absolute, sole Lord Of life and death. To prove the word, We'll now appeal to none of all Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down With strong arms their triumphant crown: Such as could with lusty breath Speak loud, unto the face of death, Their great Lord's glorious name; to none Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne For love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat: We'll see Him take a private seat, And make His mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child. Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death. She never undertook to know What death with love should have to do. Nor has she e'er yet understood Why, to show love, she should shed blood; Yet, though she cannot tell you why, She can love, and she can die. Scarce has she blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake; Yet has a heart dares hope to prove How much less strong is death than love....

Since 'tis not to be had at home, She'll travel for a martyrdom. No home for her, confesses she, But where she may a martyr be. She'll to the Moors, and trade with them For this unvalued diadem; She offers them her dearest breath, With Christ's name in 't, in charge for death: She'll bargain with them, and will give Them God, and teach them how to live In Him; or, if they this deny, For Him she'll teach them how to die. So shall she leave amongst them sown Her Lord's blood, or at least her own.

Farewell then, all the world, adieu! Teresa is no more for you. Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys, Never till now esteemed toys!

Farewell whatever dear may be-- Mother's arms, or father's knee! Farewell house, and farewell home! She 's for the Moors and Martyrdom.

Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse, Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows, Calls thee back, and bids thee come T' embrace a milder martyrdom....

O how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle pain! Of intolerable joys! Of a death, in which who dies Loves his death, and dies again, And would for ever so be slain; And lives and dies, and knows not why To live, but that he still may die! How kindly will thy gentle heart Kiss the sweetly-killing dart! And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds, that weep Balsam, to heal themselves with thus, When these thy deaths, so numerous, Shall all at once die into one, And melt thy soul's sweet mansion; Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hot a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last In a resolving sigh, and then,-- O what? Ask not the tongues of men.

Angels cannot tell; suffice, Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys, And hold them fast for ever there. So soon as thou shalt first appear, The moon of maiden stars, thy white Mistress, attended by such bright Souls as thy shining self, shall come, And in her first ranks make thee room; Where, 'mongst her snowy family, Immortal welcomes wait for thee. O what delight, when she shall stand And teach thy lips heaven, with her hand, On which thou now may'st to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses! What joy shall seize thy soul, when she, Bending her blessed eyes on thee, Those second smiles of heaven, shall dart Her mild rays through thy melting heart!

Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee. All thy good works which went before, And waited for thee at the door, Shall own thee there; and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows. All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, And thy pains sit bright upon thee: All thy sorrows here shall shine, And thy sufferings be divine. Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems. Even thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul which late they slew. Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb's wars.

Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ Love's noble history, with wit Taught thee by none but Him, while here They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there. Each heavenly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee; Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace. Thou shalt look round about, and see Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows, The virgin-births with which thy spouse Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now, And with them all about thee bow To Him; put on, He'll say, put on, My rosy Love, that thy rich zone, Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand souls, whose happy names Heaven keeps upon thy score: thy bright Life brought them first to kiss the light That kindled them to stars; and so Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go. And, wheresoe'er He sets His white Steps, walk with Him those ways of light, Which who in death would live to see, Must learn in life to die like thee.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

339. Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa

O THOU undaunted daughter of desires! By all thy dower of lights and fires; By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; By all thy lives and deaths of love; By thy large draughts of intellectual day, And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire, By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His; By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him (Fair sister of the seraphim!); By all of Him we have in thee; Leave nothing of myself in me. Let me so read thy life, that I Unto all life of mine may die!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

340. Verses from the Shepherds' Hymn

WE saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal day; We saw Thine eyes break from the East, And chase the trembling shades away: We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger? Is this the best thou canst bestow-- A cold and not too cleanly manger? Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone; The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, Love's architecture is His own. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born.

I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Off'ring their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant's bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.

I saw th' obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?

No, no, your King 's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head; See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed! Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow!

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, That in their buds yet blushing lie. She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle's eyes.

Welcome--tho' not to those gay flies, Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes-- But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth 's their flocks, whose wit 's to be Well read in their simplicity.

Yet, when young April's husband show'rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flowers, To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves! Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves! At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

341. Christ Crucified

THY restless feet now cannot go For us and our eternal good, As they were ever wont. What though They swim, alas! in their own flood?

Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift, Yet will Thy hand still giving be; It gives, but O, itself's the gift! It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

342. An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife Who died and were buried together

TO these whom death again did wed This grave 's the second marriage-bed. For though the hand of Fate could force 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, It could not sever man and wife, Because they both lived but one life. Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep. They, sweet turtles, folded lie In the last knot that love could tie. Let them sleep, let them sleep on, Till the stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into a light Whose day shall never die in night.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

343. To Lucasta, going to the Wars

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

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

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

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

344. To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas

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

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

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

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

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

345. Gratiana Dancing

SHE beat the happy pavement-- By such a star made firmament, Which now no more the roof envìes! But swells up high, with Atlas even, Bearing the brighter nobler heaven, And, in her, all the deities.

Each step trod out a Lover's thought, And the ambitious hopes he brought Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts, Such sweet command and gentle awe, As, when she ceased, we sighing saw The floor lay paved with broken hearts.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

346. To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her Hair

AMARANTHA sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly!

Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th' East, To wanton o'er that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confest, But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled.

Do not then wind up that light In ribbands, and o'ercloud in night, Like the Sun in 's early ray; But shake your head, and scatter day!

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

347. The Grasshopper

O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk every night with a delicious tear Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd!

The joys of earth and air are thine entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then, Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams, And all these merry days mak'st merry men, Thyself, and melancholy streams.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

348. To Althea, from Prison

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

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

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

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

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

349. Anacreontics 1. Drinking

THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks and gapes for drink again; The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair; The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy Sun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he 's done, The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun: They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night: Nothing in Nature 's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there--for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

350. Anacreontics 2. The Epicure

UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, On flowerly beds supinely laid, With odorous oils my head o'erflowing, And around it roses growing, What should I do but drink away The heat and troubles of the day? In this more than kingly state Love himself on me shall wait. Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up! And mingled cast into the cup Wit and mirth and noble fires, Vigorous health and gay desires. The wheel of life no less will stay In a smooth than rugged way: Since it equally doth flee, Let the motion pleasant be. Why do we precious ointments shower?-- Nobler wines why do we pour?-- Beauteous flowers why do we spread Upon the monuments of the dead? Nothing they but dust can show, Or bones that hasten to be so. Crown me with roses while I live, Now your wines and ointments give: After death I nothing crave, Let me alive my pleasures have: All are Stoics in the grave.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

351. Anacreontics 3. The Swallow

FOOLISH prater, what dost thou So early at my window do? Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away A dream out of my arms to-day; A dream that ne'er must equall'd be By all that waking eyes may see. Thou this damage to repair Nothing half so sweet and fair, Nothing half so good, canst bring, Tho' men say thou bring'st the Spring.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

352. On the Death of Mr. William Hervey

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

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

My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be: Nor shall I know hereafter what to do If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day, As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid treasures lie; Alas! my treasure 's gone; why do I stay?

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love, Wonder'd at us from above! We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; But search of deep Philosophy, Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry-- Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.

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

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

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

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

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

But happy Thou, ta'en from this frantic age, Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage! A fitter time for Heaven no soul e'er chose-- The place now only free from those. There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine; And wheresoe'er thou casts thy view Upon that white and radiant crew, See'st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

353. The Wish

WELL then! I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd and buzz and murmurings, Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And since love ne'er will from me flee, A Mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian angels are, Only beloved and loving me.

O fountains! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made Thy happy tenant of your shade? Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood: Here 's wealthy Nature's treasury, Where all the riches lie that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way: And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither.

Hoe happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die! She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear: Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.

Alexander Brome. 1620-1666

354. The Resolve

TELL me not of a face that 's fair, Nor lip and cheek that 's red, Nor of the tresses of her hair, Nor curls in order laid, Nor of a rare seraphic voice That like an angel sings; Though if I were to take my choice I would have all these things: But if that thou wilt have me love, And it must be a she, The only argument can move Is that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be But metaphors of things, And but resemble what we see Each common object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks, Lilies their whiteness stain; What fool is he that shadows seeks And may the substance gain? Then if thou'lt have me love a lass, Let it be one that 's kind: Else I'm a servant to the glass That 's with Canary lined.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

355. An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on; And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect:

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

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

356. A Garden Written after the Civil Wars

SEE how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colours stand display'd: Each regiment in order grows, That of the tulip, pink, and rose. But when the vigilant patrol Of stars walks round about the pole, Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd, Seem to their staves the ensigns furl'd. Then in some flower's beloved hut Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, And sleeps so too; but if once stirr'd, She runs you through, nor asks the word. O thou, that dear and happy Isle, The garden of the world erewhile, Thou Paradise of the four seas Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the world, did guard With wat'ry if not flaming sword; What luckless apple did we taste To make us mortal and thee waste! Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet militia restore, When gardens only had their towers, And all the garrisons were flowers; When roses only arms might bear, And men did rosy garlands wear?

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

357. To His Coy Mistress

HAD we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave 's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

slow-chapt] slow-jawed, slowly devouring.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

358. The Picture of Little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers

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

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

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

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

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

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

359. Thoughts in a Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

360. Bermudas

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that row'd along The listening woods received this song:

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

Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

361. An Epitaph

ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame! 'Tis to commend her, but to name. Courtship which, living, she declined, When dead, to offer were unkind: Nor can the truest wit, or friend, Without detracting, her commend.

To say--she lived a virgin chaste In this age loose and all unlaced; Nor was, when vice is so allowed, Of virtue or ashamed or proud; That her soul was on Heaven so bent, No minute but it came and went; That, ready her last debt to pay, She summ'd her life up every day; Modest as morn, as mid-day bright, Gentle as evening, cool as night: --'Tis true; but all too weakly said. 'Twas more significant, she's dead.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

362. The Retreat

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

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

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

363. Peace

MY soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars: There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious Friend, And--O my soul, awake!-- Did in pure love descend To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure But One who never changes-- Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

364. The Timber

SURE thou didst flourish once! and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies, While the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.

And yet--as if some deep hate and dissent, Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive--thou dost great storms resent Before they come, and know'st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who broke--in life--thy peace.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

365. Friends Departed

THEY are all gone into the world of light! And I alone sit ling'ring here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear.

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

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

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

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just, Shining nowhere, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

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

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

If a star were confin'd into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass: Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass.

John Bunyan. 1628-1688

366. The Shepherd Boy sings in the Valley of Humiliation

HE that is down needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it or much: And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage: Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

367. Thomas the Rhymer

TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e; And there he saw a ladye bright Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk, Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; At ilka tett o' her horse's mane, Hung fifty siller bells and nine.

True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap, And louted low down on his knee 'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven! For thy peer on earth could never be.'

'O no, O no, Thomas' she said, 'That name does not belang to me; I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland, That am hither come to visit thee.

'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said; 'Harp and carp along wi' me; And if ye dare to kiss my lips, Sure of your bodie I will be.'

'Betide me weal; betide me woe, That weird shall never daunten me.' Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree.

'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said, 'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me; And ye maun serve me seven years, Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'

She 's mounted on her milk-white steed, She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind; And aye, whene'er her bridle rang, The steed gaed swifter than the wind.

O they rade on, and farther on, The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reach'd a desert wide, And living land was left behind.

'Light down, light down now, true Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee; Abide ye there a little space, And I will show you ferlies three.

'O see ye not yon narrow road, So thick beset wi' thorns and briers? That is the Path of Righteousness, Though after it but few inquires.

'And see ye not yon braid, braid road, That lies across the lily leven? That is the Path of Wickedness, Though some call it the Road to Heaven.

'And see ye not yon bonny road That winds about the fernie brae? That is the Road to fair Elfland, Where thou and I this night maun gae.

'But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see; For speak ye word in Elfyn-land, Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie.'

O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded rivers abune the knee; And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight, They waded thro' red blude to the knee; For a' the blude that 's shed on the earth Rins through the springs o' that countrie.

Syne they came to a garden green, And she pu'd an apple frae a tree: 'Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.'

'My tongue is my ain,' true Thomas he said; 'A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! I neither dought to buy or sell At fair or tryst where I might be.

'I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!'-- 'Now haud thy peace, Thomas,' she said, 'For as I say, so must it be.'

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green; And till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen.

ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite (as a minstrel). leven] ?lawn. dought] could.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

368. Sir Patrick Spens

I. The Sailing

THE king sits in Dunfermline town Drinking the blude-red wine; 'O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o' mine?'

O up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee; 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis thou must bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud, loud laugh'd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his e'e.

'O wha is this has done this deed And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time o' year, To sail upon the sea?

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.'

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday.

II. The Return

'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm.

'I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm: And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn.

'Go fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in.'

They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heel'd shoon; But lang or a' the play was play'd They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bed That flatter'd on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their gowd kames in their hair, A-waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see nae mair.

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet!

skeely] skilful. lift] sky. lap] sprang. flatter'd] tossed afloat. kames] combs.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

369. The Lass of Lochroyan

'O WHA will shoe my bonny foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will bind my middle jimp Wi' a lang, lang linen band?

'O wha will kame my yellow hair, With a haw bayberry kame? And wha will be my babe's father Till Gregory come hame?'

'They father, he will shoe thy foot, Thy brother will glove thy hand, Thy mither will bind thy middle jimp Wi' a lang, lang linen band.

'Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair, Wi' a haw bayberry kame; The Almighty will be thy babe's father Till Gregory come hame.'

'And wha will build a bonny ship, And set it on the sea? For I will go to seek my love, My ain love Gregory.'

Up then spak her father dear, A wafu' man was he; 'And I will build a bonny ship, And set her on the sea.

'And I will build a bonny ship, And set her on the sea, And ye sal gae and seek your love, Your ain love Gregory.'

Then he 's gart build a bonny ship, And set it on the sea, Wi' four-and-twenty mariners, To bear her company.

O he 's gart build a bonny ship, To sail on the salt sea; The mast was o' the beaten gold, The sails o' cramoisie.

The sides were o' the gude stout aik, The deck o' mountain pine, The anchor o' the silver shene, The ropes o' silken twine.

She hadna sail'd but twenty leagues, But twenty leagues and three, When she met wi' a rank reiver, And a' his companie.

'Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie, Come to pardon a' our sin? Or are ye Mary Magdalane, Was born at Bethlam?'

'I'm no the Queen of Heaven hie, Come to pardon ye your sin, Nor am I Mary Magdalane, Was born in Bethlam.

'But I'm the lass of Lochroyan, That 's sailing on the sea To see if I can find my love, My ain love Gregory.'

'O see na ye yon bonny bower? It 's a' covered owre wi' tin; When thou hast sail'd it round about, Lord Gregory is within.'

And when she saw the stately tower, Shining both clear and bright, Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave, Built on a rock of height,

Says, 'Row the boat, my mariners, And bring me to the land, For yonder I see my love's castle, Close by the salt sea strand.'

She sail'd it round, and sail'd it round, And loud and loud cried she, 'Now break, now break your fairy charms, And set my true-love free.'

She 's ta'en her young son in her arms, And to the door she 's gane, And long she knock'd, and sair she ca'd. But answer got she nane.

'O open, open, Gregory! O open! if ye be within; For here 's the lass of Lochroyan, Come far fra kith and kin.

'O open the door, Lord Gregory! O open and let me in! The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory, The rain drops fra my chin.

'The shoe is frozen to my foot, The glove unto my hand, The wet drops fra my yellow hair, Na langer dow I stand.'

O up then spak his ill mither, --An ill death may she die! 'Ye're no the lass of Lochroyan, She 's far out-owre the sea.

'Awa', awa', ye ill woman, Ye're no come here for gude; Ye're but some witch or wil' warlock, Or mermaid o' the flood.'

'I am neither witch nor wil' warlock, Nor mermaid o' the sea, But I am Annie of Lochroyan, O open the door to me!'

'Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, As I trow thou binna she, Now tell me of some love-tokens That pass'd 'tween thee and me.'

'O dinna ye mind, love Gregory, As we sat at the wine, We changed the rings frae our fingers? And I can shew thee thine.

'O yours was gude, and gude enough, But ay the best was mine, For yours was o' the gude red gowd, But mine o' the diamond fine.

'Yours was o' the gude red gowd, Mine o' the diamond fine; Mine was o' the purest troth, But thine was false within.'

'If ye be the lass of Lochroyan, As I kenna thou be, Tell me some mair o' the love-tokens Pass'd between thee and me.'

'And dinna ye mind, love Gregory! As we sat on the hill, Thou twin'd me o' my maidenheid, Right sair against my will?

'Now open the door, love Gregory! Open the door! I pray; For thy young son is in my arms, And will be dead ere day.'

'Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman, So loud I hear ye lie; For Annie of the Lochroyan Is far out-owre the sea.'

Fair Annie turn'd her round about: 'Weel, sine that it be sae, May ne'er woman that has borne a son Hae a heart sae fu' o' wae!

'Tak down, tak down that mast o' gowd, Set up a mast of tree; It disna become a forsaken lady To sail sae royallie.'

When the cock has crawn, and the day did dawn, And the sun began to peep, Up than raise Lord Gregory, And sair, sair did he weep.

'O I hae dream'd a dream, mither, I wish it may bring good! That the bonny lass of Lochroyan At my bower window stood.

'O I hae dream'd a dream, mither, The thought o't gars me greet! That fair Annie of Lochroyan Lay dead at my bed-feet.'

'Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan That ye mak a' this mane, She stood last night at your bower-door, But I hae sent her hame.'

'O wae betide ye, ill woman, An ill death may ye die! That wadna open the door yoursell Nor yet wad waken me.'

O he 's gane down to yon shore-side, As fast as he could dree, And there he saw fair Annie's bark A rowing owre the sea.

'O Annie, Annie,' loud he cried, 'O Annie, O Annie, bide!' But ay the mair he cried 'Annie,' The braider grew the tide.

'O Annie, Annie, dear Annie, Dear Annie, speak to me!' But ay the louder he gan call, The louder roar'd the sea.

The wind blew loud, the waves rose hie And dash'd the boat on shore; Fair Annie's corpse was in the faem, The babe rose never more.

Lord Gregory tore his gowden locks And made a wafu' moan; Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet, His bonny son was gone.

'O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair, And coral, coral was her lips, Nane might with her compare.'

Then first he kiss'd her pale, pale cheek, And syne he kiss'd her chin, And syne he kiss'd her wane, wane lips, There was na breath within.

'O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die! She turn'd my true-love frae my door, Who cam so far to me.

'O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die! She has no been the deid o' ane, But she 's been the deid of three.'

Then he 's ta'en out a little dart, Hung low down by his gore, He thrust it through and through his heart, And words spak never more.

jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry] ?a corruption for 'braw ivory': or bayberry may=laurel-wood. cramoisie] crimson. reiver] robber. dow] can. gore] skirt, waist.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

370. The Dowie Houms of Yarrow

LATE at een, drinkin' the wine, And ere they paid the lawin', They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawin'.

'O stay at hame, my noble lord! O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'

'O fare ye weel, my lady gay! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'

She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair, As she had done before, O; She belted on his noble brand, An' he 's awa to Yarrow.

O he 's gane up yon high, high hill-- I wat he gaed wi' sorrow-- An' in a den spied nine arm'd men, I' the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

'O are ye come to drink the wine, As ye hae doon before, O? Or are ye come to wield the brand, On the dowie banks o' Yarrow?'

'I am no come to drink the wine, As I hae don before, O, But I am come to wield the brand, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'

Four he hurt, an' five he slew, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, An' ran his body thorrow.

'Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, An' tell your sister Sarah To come an' lift her noble lord, Who 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'

'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream; I ken'd there wad be sorrow; I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'

She gaed up yon high, high hill-- I wat she gaed wi' sorrow-- An' in a den spied nine dead men, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair, As oft she did before, O; She drank the red blood frae him ran, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

'O haud your tongue, my douchter dear, For what needs a' this sorrow? I'll wed you on a better lord Than him you lost on Yarrow.'

'O haud your tongue, my father dear, An' dinna grieve your Sarah; A better lord was never born Than him I lost on Yarrow.

'Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye, For they hae bred our sorrow; I wiss that they had a' gane mad When they cam first to Yarrow.'

lawin'] reckoning. marrow] mate, husband or wife. dowie] doleful. houms] water-meads.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

371. Clerk Saunders

CLERK SAUNDERS and may Margaret Walk'd owre yon garden green; And deep and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between.

'A bed, a bed,' Clerk Saunders said, 'A bed for you and me!' 'Fye na, fye na,' said may Margaret, 'Till anes we married be!'

'Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbard And slowly lift the pin; And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in.

'Take you a napkin in your hand, And tie up baith your bonnie e'en, And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye saw me na since late yestreen.'

It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red:

When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning bright: They said, 'We hae but one sister, And behold her lying with a knight!'

Then out and spake the first o' them, 'I bear the sword shall gar him die.' And out and spake the second o' them, 'His father has nae mair but he.'

And out and spake the third o' them, 'I wot that they are lovers dear.' And out and spake the fourth o' them, 'They hae been in love this mony a year.'

Then out and spake the fifth o' them, 'It were great sin true love to twain.' And out and spake the sixth o' them, 'It were shame to slay a sleeping man.'

Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye.

Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae.

And they lay still and sleepit sound Until the day began to daw'; And kindly she to him did say, 'It is time, true love, you were awa'.'

But he lay still, and sleepit sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She look'd atween her and the wa', And dull and drowsie were his e'en.

Then in and came her father dear; Said, 'Let a' your mourning be; I'll carry the dead corse to the clay, And I'll come back and comfort thee.'

'Comfort weel your seven sons, For comforted I will never be: I ween 'twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi' me.'

The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day.

'Are ye sleeping, Marg'ret?' he says, 'Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee.'

'Your faith and troth ye sall never get, Nor our true love sall never twin, Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin.'

'My mouth it is full cold, Marg'ret; It has the smell, now, of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, Thy days of life will not be lang.

'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; Give me my faith and troth again, And let me fare me on my way.'

'Thy faith and troth thou sallna get, And our true love sall never twin, Until ye tell what comes o' women, I wot, who die in strong traivelling?'

'Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers; I wot, sweet company for to see.

'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be miss'd away.'

Then she has taken a crystal wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.

'I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret; And ay I thank ye heartilie; Gin ever the dead come for the quick, Be sure, Marg'ret, I'll come for thee.'

It 's hosen and shoon, and gown alone, She climb'd the wall, and follow'd him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o' him.

'Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet? Or ony room at your side, Saunders, Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?'

'There 's nae room at my head, Marg'ret, There 's nae room at my feet; My bed it is fu' lowly now, Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

'Cauld mould is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet; The dew it falls nae sooner down Than my resting-place is weet.

'But plait a wand o' bonny birk, And lay it on my breast; And shed a tear upon my grave, And wish my saul gude rest.'

Then up and crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray: ''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg'ret, That you were going away.

'And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret, And Marg'ret o' veritie, Gin e'er ye love another man, Ne'er love him as ye did me.'

striped] thrust. twin] part in two.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

372. Fair Annie

THE reivers they stole Fair Annie, As she walk'd by the sea; But a noble knight was her ransom soon, Wi' gowd and white monie.

She bided in strangers' land wi' him, And none knew whence she cam; She lived in the castle wi' her love, But never told her name.

'It 's narrow, narrow, mak your bed, And learn to lie your lane; For I'm gaun owre the sea, Fair Annie, A braw Bride to bring hame. Wi' her I will get gowd and gear, Wi' you I ne'er gat nane.

'But wha will bake my bridal bread, Or brew my bridal ale? And wha will welcome my bright Bride, That I bring owre the dale?'

It 's I will bake your bridal bread, And brew your bridal ale; And I will welcome your bright Bride, That you bring owre the dale.'

'But she that welcomes my bright Bride Maun gang like maiden fair; She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, And comely braid her hair.

'Bind up, bind up your yellow hair, And tie it on your neck; And see you look as maiden-like As the day that first we met.'

'O how can I gang maiden-like, When maiden I am nane? Have I not borne six sons to thee, And am wi' child again?'

'I'll put cooks into my kitchen, And stewards in my hall, And I'll have bakers for my bread, And brewers for my ale; But you're to welcome my bright Bride, That I bring owre the dale.'

Three months and a day were gane and past, Fair Annie she gat word That her love's ship was come at last, Wi' his bright young Bride aboard.

She 's ta'en her young son in her arms, Anither in her hand; And she 's gane up to the highest tower, Looks over sea and land.

'Come doun, come doun, my mother dear, Come aff the castle wa'! I fear if langer ye stand there, Ye'll let yoursell doun fa'.'

She 's ta'en a cake o' the best bread, A stoup o' the best wine, And a' the keys upon her arm, And to the yett is gane.

'O ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord, To your castles and your towers; Ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord, To your ha's, but and your bowers. And welcome to your hame, fair lady! For a' that 's here is yours.'

'O whatna lady 's that, my lord, That welcomes you and me? Gin I be lang about this place, Her friend I mean to be.'

Fair Annie served the lang tables Wi' the white bread and the wine; But ay she drank the wan water To keep her colour fine.

And she gaed by the first table, And smiled upon them a'; But ere she reach'd the second table, The tears began to fa'.

She took a napkin lang and white, And hung it on a pin; It was to wipe away the tears, As she gaed out and in.

When bells were rung and mass was sung, And a' men bound for bed, The bridegroom and the bonny Bride In ae chamber were laid.

Fair Annie's ta'en a harp in her hand, To harp thir twa asleep; But ay, as she harpit and she sang, Fu' sairly did she weep.

'O gin my sons were seven rats, Rinnin' on the castle wa', And I mysell a great grey cat, I soon wad worry them a'!

'O gin my sons were seven hares, Rinnin' owre yon lily lea, And I mysell a good greyhound, Soon worried they a' should be!'

Then out and spak the bonny young Bride, In bride-bed where she lay: 'That 's like my sister Annie,' she says; 'Wha is it doth sing and play?

'I'll put on my gown,' said the new-come Bride, 'And my shoes upon my feet; I will see wha doth sae sadly sing, And what is it gars her greet.

'What ails you, what ails you, my housekeeper, That ye mak sic a mane? Has ony wine-barrel cast its girds, Or is a' your white bread gane?'

'It isna because my wine is spilt, Or that my white bread's gane; But because I've lost my true love's love, And he 's wed to anither ane.'

'Noo tell me wha was your father?' she says, 'Noo tell me wha was your mother? And had ye ony sister?' she says, 'And had ye ever a brother?'

'The Earl of Wemyss was my father, The Countess of Wemyss my mother, Young Elinor she was my sister dear, And Lord John he was my brother.'

'If the Earl of Wemyss was your father, I wot sae was he mine; And it 's O my sister Annie! Your love ye sallna tyne.

'Tak your husband, my sister dear; You ne'er were wrang'd for me, Beyond a kiss o' his merry mouth As we cam owre the sea.

'Seven ships, loaded weel, Cam owre the sea wi' me; Ane o' them will tak me hame, And six I'll gie to thee.'

jimp] trim. yett] gate. tyne] lose.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

373. Edward, Edward

'WHY does your brand sae drop wi' blude, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, And why sae sad gang ye, O?' 'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, And I had nae mair but he, O.'

'Your hawk's blude was never sae red, Edward, Edward; Your hawk's blude was never sae red, My dear son, I tell thee, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, That erst was sae fair and free, O.'

'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair; Some other dule ye dree, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my father dear, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O!'

'And whatten penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? Whatten penance will ye dree for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither; I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O.'

'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', Edward, Edward? And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', That were sae fair to see, O?' 'I'll let them stand till they doun fa', Mither, mither; I'll let them stand till they doun fa', For here never mair maun I be, O.'

'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang owre the sea, O?' 'The warld's room: let them beg through life, Mither, mither; The warld's room: let them beg through life; For them never mair will I see, O.'

'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?'

'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mither, mither; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!'

dule ye dree] grief you suffer.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

374. Edom o' Gordon

IT fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cauld, Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, 'We maun draw to a hauld.

'And what a hauld sall we draw to, My merry men and me? We will gae to the house o' the Rodes, To see that fair ladye.'

The lady stood on her castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down; There she was ware of a host of men Cam riding towards the town.

'O see ye not, my merry men a', O see ye not what I see? Methinks I see a host of men; I marvel wha they be.'

She ween'd it had been her lovely lord, As he cam riding hame; It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon, Wha reck'd nae sin nor shame.

She had nae sooner buskit hersell, And putten on her gown, But Edom o' Gordon an' his men Were round about the town.

They had nae sooner supper set, Nae sooner said the grace, But Edom o' Gordon an' his men Were lighted about the place.

The lady ran up to her tower-head, Sae fast as she could hie, To see if by her fair speeches She could wi' him agree.

'Come doun to me, ye lady gay, Come doun, come doun to me; This night sall ye lig within mine arms, To-morrow my bride sall be.'

'I winna come down, ye fals Gordon, I winna come down to thee; I winna forsake my ain dear lord, That is sae far frae me.'

'Gie owre your house, ye lady fair, Gie owre your house to me; Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, But and your babies three.'

'I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon, To nae sic traitor as yee; And if ye brenn my ain dear babes, My lord sall mak ye dree.

'Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, And charge ye weel my gun; For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, My babes, we been undone!'

She stood upon her castle wa', And let twa bullets flee: She miss'd that bluidy butcher's heart, And only razed his knee.

'Set fire to the house!' quo' fals Gordon, All wud wi' dule and ire: 'Fals lady, ye sall rue this deid As ye brenn in the fire!'

Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your fee; Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, Lets in the reek to me?

'And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your hire; Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, To me lets in the fire?'

'Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye, Ye paid me weel my fee: But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man-- Maun either do or die.'

O then bespake her little son, Sat on the nurse's knee: Says, 'Mither dear, gie owre this house, For the reek it smithers me.'

'I wad gie a' my gowd, my bairn, Sae wad I a' my fee, For ae blast o' the western wind, To blaw the reek frae thee.'

O then bespake her dochter dear-- She was baith jimp and sma': 'O row me in a pair o' sheets, And tow me owre the wa'!'

They row'd her in a pair o' sheets, And tow'd her owre the wa'; But on the point o' Gordon's spear She gat a deadly fa'.

O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, And cherry were her cheiks, And clear, clear was her yellow hair, Whereon the red blood dreips.

Then wi' his spear he turn'd her owre; O gin her face was wane! He said, 'Ye are the first that e'er I wish'd alive again.'

He turn'd her owre and owre again; O gin her skin was white! 'I might hae spared that bonnie face To hae been some man's delight.

'Busk and boun, my merry men a', For ill dooms I do guess; I canna look in that bonnie face As it lies on the grass.'

'Wha looks to freits, my master dear, It 's freits will follow them; Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon Was daunted by a dame.'

But when the lady saw the fire Come flaming owre her head, She wept, and kiss'd her children twain, Says, 'Bairns, we been but dead.'

The Gordon then his bugle blew, And said, 'Awa', awa'! This house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame; I hauld it time to ga'.'

And this way lookit her ain dear lord, As he cam owre the lea; He saw his castle a' in a lowe, As far as he could see.

The sair, O sair, his mind misgave, And all his heart was wae: 'Put on, put on, my wighty men, Sae fast as ye can gae.

'Put on, put on, my wighty men, Sae fast as ye can drie! For he that 's hindmost o' the thrang Sall ne'er get good o' me.'

Then some they rade, and some they ran, Out-owre the grass and bent; But ere the foremost could win up, Baith lady and babes were brent.

And after the Gordon he is gane, Sae fast as he might drie; And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude He 's wroken his dear ladye.

town] stead. buskit] attired. wud] mad. grund-wa'] ground-wall. jimp] slender, trim. row] roll, wrap. Busk and boun] trim up and prepare to go. freits] ill omens. lowe] flame. wighty] stout, doughty.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

375. The Queen's Marie

MARIE HAMILTON 's to the kirk gane, Wi' ribbons in her hair; The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton Than ony that were there.

Marie Hamilton 's to the kirk gane Wi' ribbons on her breast; The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton Than he listen'd to the priest.

Marie Hamilton 's to the kirk gane, Wi' gloves upon her hands; The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton Than the Queen and a' her lands.

She hadna been about the King's court A month, but barely one, Till she was beloved by a' the King's court And the King the only man.

She hadna been about the King's court A month, but barely three, Till frae the King's court Marie Hamilton, Marie Hamilton durstna be.

The King is to the Abbey gane, To pu' the Abbey tree, To scale the babe frae Marie's heart; But the thing it wadna be.

O she has row'd it in her apron, And set it on the sea-- 'Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe, Ye'se get nae mair o' me.'

Word is to the kitchen gane, And word is to the ha', And word is to the noble room Amang the ladies a', That Marie Hamilton 's brought to bed, And the bonny babe 's miss'd and awa'.

Scarcely had she lain down again, And scarcely fa'en asleep, When up and started our gude Queen Just at her bed-feet; Saying--'Marie Hamilton, where 's your babe? For I am sure I heard it greet.'

'O no, O no, my noble Queen! Think no sic thing to be; 'Twas but a stitch into my side, And sair it troubles me!'

'Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton: Get up and follow me; For I am going to Edinburgh town, A rich wedding for to see.'

O slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly put she on; And slowly rade she out the way Wi' mony a weary groan.

The Queen was clad in scarlet, Her merry maids all in green; And every town that they cam to, They took Marie for the Queen.

'Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen, Ride hooly now wi' me! For never, I am sure, a wearier burd Rade in your companie.'--

But little wist Marie Hamilton, When she rade on the brown, That she was gaen to Edinburgh town, And a' to be put down.

'Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives, Why look ye so on me? O I am going to Edinburgh town, A rich wedding to see.'

When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs, The corks frae her heels did flee; And lang or e'er she cam down again, She was condemn'd to die.

When she cam to the Netherbow port, She laugh'd loud laughters three; But when she came to the gallows foot The tears blinded her e'e.

'Yestreen the Queen had four Maries, The night she'll hae but three; There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton, And Marie Carmichael, and me.

'O often have I dress'd my Queen And put gowd upon her hair; But now I've gotten for my reward The gallows to be my share.

'Often have I dress'd my Queen And often made her bed; But now I've gotten for my reward The gallows tree to tread.

'I charge ye all, ye mariners, When ye sail owre the faem, Let neither my father nor mother get wit But that I'm coming hame.

'I charge ye all, ye mariners, That sail upon the sea, That neither my father nor mother get wit The dog's death I'm to die.

'For if my father and mother got wit, And my bold brethren three, O mickle wad be the gude red blude This day wad be spilt for me!

'O little did my mother ken, The day she cradled me, The lands I was to travel in Or the death I was to die!

wroken] avenged. row'd] rolled, wrapped. greet] cry. hooly] gently.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

376. Binnorie

THERE were twa sisters sat in a bour; Binnorie, O Binnorie! There cam a knight to be their wooer, By the bonnie milldams o' Binnorie.

He courted the eldest with glove and ring, But he lo'ed the youngest abune a thing.

The eldest she was vexed sair, And sair envìed her sister fair.

Upon a morning fair and clear, She cried upon her sister dear:

'O sister, sister tak my hand, And let 's go down to the river-strand.'

She 's ta'en her by the lily hand, And led her down to the river-strand.

The youngest stood upon a stane, The eldest cam and push'd her in.

'O sister, sister reach your hand! And ye sall be heir o' half my land:

'O sister, reach me but your glove! And sweet William sall be your love.'

Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, Until she cam to the miller's dam.

Out then cam the miller's son, And saw the fair maid soummin' in.

'O father, father draw your dam! There 's either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.'

The miller hasted and drew his dam, And there he found a drown'd women.

You couldna see her middle sma', Her gowden girdle was sae braw.

You couldna see her lily feet, Her gowden fringes were sae deep.

All amang her yellow hair A string o' pearls was twisted rare.

You couldna see her fingers sma', Wi' diamond rings they were cover'd a'.

And by there cam a harper fine, That harpit to the king at dine.

And when he look'd that lady on, He sigh'd and made a heavy moan.

He 's made a harp of her breast-bane, Whose sound wad melt a heart of stane.

He 's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair, And wi' them strung his harp sae rare.

He went into her father's hall, And there was the court assembled all.

He laid his harp upon a stane, And straight it began to play by lane.

'O yonder sits my father, the King, And yonder sits my mother, the Queen;

'And yonder stands my brother Hugh, And by him my William, sweet and true.'

But the last tune that the harp play'd then-- Binnorie, O Binnorie! Was, 'Woe to my sister, false Helen!' By the bonnie milldams o' Binnorie.

soummin'] swimming.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

377. The Bonnie House o' Airlie

IT fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day, When green grew aits and barley, That there fell out a great dispute Between Argyll and Airlie.

Argyll has raised an hunder men, An hunder harness'd rarely, And he 's awa' by the back of Dunkell, To plunder the castle of Airlie.

Lady Ogilvie looks o'er her bower-window, And O but she looks warely! And there she spied the great Argyll, Come to plunder the bonnie house of Airlie.

'Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie, Come down and kiss me fairly:' 'O I winna kiss the fause Argyll, If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie.'

He hath taken her by the left shoulder, Says, 'Dame, where lies thy dowry?' 'O it 's east and west yon wan water side, And it 's down by the banks of the Airlie.'

They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down, They hae sought it maist severely, Till they fand it in the fair plum-tree That shines on the bowling-green of Airlie.

He hath taken her by the middle sae small, And O but she grat sairly! And laid her down by the bonnie burn-side, Til they plunder'd the castle of Airlie.

'Gif my gude lord war here this night, As he is with King Charlie, Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord, Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie.

'Gif my gude lord war now at hame, As he is with his king, There durst nae a Campbell in a' Argyll Set fit on Airlie green.

'Then bonnie sons I have borne unto him, The eleventh ne'er saw his daddy; But though I had an hunder mair, I'd gie them a' to King Charlie!'

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

378. The Wife of Usher's Well

THERE lived a wife at Usher's well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them o'er the sea.

They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, When word came to the carline wife That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, When word came to the carline wife That her sons she'd never see.

'I wish the wind may never cease. Nor fashes in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, In earthly flesh and blood!'

It fell about the Martinmas, When nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o' the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates o' Paradise That birk grew fair eneugh.

'Blow up the fire, my maidens! Bring water from the well! For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well.'

And she has made to them a bed, She 's made it large and wide; And she 's ta'en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bedside.

Up then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said. ''Tis time we were away.'

The cock he hadna craw'd but once, And clapp'd his wings at a', When the youngest to the eldest said, 'Brother, we must awa'.

'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin' worm doth chide; Gin we be miss'd out o' our place, A sair pain we maun bide.'

'Lie still, lie still but a little wee while, Lie still but if we may; Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, She'll go mad ere it be day.'

'Fare ye weel, my mother dear! Fareweel to barn and byre! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother's fire!'

fashes] troubles. syke] marsh. sheugh] trench. channerin'] fretting.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

379. The Three Ravens

THERE were three ravens sat on a tree, They were as black as they might be.

The one of them said to his make, 'Where shall we our breakfast take?'

'Down in yonder greene field There lies a knight slain under his shield;

'His hounds they lie down at his feet, So well they can their master keep;

'His hawks they flie so eagerly, There 's no fowl dare come him nigh.'

Down there comes a fallow doe As great with young as she might goe.

She lift up his bloudy head And kist his wounds that were so red.

She gat him up upon her back And carried him to earthen lake.

She buried him before the prime, She was dead herself ere evensong time.

God send every gentleman Such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman.

make] mate.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

380. The Twa Corbies (SCOTTISH VERSION)

AS I was walking all alane I heard twa corbies making a mane: The tane unto the tither did say, 'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'

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

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

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

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

corbies] ravens. fail] turf. hause] neck. theek] thatch.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

381. A Lyke-Wake Dirge

THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte, --Every nighte and alle, Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule.

When thou from hence away art past, --Every nighte and alle, To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last; And Christe receive thy saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, --Every nighte and alle, Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thy saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane --Every nighte and alle, The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thy saule.

From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass, --Every nighte and alle, To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last; And Christe receive thy saule.

From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass, --Every nighte and alle, To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last; And Christe receive thy saule.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink, --Every nighte and alle, The fire sall never make thee shrink; And Christe receive thy saule.

If meat or drink thou ne'er gav'st nane, --Every nighte and alle, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thy saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, --Every nighte and alle, Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule.

fleet] house-room.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

382. The Seven Virgins. A CAROL

ALL under the leaves and the leaves of life I met with virgins seven, And one of them was Mary mild, Our Lord's mother of Heaven.

'O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids, All under the leaves of life? Come tell, come tell, what seek you All under the leaves of life?'

'We're seeking for no leaves, Thomas, But for a friend of thine; We're seeking for sweet Jesus Christ, To be our guide and thine.'

'Go down, go down, to yonder town, And sit in the gallery, And there you'll see sweet Jesus Christ Nail'd to a big yew-tree.'

So down they went to yonder town As fast as foot could fall, And many a grievous bitter tear From the virgins' eyes did fall.

'O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother, Your weeping doth me grieve: I must suffer this,' He said, 'For Adam and for Eve.

'O Mother, take you John Evangelist All for to be your son, And he will comfort you sometimes, Mother, as I have done.'

'O come, thou John Evangelist, Thou'rt welcome unto me; But more welcome my own dear Son, Whom I nursed on my knee.'

Then He laid His head on His right shoulder, Seeing death it struck Him nigh-- 'The Holy Ghost be with your soul, I die, Mother dear, I die.'

O the rose, the gentle rose, And the fennel that grows so green! God give us grace in every place To pray for our king and queen.

Furthermore for our enemies all Our prayers they should be strong: Amen, good Lord; your charity Is the ending of my song.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

383. Two Rivers

SAYS Tweed to Till-- 'What gars ye rin sae still?' Says Till to Tweed-- 'Though ye rin with speed And I rin slaw, For ae man that ye droon I droon twa.'

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

384. Cradle Song

O MY deir hert, young Jesus sweit, Prepare thy creddil in my spreit, And I sall rock thee in my hert And never mair from thee depart.

But I sall praise thee evermoir With sangis sweit unto thy gloir; The knees of my hert sall I bow, And sing that richt Balulalow!

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

385. The Call

MY blood so red For thee was shed, Come home again, come home again; My own sweet heart, come home again! You've gone astray Out of your way, Come home again, come home again!

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

386. The Bonny Earl of Murray

YE Highlands and ye Lawlands, O where hae ye been? They hae slain the Earl of Murray, And hae laid him on the green.

Now wae be to thee, Huntley! And whairfore did ye sae! I bade you bring him wi' you, But forbade you him to slay.

He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; Ana the bonny Earl of Murray, O he might hae been a king!

He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the ba'; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the flower amang them a'!

He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the gluve; And the bonny Earl of Murray, O he was the Queen's luve!

O lang will his Lady Look owre the Castle Downe, Ere she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding through the town!

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

387. Helen of Kirconnell

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

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

O think na ye my heart was sair, When my Love dropp'd and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell lea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

388. Waly, Waly

O WALY, waly, up the bank, And waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side, Where I and my Love wont to gae! I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree; But first it bow'd and syne it brak-- Sae my true love did lichtlie me.

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

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

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

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

cramasie] crimson.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

389. Barbara Allen's Cruelty

IN Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin', Made every youth cry Well-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin', Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man in to her then, To the town where she was dwellin', 'O haste and come to my master dear, If your name be Barbara Allen.'

So slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly she came nigh him, And when she drew the curtain by-- 'Young man, I think you're dyin'.'

'O it 's I am sick and very very sick, And it 's all for Barbara Allen.' 'O the better for me ye'se never be, Tho' your heart's blood were a-spillin'!

'O dinna ye mind, young man,' says she, 'When the red wine ye were fillin', That ye made the healths go round and round, And slighted Barbara Allen?'

He turn'd his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealin': 'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allen!'

As she was walking o'er the fields, She heard the dead-bell knellin'; And every jow the dead-bell gave Cried 'Woe to Barbara Allen.'

'O mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and narrow: My love has died for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow.

'Farewell,' she said, 'ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.'

jow] beat, toll.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

390. Pipe and Can

I

THE Indian weed withered quite; Green at morn, cut down at night; Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high, Think thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

But when the pipe grows foul within, Think of thy soul defiled with sin, And that the fire doth it require: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

The ashes, that are left behind, May serve to put thee still in mind That unto dust return thou must: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

II

WHEN as the chill Charokko blows, And Winter tells a heavy tale; When pyes and daws and rooks and crows Sit cursing of the frosts and snows; Then give me ale.

Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, Such as will make grimalkin prate; Bids valour burgeon in tall men, Quickens the poet's wit and pen, Despises fate.

Ale, that the absent battle fights, And frames the march of Swedish drum, Disputes with princes, laws, and rights, What 's done and past tells mortal wights, And what 's to come.

Ale, that the plowman's heart up-keeps And equals it with tyrants' thrones, That wipes the eye that over-weeps, And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps Th' o'er-wearied bones.

Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus' daughter, Wine's emulous neighbour, though but stale, Ennobling all the nymphs of water, And filling each man's heart with laughter-- Ha! give me ale!

Charokko] Scirocco.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

391. Love will find out the Way

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

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

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

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

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

If the earth it should part him, He would gallop it o'er; If the seas should o'erthwart him, He would swim to the shore; Should his Love become a swallow, Through the air to stray, Love will lend wings to follow, And will find out the way.

There is no striving To cross his intent; There is no contriving His plots to prevent; But if once the message greet him That his True Love doth stay, If Death should come and meet him, Love will find out the way!

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

392. Phillada flouts Me

O WHAT a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it. She so torments my mind That my strength faileth, And wavers with the wind As a ship saileth. Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day! Phillada flouts me.

At the fair yesterday She did pass by me; She look'd another way And would not spy me: I woo'd her for to dine, But could not get her; Will had her to the wine-- He might entreat her. With Daniel she did dance, On me she look'd askance: O thrice unhappy chance! Phillada flouts me.

Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain me! I am my mother's joy: Sweet, entertain me! She'll give me, when she dies, All that is fitting: Her poultry and her bees, And her goose sitting, A pair of mattrass beds, And a bag full of shreds; And yet, for all this guedes, Phillada flouts me!

She hath a clout of mine Wrought with blue coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But i' faith, if she flinch She shall not wear it; To Tib, my t'other wench, I mean to bear it. And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part: Death strike me with his dart! Phillada flouts me.

Thou shalt eat crudded cream All the year lasting, And drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou lust, And bramble-berries, Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries. Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil's skin-- Yet all 's not worth a pin! Phillada flouts me.

In the last month of May I made her posies; I heard her often say That she loved roses. Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly. But she did all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore 'tis flat and plain Phillada flouts me.

Fair maiden, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy-maid Laugh'd at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favours me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those? Phillada flouts me.

I cannot work nor sleep At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason. I 'gin to pine away In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penn'd in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me.

guedes] goods, property of any kind.

William Strode. 1602-1645

393. Chloris in the Snow

I SAW fair Chloris walk alone, When feather'd rain came softly down, As Jove descending from his Tower To court her in a silver shower: The wanton snow flew to her breast, Like pretty birds into their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thaw'd into a tear: Thence falling on her garments' hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.

Thomas Stanley. 1625-1678

394. The Relapse

O TURN away those cruel eyes, The stars of my undoing! Or death, in such a bright disguise, May tempt a second wooing.

Punish their blind and impious pride, Who dare contemn thy glory; It was my fall that deified Thy name, and seal'd thy story.

Yet no new sufferings can prepare A higher praise to crown thee; Though my first death proclaim thee fair, My second will unthrone thee.

Lovers will doubt thou canst entice No other for thy fuel, And if thou burn one victim twice, Both think thee poor and cruel.

Thomas D'Urfey. 1653-1723

395. Chloe Divine

CHLOE 's a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, A woman in my dreams.

Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivall'd in her voice, And Venus in her arms.

Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine: And yet 'tis flesh and blood alone That makes her so divine.

Charles Cotton. 1630-1687

396. To Coelia

WHEN, Coelia, must my old day set, And my young morning rise In beams of joy so bright as yet Ne'er bless'd a lover's eyes? My state is more advanced than when I first attempted thee: I sued to be a servant then, But now to be made free.

I've served my time faithful and true, Expecting to be placed In happy freedom, as my due, To all the joys thou hast: Ill husbandry in love is such A scandal to love's power, We ought not to misspend so much As one poor short-lived hour.

Yet think not, sweet! I'm weary grown, That I pretend such haste; Since none to surfeit e'er was known Before he had a taste: My infant love could humbly wait When, young, it scarce knew how To plead; but grown to man's estate, He is impatient now.

Katherine Philips ('Orinda'). 1631-1664

397. To One persuading a Lady to Marriage

FORBEAR, bold youth; all 's heaven here, And what you do aver To others courtship may appear, 'Tis sacrilege to her. She is a public deity; And were 't not very odd She should dispose herself to be A petty household god?

First make the sun in private shine And bid the world adieu, That so he may his beams confine In compliment to you: But if of that you do despair, Think how you did amiss To strive to fix her beams which are More bright and large than his.

John Dryden. 1631-1700

398. Ode To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy and Painting

THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race, Or, in procession fixt and regular, Mov'd with the heaven's majestic pace; Or, call'd to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, In no ignoble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given, To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less, to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. But if thy pre-existing soul Was form'd at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And even the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother-angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clust'ring swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miracles Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.

O gracious God! how far have we Profan'd thy heavenly gift of Poesy! Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above, For tongues of angels and for hymns of love! O wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubrique and adulterate age (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own), To increase the streaming ordures of the stage? What can we say to excuse our second fall? Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all! Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil'd; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

Art she had none, yet wanted none, For Nature did that want supply: So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life, she read. And to be read herself she need not fear; Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear, Though Epictetus with his lamp were there. Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest) Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast, Light as the vapours of a morning dream; So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream....

Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much-lamented virgin lies. Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life and beauty too; But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride To work more mischievously slow, And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the relic, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died: Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home! No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, Thou hast already had her last embrace. But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far, Among the Pleiads a new kindl'd star, If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, The judging God shall close the book of Fate, And there the last assizes keep For those who wake and those who sleep; When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky; When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shalt go, As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.

John Dryden. 1631-1700

399. A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GRAND CHORUS.

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

John Dryden. 1631-1700

400. Ah, how sweet it is to love!

AH, how sweet it is to love! Ah, how gay is young Desire! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach Love's fire! Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart: Ev'n the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart: Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high, Swells in every youthful vein; But each tide does less supply, Till they quite shrink in again: If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

John Dryden. 1631-1700

401. Hidden Flame

I FEED a flame within, which so torments me That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, That I had rather die than once remove it.

Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it; My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it. Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses, But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel, My heart 's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel; And while I suffer this to give him quiet, My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me; While I conceal my love no frown can fright me. To be more happy I dare not aspire, Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

John Dryden. 1631-1700

402. Song to a Fair Young Lady, going out of the Town in the Spring

ASK not the cause why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year: Chloris is gone; and fate provides To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure?

Great God of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst plac'd such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs And every life but mine recall. I only am by Love design'd To be the victim for mankind.

Charles Webbe. c. 1678

403. Against Indifference

MORE love or more disdain I crave; Sweet, be not still indifferent: O send me quickly to my grave, Or else afford me more content! Or love or hate me more or less, For love abhors all lukewarmness.

Give me a tempest if 'twill drive Me to the place where I would be; Or if you'll have me still alive, Confess you will be kind to me. Give hopes of bliss or dig my grave: More love or more disdain I crave.

Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691

404. Song

LADIES, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue, Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love.

Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest Love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair: The Boy did not his Mother spare. Beauty 's but an offensive dart: It is no armour for the heart.

Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691

405. To a Lady asking him how long he would love her

IT is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste; The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.

Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure past: Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die?

Thomas Traherne. 1637?-1674

406. News

NEWS from a foreign country came As if my treasure and my wealth lay there; So much it did my heart inflame, 'Twas wont to call my Soul into mine ear; Which thither went to meet The approaching sweet, And on the threshold stood To entertain the unknown Good. It hover'd there As if 'twould leave mine ear, And was so eager to embrace The joyful tidings as they came, 'Twould almost leave its dwelling-place To entertain that same.

As if the tidings were the things, My very joys themselves, my foreign treasure-- Or else did bear them on their wings-- With so much joy they came, with so much pleasure. My Soul stood at that gate To recreate Itself with bliss, and to Be pleased with speed. A fuller view It fain would take, Yet journeys back would make Unto my heart; as if 'twould fain Go out to meet, yet stay within To fit a place to entertain And bring the tidings in.

What sacred instinct did inspire My soul in childhood with a hope so strong? What secret force moved my desire To expect my joys beyond the seas, so young? Felicity I knew Was out of view, And being here alone, I saw that happiness was gone From me! For this I thirsted absent bliss, And thought that sure beyond the seas, Or else in something near at hand-- I knew not yet--since naught did please I knew--my Bliss did stand.

But little did the infant dream That all the treasures of the world were by: And that himself was so the cream And crown of all which round about did lie. Yet thus it was: the Gem, The Diadem, The ring enclosing all That stood upon this earthly ball, The Heavenly eye, Much wider than the sky, Wherein they all included were, The glorious Soul, that was the King Made to possess them, did appear A small and little thing!

Thomas Flatman. 1637-1688

407. The Sad Day

O THE sad day! When friends shall shake their heads, and say Of miserable me-- 'Hark, how he groans! Look, how he pants for breath! See how he struggles with the pangs of death!' When they shall say of these dear eyes-- 'How hollow, O how dim they be! Mark how his breast doth rise and swell Against his potent enemy!' When some old friend shall step to my bedside, Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide.

But--when his next companions say 'How does he do? What hopes?'--shall turn away, Answering only, with a lift-up hand-- 'Who can his fate withstand?'

Then shall a gasp or two do more Than e'er my rhetoric could before: Persuade the world to trouble me no more!

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 1638-1706

408. Song Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the night before an Engagement.

TO all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind?-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

To pass our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play; But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note As if it sigh'd with each man's care For being so remote, Think then how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honour lose Our certain happiness: All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears: Let 's hear of no inconstancy-- We have too much of that at sea-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701

409. To Chloris

AH, Chloris! that I now could sit As unconcern'd as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure, nor no pain! When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in the mine; Age from no face took more away Than youth conceal'd in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest, Fond love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest.

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

Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701

410. To Celia

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

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

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

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

Aphra Behn. 1640-1689

411. Song

LOVE in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he show'd: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurl'd; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have arm'd And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harm'd, Whilst thine the victor is, and free!

Aphra Behn. 1640-1689

412. The Libertine

A THOUSAND martyrs I have made, All sacrificed to my desire, A thousand beauties have betray'd That languish in resistless fire: The untamed heart to hand I brought, And fix'd the wild and wand'ring thought.

I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain, But both, tho' false, were well received; The fair are pleased to give us pain, And what they wish is soon believed: And tho' I talk'd of wounds and smart, Love's pleasures only touch'd my heart.

Alone the glory and the spoil I always laughing bore away; The triumphs without pain or toil, Without the hell the heaven of joy; And while I thus at random rove Despise the fools that whine for love.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680

413. Return

ABSENT from thee, I languish still; Then ask me not, When I return? The straying fool 'twill plainly kill To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, That my fantastic mind may prove The torments it deserves to try, That tears my fix'd heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe, To thy safe bosom I retire, Where love, and peace, and truth does flow, May I contented there expire!

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven, I fall on some base heart unblest; Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven-- And lose my everlasting rest.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680

414. Love and Life

ALL my past life is mine no more; The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment 's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I by miracle can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680

415. Constancy

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

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

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680

416. To His Mistress (After Quarles)

WHY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?

Without thy light what light remains in me? Thou art my life; my way, my light 's in thee; I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Thou art my life--if thou but turn away My life 's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-- Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.

My light thou art--without thy glorious sight My eyes are darken'd with eternal night. My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.

Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly. Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I! Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die.

My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see: To whom or whither should my darkness flee, But to that light?--and who 's that light but thee?

If I have lost my path, dear lover, say, Shall I still wander in a doubtful way? Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray?

My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray; I cannot go, nor can I safely stay; Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?

And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me! And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me! Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me?

Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye, The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely: If I but them remove, I surely die.

Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay! See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray! --O thou that art my life, my light, my way!

Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee, My reason shall obey, my wings shall be Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee!

John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720

417. The Reconcilement

COME, let us now resolve at last To live and love in quiet; We'll tie the knot so very fast That Time shall ne'er untie it.

The truest joys they seldom prove Who free from quarrels live: 'Tis the most tender part of love Each other to forgive.

When least I seem'd concern'd, I took No pleasure nor no rest; And when I feign'd an angry look, Alas! I loved you best.

Own but the same to me--you'll find How blest will be our fate. O to be happy--to be kind-- Sure never is too late!

John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720

418. On One who died discovering her Kindness

SOME vex their souls with jealous pain, While others sigh for cold disdain: Love's various slaves we daily see-- Yet happy all compared with me!

Of all mankind I loved the best A nymph so far above the rest That we outshined the Blest above; In beauty she, as I in love.

And therefore They, who could not bear To be outdone by mortals here, Among themselves have placed her now, And left me wretched here below.

All other fate I could have borne, And even endured her very scorn; But oh! thus all at once to find That dread account--both dead and kind! What heart can hold? If yet I live, 'Tis but to show how much I grieve.

Thomas Otway. 1652-1685

419. The Enchantment

I DID but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power.

To sigh and wish is all my ease; Sighs which do heat impart Enough to melt the coldest ice, Yet cannot warm your heart.

O would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, 'Twould learn of yours the winning art, And quickly steal the rest.

John Oldham. 1653-1683

420. A Quiet Soul

THY soul within such silent pomp did keep, As if humanity were lull'd asleep; So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath, Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise, Or the soft journey which a planet goes: Life seem'd all calm as its last breath. A still tranquillity so hush'd thy breast, As if some Halcyon were its guest, And there had built her nest; It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.

John Cutts, Lord Cutts. 1661-1707

421. Song

ONLY tell her that I love: Leave the rest to her and Fate: Some kind planet from above May perhaps her pity move: Lovers on their stars must wait.-- Only tell her that I love!

Why, O why should I despair! Mercy 's pictured in her eye: If she once vouchsafe to hear, Welcome Hope and farewell Fear! She 's too good to let me die.-- Why, O why should I despair?

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

422. The Question to Lisetta

WHAT nymph should I admire or trust, But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just? What nymph should I desire to see, But her who leaves the plain for me? To whom should I compose the lay, But her who listens when I play? To whom in song repeat my cares, But her who in my sorrow shares? For whom should I the garland make, But her who joys the gift to take, And boasts she wears it for my sake? In love am I not fully blest? Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.

LISETTA'S REPLY

Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair, Deserves to be your only care; But, when you and she to-day Far into the wood did stray, And I happen'd to pass by, Which way did you cast your eye? But, when your cares to her you sing, You dare not tell her whence they spring: Does it not more afflict your heart, That in those cares she bears a part? When you the flowers for Chloe twine, Why do you to her garland join The meanest bud that falls from mine? Simplest of swains! the world may see Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

423. To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fire, and look The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordain'd (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

424. Song

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

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

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

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

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

425. On My Birthday, July 21

I, MY dear, was born to-day-- So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born to pain and woe; To thy denial, to thy scorn, Better I had ne'er been born: I wish to die, even whilst I say-- 'I, my dear, was born to-day.' I, my dear, was born to-day: Shall I salute the rising ray, Well-spring of all my joy and woe? Clotilda, thou alone dost know. Shall the wreath surround my hair? Or shall the music please my ear? Shall I my comrades' mirth receive, And bless my birth, and wish to live? Then let me see great Venus chase Imperious anger from thy face; Then let me hear thee smiling say-- 'Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.'

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

426. The Lady who offers her Looking-Glass to Venus

VENUS, take my votive glass: Since I am not what I was, What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see.

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

427. A Letter to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child

MY noble, lovely, little Peggy, Let this my First Epistle beg ye, At dawn of morn, and close of even, To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. In double duty say your prayer: Our Father first, then Notre Pere.

And, dearest child, along the day, In every thing you do and say, Obey and please my lord and lady, So God shall love and angels aid ye.

If to these precepts you attend, No second letter need I send, And so I rest your constant friend.

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

428. For my own Monument

AS doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.

Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears, In a life parti-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not--yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

William Walsh. 1663-1708

429. Rivals

OF all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are curst; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst! By partners in each other kind Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are labouring in my breast, I beg not you would favour me, Would you but slight the rest! How great soe'er your rigours are, With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope.

Lady Grisel Baillie. 1665-1746

430. Werena my Heart's licht I wad dee

THERE ance was a may, and she lo'ed na men; She biggit her bonnie bow'r doun in yon glen; But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day! Come doun the green gait and come here away!

When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea, He said he saw naething sae lovely as me; He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things-- And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

He had a wee titty that lo'ed na me, Because I was twice as bonnie as she; She raised sic a pother 'twixt him and his mother That werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

The day it was set, and the bridal to be: The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee; She maned and she graned out o' dolour and pain, Till he vow'd he never wad see me again.

His kin was for ane of a higher degree, Said--What had he do wi' the likes of me? Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie-- And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

They said I had neither cow nor calf, Nor dribbles o' drink rins thro' the draff, Nor pickles o' meal rins thro' the mill-e'e-- And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

His titty she was baith wylie and slee: She spied me as I cam owre the lea; And then she ran in and made a loud din-- Believe your ain e'en, an ye trow not me.

His bonnet stood ay fu' round on his brow, His auld ane look'd ay as well as some's new: But now he lets 't wear ony gait it will hing, And casts himsel dowie upon the corn bing.

And now he gaes daund'ring about the dykes, And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes: The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks his e'e-- And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

Were I but young for thee, as I hae been, We should hae been gallopin' doun in yon green, And linkin' it owre the lily-white lea-- And wow, gin I were but young for thee!

may] maid. biggit] built. gait] way, path. hecht] promised. titty] sister. dwam] sudden illness. appose] suppose. pickles] small quantities. hing] hang. dowie] dejectedly. hund the tykes] direct the dogs. steeks] closes. linkin'] tripping.

William Congreve. 1670-1729

431. False though She be

FALSE though she be to me and love, I'll ne'er pursue revenge; For still the charmer I approve, Though I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met: They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past.

William Congreve. 1670-1729

432. A Hue and Cry after Fair Amoret

FAIR Amoret is gone astray-- Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover; I'll tell the signs by which you may The wand'ring Shepherdess discover.

Coquette and coy at once her air, Both studied, tho' both seem neglected; Careless she is, with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart ev'ry glance, Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them, For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Tho' certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates For that which in herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing hat she despises.

Joseph Addison. 1672-1719

433. Hymn

THE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. Th' unwearied Sun from day to day Does his Creator's power display; And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; And nightly to the listening Earth Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all Move round the dark terrestrial ball; What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found? In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing as they shine, 'The Hand that made us is divine.'

Isaac Watts. 1674-1748

434. The Day of Judgement

WHEN the fierce North-wind with his airy forces Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury; And the red lightning with a storm of hail comes Rushing amain down;

How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble, While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet, Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters Quick to devour them.

Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder (If things eternal may be like these earthly), Such the dire terror when the great Archangel Shakes the creation;

Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven, Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes, Sees the graves open, and the bones arising, Flames all around them.

Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches! Lively bright horror and amazing anguish Stare thro' their eyelids, while the living worm lies Gnawing within them.

Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings, And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds the Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance Rolling afore him.

Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver, While devils push them to the pit wide-yawning Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong Down to the centre!

Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid Doleful ideas!) come, arise to Jesus, How He sits God-like! and the saints around Him Throned, yet adoring!

O may I sit there when He comes triumphant, Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory, While our Hosannas all along the passage Shout the Redeemer.

Isaac Watts. 1674-1748

435. A Cradle Hymn

HUSH! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment: All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay.

Blessed babe! what glorious features-- Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must He dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford To receive the heavenly stranger? Did they thus affront their Lord?

Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard; 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, And her arms shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful story How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of Glory, Makes me angry while I sing.

See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky! Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His Virgin mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hush'd the holy child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the horned oxen fed: Peace, my darling; here 's no danger, Here 's no ox anear thy bed.

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came.

May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell for ever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise!

Thomas Parnell. 1670-1718

436. Song

WHEN thy beauty appears In its graces and airs All bright as an angel new dropp'd from the sky, At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears: So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when without art Your kind thoughts you impart, When your love runs in blushes through every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again.

There 's a passion and pride In our sex (she replied), And thus, might I gratify both, I would do: Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you.

Allan Ramsay. 1686-1758

437. Peggy

MY Peggy is a young thing, Just enter'd in her teens Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay; My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm not very auld, Yet well I like to meet her at The wawking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair of a' that's rare; My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld, But she gars a' my spirits glow At wawking of the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love, That I look down on a' the town, That I look down upon a crown; My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blyth and bauld, And naething gi'es me sic delight As wawking of the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly When on my pipe I play, By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest, that she sings best; My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld With innocence the wale of sense, At wawking of the fauld.

wawking] watching. lave] rest. wale] choice, best.

William Oldys. 1687-1761

438. On a Fly drinking out of his Cup

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly! Drink with me and drink as I: Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up: Make the most of life you may, Life is short and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine Hastening quick to their decline: Thine 's a summer, mine 's no more, Though repeated to threescore. Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one!

John Gay. 1688-1732

439. Song

O RUDDIER than the cherry! O sweeter than the berry! O nymph more bright Than moonshine night, Like kidlings blithe and merry! Ripe as the melting cluster! No lily has such lustre; Yet hard to tame As raging flame, And fierce as storms that bluster!

Alexander Pope. 1688-1744

440. On a certain Lady at Court

I KNOW a thing that 's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour; Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humour And sensible soft melancholy.

'Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?' Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

Alexander Pope. 1688-1744

441. Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady

WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? O, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those who greatly think, or bravely die? Why bade ye else, ye Pow'rs! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of angels and of gods; Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And close confined to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below, So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good! Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of Death: Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall; On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herses shall besiege your gates. There passengers shall stand, and pointing say (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way), 'Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steel'd And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.' Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe! What can atone (O ever-injured shade!) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier. By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground now sacred by thy reliques made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How loved, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from this closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

Alexander Pope. 1688-1744

442. The Dying Christian to his Soul

VITAL spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, O the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister Spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears! Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting?

George Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe. 1691?-1762

443. Shorten Sail

LOVE thy country, wish it well, Not with too intense a care; 'Tis enough that, when it fell, Thou its ruin didst not share.

Envy's censure, Flattery's praise, With unmoved indifference view: Learn to tread Life's dangerous maze With unerring Virtue's clue.

Void of strong desire and fear, Life's wide ocean trust no more; Strive thy little bark to steer With the tide, but near the shore.

Thus prepared, thy shorten'd sail Shall, whene'er the winds increase, Seizing each propitious gale, Waft thee to the port of Peace.

Keep thy conscience from offence And tempestuous passions free, So, when thou art call'd from hence, Easy shall thy passage be.

--Easy shall thy passage be, Cheerful thy allotted stay, Short the account 'twixt God and thee, Hope shall meet thee on thy way.

Henry Carey. 1693?-1743

444. Sally in our Alley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry Carey. 1693?-1743

445. A Drinking-Song

BACCHUS must now his power resign-- I am the only God of Wine! It is not fit the wretch should be In competition set with me, Who can drink ten times more than he.

Make a new world, ye powers divine! Stock'd with nothing else but Wine: Let Wine its only product be, Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea-- And let that Wine be all for me!

William Broome. ?-1745

446. The Rosebud

QUEEN of fragrance, lovely Rose, The beauties of thy leaves disclose! --But thou, fair Nymph, thyself survey In this sweet offspring of a day. That miracle of face must fail, Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail: Swift as the short-lived flower they fly, At morn they bloom, at evening die: Though Sickness yet a while forbears, Yet Time destroys what Sickness spares: Now Helen lives alone in fame, And Cleopatra's but a name: Time must indent that heavenly brow, And thou must be what they are now.

William Broome. ?-1745

447. Belinda's Recovery from Sickness

THUS when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth; Our moulder'd frame rebuilt assumes New beauty, and for ever blooms, And, crown'd with youth's immortal pride, We angels rise, who mortals died.

James Thomson. 1700-1748

448. On the Death of a particular Friend

AS those we love decay, we die in part, String after string is sever'd from the heart; Till loosen'd life, at last but breathing clay, Without one pang is glad to fall away.

Unhappy he who latest feels the blow! Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low, Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death, Till, dying, all he can resign is--breath.

George Lyttelton, Lord Lyttelton. 1709-1773

449. Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love

WHEN Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear No other voice than hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before-- The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784

450. One-and-Twenty

LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty, Ling'ring year, at length is flown: Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great * * * * * * *, are now your own.

Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell.

Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir.

All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There the gamester, light and jolly, There the lender, grave and sly.

Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill.

When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high-- What are acres? What are houses? Only dirt, or wet or dry.

Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste, Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother;-- You can hang or drown at last!

Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784

451. On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet, a Practiser in Physic

CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts or slow decline Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year, See Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature call'd for aid, And hov'ring death prepared the blow, His vig'rous remedy display'd The power of art without the show.

In Misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely Want retired to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride; The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure th' Eternal Master found The single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm--his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.

Richard Jago. 1715-1781

452. Absence

WITH leaden foot Time creeps along While Delia is away: With her, nor plaintive was the song, Nor tedious was the day.

Ah, envious Pow'r! reverse my doom; Now double thy career, Strain ev'ry nerve, stretch ev'ry plume, And rest them when she 's here!

Thomas Gray. 1716-1771

453. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

'The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:'

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray. 1716-1771

454. The Curse upon Edward

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

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

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

Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.)

Thomas Gray. 1716-1771

455. The Progress of Poesy A PINDARIC ODE

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

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

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

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

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

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Maeander's amber waves In lingering lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, 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 stray'd, To Him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

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

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

Thomas Gray. 1716-1771

456. On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes

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

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

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

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

Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) The slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A Fav'rite has no friend!

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

William Collins. 1721-1759

457. Ode to Simplicity

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more, in hall or bow'r, The passions own thy pow'r. Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean; For thou hast left her shrine, Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

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

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

William Collins. 1721-1759

458. How sleep the Brave

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

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

William Collins. 1721-1759

459. 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-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed:

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

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

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

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

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

Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile, Or upland fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam.

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

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

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

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

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd Health Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy favourite name!

William Collins. 1721-1759

460. Fidele

TO fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved, till life can charm no more; And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

Mark Akenside. 1721-1770

461. Amoret

IF rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fix'd in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell-- What fair can Amoret excel?

Behold that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet--she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen-- We naught but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

But neither music, nor the powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half the sunshine to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.

This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part; This gives the most unbounded sway; This shall enchant the subject heart When rose and lily fade away; And she be still, in spite of Time, Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

Mark Akenside. 1721-1770

462. The Complaint

AWAY! away! Tempt me no more, insidious Love: Thy soothing sway Long did my youthful bosom prove: At length thy treason is discern'd, At length some dear-bought caution earn'd: Away! nor hope my riper age to move.

I know, I see Her merit. Needs it now be shown, Alas! to me? How often, to myself unknown, The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid Have I admired! How often said-- What joy to call a heart like hers one's own!

But, flattering god, O squanderer of content and ease In thy abode Will care's rude lesson learn to please? O say, deceiver, hast thou won Proud Fortune to attend thy throne, Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees?

Mark Akenside. 1721-1770

463. The Nightingale

TO-NIGHT retired, the queen of heaven With young Endymion stays; And now to Hesper it is given Awhile to rule the vacant sky, Till she shall to her lamp supply A stream of brighter rays.

Propitious send thy golden ray, Thou purest light above! Let no false flame seduce to stray Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm; But lead where music's healing charm May soothe afflicted love.

To them, by many a grateful song In happier seasons vow'd, These lawns, Olympia's haunts, belong: Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd, Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd, Beneath yon copses stood.

Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs That roofless tower invade, We came, while her enchanting Muse The radiant moon above us held: Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd, She fled the solemn shade.

But hark! I hear her liquid tone! Now Hesper guide my feet! Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, Through yon wild thicket next the plain, Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane Which leads to her retreat.

See the green space: on either hand Enlarged it spreads around: See, in the midst she takes her stand, Where one old oak his awful shade Extends o'er half the level mead, Enclosed in woods profound.

Hark! how through many a melting note She now prolongs her lays: How sweetly down the void they float! The breeze their magic path attends; The stars shine out; the forest bends; The wakeful heifers graze.

Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring To this sequester'd spot, If then the plaintive Siren sing, O softly tread beneath her bower And think of Heaven's disposing power, Of man's uncertain lot.

O think, o'er all this mortal stage What mournful scenes arise: What ruin waits on kingly rage; How often virtue dwells with woe; How many griefs from knowledge flow; How swiftly pleasure flies!

O sacred bird! let me at eve, Thus wandering all alone, Thy tender counsel oft receive, Bear witness to thy pensive airs, And pity Nature's common cares, Till I forget my own.

Tobias George Smollett. 1721-1771

464. To Leven Water

PURE stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course Devolving from thy parent lake A charming maze thy waters make By bowers of birch and groves of pine And edges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily green May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry embrown'd with toil, And hearts resolved and hands prepared The blessings they enjoy to guard.

Christopher Smart. 1722-1770

465. Song to David

SUBLIME--invention ever young, Of vast conception, tow'ring tongue To God th' eternal theme; Notes from yon exaltations caught, Unrivall'd royalty of thought O'er meaner strains supreme.

His muse, bright angel of his verse, Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, For all the pangs that rage; Blest light still gaining on the gloom, The more than Michal of his bloom, Th' Abishag of his age.

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

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

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

The pillars of the Lord are seven, Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; His Wisdom drew the plan; His Word accomplish'd the design, From brightest gem to deepest mine; From Christ enthroned, to Man.

For Adoration all the ranks Of Angels yield eternal thanks, And David in the midst; With God's good poor, which, last and least In man's esteem, Thou to Thy feast, O blessed Bridegroom, bidd'st!

For Adoration, David's Psalms Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; And he, who kneels and chants, Prevails his passions to control, Finds meat and medicine to the soul, Which for translation pants.

For Adoration, in the dome Of Christ, the sparrows find a home, And on His olives perch: The swallow also dwells with thee, O man of God's humility, Within his Saviour's church.

Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, And drops upon the leafy limes; Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: Sweet is the lily's silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell That watch for early prayer.

Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; Sweet, when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician's ardour beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flowers to hive.

Strong is the horse upon his speed; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game: Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; Strong through the turbulent profound Shoots Xiphias to his aim.

Strong is the lion--like a coal His eyeball,--like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes: Strong, the gier-eagle on his sail; Strong against tide th' enormous whale Emerges as he goes.

But stronger still, in earth and air, And in the sea, the man of prayer, And far beneath the tide: And in the seat to faith assign'd, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide.

Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere, Acceptable to God: And precious are the winning flowers, In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers Bound on the hallow'd sod.

Glorious the sun in mid career; Glorious th' assembled fires appear; Glorious the comet's train: Glorious the trumpet and alarm; Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; Glorious th' enraptured main:

Glorious the northern lights astream; Glorious the song, when God 's the theme; Glorious the thunder's roar: Glorious Hosanna from the den; Glorious the catholic Amen; Glorious the martyr's gore:

Glorious--more glorious--is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down, By meekness call'd thy Son: Thou that stupendous truth believed;-- And now the matchless deed 's achieved, Determined, dared, and done!

glede] kite. Xiphias] sword-fish.

Jane Elliot. 1727-1805

466. A Lament for Flodden

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

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

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

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

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

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

loaning] lane, field-track. wede] weeded. bughts] sheep-folds. daffing] joking. leglin] milk-pail. hairst] harvest. bandsters] binders. lyart] gray-haired. runkled] wrinkled. fleeching] coaxing. swankies] lusty lads. bogle] bogy, hide-and-seek. dool] mourning.

Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774

467. Woman

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

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

Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774

468. Memory

O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain:

Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe: And he who wants each other blessing In thee must ever find a foe.

Robert Cunninghame-Graham of Gartmore. 1735-1797

469. If Doughty Deeds

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

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

But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake nae care I'll take Tho' ne'er another trow me.

William Cowper. 1731-1800

470. To Mary Unwin

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

William Cowper. 1731-1800

471. My Mary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James Beattie. 1735-1803

472. An Epitaph

LIKE thee I once have stemm'd the sea of life, Like thee have languish'd after empty joys, Like thee have labour'd in the stormy strife, Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys.

Forget my frailties; thou art also frail: Forgive my lapses; for thyself may'st fall: Nor read unmoved my artless tender tale-- I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all.

Isobel Pagan. 1740-1821

473. Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes

CA' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed down the water side, There I met my shepherd lad; He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, And he ca'd me his dearie.

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

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

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

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

'While waters wimple to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e, Ye aye sall be my dearie!'

yowes] ewes. knowes] knolls, little hills. rows] rolls. row'd] rolled, wrapped. dool] dule, sorrow. lift] sky.

Anna Laetitia Barbauld. 1743-1825

474. Life

LIFE! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me 's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be As all that then remains of me.

O whither, whither dost thou fly? Where bend unseen thy trackless course? And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame From whence thy essence came Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter's base encumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank oblivious years th' appointed hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? O say, what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?

Life! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;-- Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning!

Fanny Greville. 18th Cent.

475. Prayer for Indifference

I ASK no kind return of love, No tempting charm to please; Far from the heart those gifts remove, That sighs for peace and ease.

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know, That, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound, 'Tis pain in each degree: 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound, Beyond is agony.

John Logan. 1748-1788

476. To the Cuckoo

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green, 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, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wand'ring through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another Spring to hail.

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

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring.

Lady Anne Lindsay. 1750-1825

477. Auld Robin Gray

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; My mother she fell sick,--and my Jamie at the sea-- And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!'

My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae 's me?

My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

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

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

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

Sir William Jones. 1746-1794

478. Epigram

ON parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled: So live, that sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep.

Thomas Chatterton. 1752-1770

479. Song from Aella

O SING unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holyday, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Black his cryne as the winter night, White his rode as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O he lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud: Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll dent the briers Round his holy corse to gre: Ouph and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

cryne] hair. rode] complexion. dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf.

George Crabbe. 1754-1832

480. Meeting

MY Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away! Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live But that we meet, and that we love.

George Crabbe. 1754-1832

481. Late Wisdom

WE'VE trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed: By long experience taught, we know-- Can rightly judge of friends and foes; Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those.

Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell The wildest passions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage.-- Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now This bold rebellious race are fled? When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead?

George Crabbe. 1754-1832

482. A Marriage Ring

THE ring, so worn as you behold, So thin, so pale, is yet of gold: The passion such it was to prove-- Worn with life's care, love yet was love.

William Blake. 1757-1827

483. To the Muses

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few.

William Blake. 1757-1827

484. To Spring

O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

William Blake. 1757-1827

485. Song

MY silks and fine array, My smiles and languish'd air, By Love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was 't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worshipp'd tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pass away!

William Blake. 1757-1827

486. Reeds of Innocence

PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:

'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again;' So I piped: he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' So I sung the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.' So he vanish'd from my sight; And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

William Blake. 1757-1827

487. The Little Black Boy

MY mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O, my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:

'Look at the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice, Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

William Blake. 1757-1827

488. Hear the Voice

HEAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walk'd among the ancient trees;

Calling the lapsed soul, And weeping in the evening dew; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew!

'O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass.

'Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Is given thee till the break of day.'

William Blake. 1757-1827

489. The Tiger

TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake. 1757-1827

490. Cradle Song

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

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

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

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

William Blake. 1757-1827

491. Night

THE sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest. And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove, Where flocks have took delight: Where lambs have nibbled, silent move The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing And joy without ceasing On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm: If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep, Seeking to drive their thirst away And keep them from the sheep. But, if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold: Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness, And, by His health, sickness, Are driven away From our immortal day.

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep, Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee, and weep. For, wash'd in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold.'

William Blake. 1757-1827

492. Love's Secret

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

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

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

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

493. Mary Morison

O MARY, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blythely wad I bide the stour A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison!

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 'Ye arena Mary Morison.'

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wiltna gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

stour] dust, turmoil.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

494. Jean

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There 's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There 's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.

airts] points of the compass. row] roll.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

495. Auld Lang Syne

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

We twa hae rin about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne.

And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.

gowans] daisies. fit] foot. dine] dinner-time. fiere] partner. guid-willie waught] friendly draught.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

496. My Bonnie Mary

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

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it 's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o' war that 's heard afar-- It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!

tassie] cup.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

497. John Anderson, my Jo

JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo!

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

jo] sweetheart. brent] smooth, unwrinkled. beld] bald. pow] pate. canty] cheerful.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

498. The Banks o' Doon

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

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

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

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

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Upon a morn in June; And sae I flourish'd on the morn, And sae was pu'd or' noon.

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

or'] ere. staw] stole.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

499. Ae Fond Kiss

AE fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met--or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

wage] stake, plight.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

500. Bonnie Lesley

O SAW ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the Border? She 's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee: Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he couldna scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face And say, 'I canna wrang thee!'

The Powers aboon will tent thee, Misfortune sha'na steer thee: Thou'rt like themsel' sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There 's nane again sae bonnie!

scaith] harm. tent] watch. steer] molest.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

501. Highland Mary

YE banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly!

And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

drumlie] miry.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

502. O were my Love yon Lilac fair

O WERE my Love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

O gin my Love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'; O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

503. A Red, Red Rose

O MY Luve 's like a red, red rose That 's newly sprung in June: O my Luve 's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune!

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

504. Lament for Culloden

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

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

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

505. The Farewell

IT was a' for our rightfu' King We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' King We e'er saw Irish land, My dear-- We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My love and native land, farewell, For I maun cross the main, My dear-- For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With, Adieu for evermore, My dear-- With, Adieu for evermore!

The sodger frae the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear-- Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep, I think on him that 's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear-- The lee-lang night, and weep.

lee-lang] livelong.

Robert Burns. 1759-1796

506. Hark! the Mavis

CA' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie.

Hark! the mavis' evening sang Sounding Clouden's woods amang, Then a-faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie.

We'll gae down by Clouden side, Through the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours O'er the dewy bending flowers Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie.

Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die--but canna part, My bonnie dearie.

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

Ca' the yowes to the knowes...

lift] sky.

Henry Rowe. 1750-1819

507. Sun

ANGEL, king of streaming morn; Cherub, call'd by Heav'n to shine; T' orient tread the waste forlorn; Guide aetherial, pow'r divine; Thou, Lord of all within!

Golden spirit, lamp of day, Host, that dips in blood the plain, Bids the crimson'd mead be gay, Bids the green blood burst the vein; Thou, Lord of all within!

Soul, that wraps the globe in light; Spirit, beckoning to arise; Drives the frowning brow of night, Glory bursting o'er the skies; Thou, Lord of all within!

Henry Rowe. 1750-1819

508. Moon

THEE too, modest tressed maid, When thy fallen stars appear; When in lawn of fire array'd Sov'reign of yon powder'd sphere; To thee I chant at close of day, Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Throned in sapphired ring supreme, Pregnant with celestial juice, On silver wing thy diamond stream Gives what summer hours produce; While view'd impearl'd earth's rich inlay, Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Glad, pale Cynthian wine I sip, Breathed the flow'ry leaves among; Draughts delicious wet my lip; Drown'd in nectar drunk my song; While tuned to Philomel the lay, Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Dew, that od'rous ointment yields, Sweets, that western winds disclose, Bathing spring's more purpled fields, Soft 's the band that winds the rose; While o'er thy myrtled lawns I stray Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

William Lisle Bowles. 1762-1850

509. Time and Grief

O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile: As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:-- Yet ah! how much must this poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

Joanna Baillie. 1762-1851

510. The Outlaw's Song

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

Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And closed is every flower, And winking tapers faintly peep High from my lady's bower; Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd ken Shrink on their murky way; Uprouse ye then, my merry men! It is our op'ning day.

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

Mary Lamb. 1765-1847

511. A Child

A CHILD 's a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space-- Then tire, and lay it by.

But I knew one that to itself All seasons could control; That would have mock'd the sense of pain Out of a grieved soul.

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

Carolina, Lady Nairne. 1766-1845

512. The Land o' the Leal

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

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

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

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

James Hogg. 1770-1835

513. A Boy's Song

WHERE the pools are bright and deep, Where the grey trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea, That 's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That 's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That 's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That 's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That 's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and over the lea, That 's the way for Billy and me.

James Hogg. 1770-1835

514. Kilmeny

BONNIE Kilmeny gaed up the glen; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree; For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', But lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw; Lang the laird o' Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!

When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mess for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the bedesman had pray'd and the dead bell rung, Late, late in gloamin' when all was still, When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, The reek o' the cot hung over the plain, Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane; When the ingle low'd wi' an eiry leme, Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame!

'Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? Lang hae we sought baith holt and den; By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree, Yet you are halesome and fair to see. Where gat you that joup o' the lily scheen? That bonnie snood of the birk sae green? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?'

Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her e'e, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been, she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew. But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue, When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, And a land where sin had never been; A land of love and a land of light, Withouten sun, or moon, or night; Where the river swa'd a living stream, And the light a pure celestial beam; The land of vision, it would seem, A still, an everlasting dream.

In yon green-wood there is a waik, And in that waik there is a wene, And in that wene there is a maike, That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane; And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane.

In that green wene Kilmeny lay, Her bosom happ'd wi' flowerets gay; But the air was soft and the silence deep, And bonnie Kilmeny fell sound asleep. She kenn'd nae mair, nor open'd her e'e, Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye.

She 'waken'd on a couch of the silk sae slim, All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim; And lovely beings round were rife, Who erst had travell'd mortal life; And aye they smiled and 'gan to speer, 'What spirit has brought this mortal here?'--

'Lang have I journey'd, the world wide,' A meek and reverend fere replied; 'Baith night and day I have watch'd the fair, Eident a thousand years and mair. Yes, I have watch'd o'er ilk degree, Wherever blooms femenitye; But sinless virgin, free of stain In mind and body, fand I nane. Never, since the banquet of time, Found I a virgin in her prime, Till late this bonnie maiden I saw As spotless as the morning snaw: Full twenty years she has lived as free As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye: I have brought her away frae the snares of men, That sin or death she never may ken.'--

They clasp'd her waist and her hands sae fair, They kiss'd her cheek and they kemed her hair, And round came many a blooming fere, Saying, 'Bonnie Kilmeny, ye're welcome here! Women are freed of the littand scorn: O blest be the day Kilmeny was born! Now shall the land of the spirits see, Now shall it ken what a woman may be! Many a lang year, in sorrow and pain, Many a lang year through the world we've gane, Commission'd to watch fair womankind, For it 's they who nurice the immortal mind. We have watch'd their steps as the dawning shone, And deep in the green-wood walks alone; By lily bower and silken bed, The viewless tears have o'er them shed; Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep, Or left the couch of love to weep. We have seen! we have seen! but the time must come, And the angels will weep at the day of doom!

'O would the fairest of mortal kind Aye keep the holy truths in mind, That kindred spirits their motions see, Who watch their ways with anxious e'e, And grieve for the guilt of humanitye! O, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer, And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair! And dear to Heaven the words of truth, And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth! And dear to the viewless forms of air, The minds that kyth as the body fair!

'O bonnie Kilmeny! free frae stain, If ever you seek the world again, That world of sin, of sorrow and fear, O tell of the joys that are waiting here; And tell of the signs you shall shortly see; Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be.'-- They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, And she walk'd in the light of a sunless day; The sky was a dome of crystal bright, The fountain of vision, and fountain of light: The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, And the flowers of everlasting blow. Then deep in the stream her body they laid, That her youth and beauty never might fade; And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie In the stream of life that wander'd bye. And she heard a song, she heard it sung, She kenn'd not where; but sae sweetly it rung, It fell on the ear like a dream of the morn: 'O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born! Now shall the land of the spirits see, Now shall it ken what a woman may be! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrow'd gleid frae the fountain of light; And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun, Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. But lang, lang after baith night and day, When the sun and the world have elyed away; When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!'--

They bore her away, she wist not how, For she felt not arm nor rest below; But so swift they wain'd her through the light, 'Twas like the motion of sound or sight; They seem'd to split the gales of air, And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. Unnumber'd groves below them grew, They came, they pass'd, and backward flew, Like floods of blossoms gliding on, In moment seen, in moment gone. O, never vales to mortal view Appear'd like those o'er which they flew! That land to human spirits given, The lowermost vales of the storied heaven; From thence they can view the world below, And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow, More glory yet unmeet to know.

They bore her far to a mountain green, To see what mortal never had seen; And they seated her high on a purple sward, And bade her heed what she saw and heard, And note the changes the spirits wrought, For now she lived in the land of thought. She look'd, and she saw nor sun nor skies, But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes: She look'd, and she saw nae land aright, But an endless whirl of glory and light: And radiant beings went and came, Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame. She hid her e'en frae the dazzling view; She look'd again, and the scene was new.

She saw a sun on a summer sky, And clouds of amber sailing bye; A lovely land beneath her lay, And that land had glens and mountains gray; And that land had valleys and hoary piles, And marled seas, and a thousand isles. Its fields were speckled, its forests green, And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray; Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung, On every shore they seem'd to be hung; For there they were seen on their downward plain A thousand times and a thousand again; In winding lake and placid firth, Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth.

Kilmeny sigh'd and seem'd to grieve, For she found her heart to that land did cleave; She saw the corn wave on the vale, She saw the deer run down the dale; She saw the plaid and the broad claymore, And the brows that the badge of freedom bore; And she thought she had seen the land before.

She saw a lady sit on a throne, The fairest that ever the sun shone on! A lion lick'd her hand of milk, And she held him in a leish of silk; And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee, With a silver wand and melting e'e; Her sovereign shield till love stole in, And poison'd all the fount within.

Then a gruff untoward bedesman came, And hundit the lion on his dame; And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless e'e, She dropp'd a tear, and left her knee; And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled, Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead; A coffin was set on a distant plain, And she saw the red blood fall like rain; Then bonnie Kilmeny's heart grew sair, And she turn'd away, and could look nae mair.

Then the gruff grim carle girn'd amain, And they trampled him down, but he rose again; And he baited the lion to deeds of weir, Till he lapp'd the blood to the kingdom dear; And weening his head was danger-preef, When crown'd with the rose and clover leaf, He gowl'd at the carle, and chased him away To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray. He gowl'd at the carle, and geck'd at Heaven, But his mark was set, and his arles given. Kilmeny a while her e'en withdrew; She look'd again, and the scene was new.

She saw before her fair unfurl'd One half of all the glowing world, Where oceans roll'd, and rivers ran, To bound the aims of sinful man. She saw a people, fierce and fell, Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell; Their lilies grew, and the eagle flew; And she herked on her ravening crew, Till the cities and towers were wrapp'd in a blaze, And the thunder it roar'd o'er the lands and the seas. The widows they wail'd, and the red blood ran, And she threaten'd an end to the race of man; She never lened, nor stood in awe, Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. O, then the eagle swink'd for life, And brainyell'd up a mortal strife; But flew she north, or flew she south, She met wi' the gowl o' the lion's mouth.

With a mooted wing and waefu' maen, The eagle sought her eiry again; But lang may she cower in her bloody nest, And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast, Before she sey another flight, To play wi' the norland lion's might.

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, So far surpassing nature's law, The singer's voice wad sink away, And the string of his harp wad cease to play. But she saw till the sorrows of man were bye, And all was love and harmony; Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, Like flakes of snaw on a winter day.

Then Kilmeny begg'd again to see The friends she had left in her own countrye; To tell of the place where she had been, And the glories that lay in the land unseen; To warn the living maidens fair, The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, That all whose minds unmeled remain Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane.

With distant music, soft and deep, They lull'd Kilmeny sound asleep; And when she awaken'd, she lay her lane, All happ'd with flowers, in the green-wood wene. When seven lang years had come and fled, When grief was calm, and hope was dead; When scarce was remember'd Kilmeny's name, Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came hame! And O, her beauty was fair to see, But still and steadfast was her e'e! Such beauty bard may never declare, For there was no pride nor passion there; And the soft desire of maiden's e'en In that mild face could never be seen. Her seymar was the lily flower, And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower; And her voice like the distant melodye, That floats along the twilight sea. But she loved to raike the lanely glen, And keeped afar frae the haunts of men; Her holy hymns unheard to sing, To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. But wherever her peaceful form appear'd, The wild beasts of the hill were cheer'd; The wolf play'd blythly round the field, The lordly byson low'd and kneel'd; The dun deer woo'd with manner bland, And cower'd aneath her lily hand. And when at even the woodlands rung, When hymns of other worlds she sung In ecstasy of sweet devotion, O, then the glen was all in motion! The wild beasts of the forest came, Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, And goved around, charm'd and amazed; Even the dull cattle croon'd and gazed, And murmur'd and look'd with anxious pain For something the mystery to explain. The buzzard came with the throstle-cock; The corby left her houf in the rock; The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew; The hind came tripping o'er the dew; The wolf and the kid their raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; The hawk and the hern attour them hung, And the merle and the mavis forhooy'd their young; And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd; It was like an eve in a sinless world!

When a month and a day had come and gane. Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene; There laid her down on the leaves sae green, And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. But O, the words that fell from her mouth Were words of wonder, and words of truth! But all the land were in fear and dread, For they kendna whether she was living or dead. It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain; She left this world of sorrow and pain, And return'd to the land of thought again.

yorlin] the yellow-hammer. hindberrye] bramble. minny] mother. greet] mourn. westlin] western. its lane] alone, by itself. low'd] flamed. eiry leme] eery gleam. linn] waterfall. joup] mantle. swa'd] swelled. waik] a row of deep damp grass. wene] ?whin, a furze-bush. maike] a mate, match, equal. his lane] alone, by himself. happ'd] covered. speer] inquire. fere] fellow. eident] unintermittently. kemed] combed. kyth] show, appear. gleid] spark, glow. elyed] vanished. marled] variegated, parti-coloured. leifu'] lone, wistful. girn'd] snarled. weir] war. gowl'd] howled. geck'd] mocked. arles] money paid on striking a bargain; fig. a beating. lened] crouched. swink'd] laboured. brainyell'd] stirred, beat. mooted] moulted. sey] essay. unmeled] unblemished. her lane] alone, by herself. seymar]=cymar, a slight covering. raike] range, wander. bughts] milking-pens. goved] stared, gazed. corby] raven. houf] haunt. raike] ramble. tod] fox. attour] out over. forhooy'd] neglected.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

515. Lucy i

STRANGE fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.

When she I loved look'd every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; And, as we climb'd the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopp'd: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropp'd.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! 'O mercy!' to myself I cried, 'If Lucy should be dead!'

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

516. Lucy ii

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

517. Lucy iii

I TRAVELL'D among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

518. Lucy iv

THREE years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.

'She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.

'The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy.

'The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

'And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake--The work was done-- How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

519. Lucy v

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

520. Upon Westminster Bridge

EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

521. Evening on Calais Beach

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder--everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

522. On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, 1802

ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee; And was the safeguard of the West: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And, when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is pass'd away.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

523. England, 1802 i

O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: The wealthiest man among us is the best: No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

524. England, 1802 ii

MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; O raise us up, return to us again, And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power! Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

525. England, 1802 iii

GREAT men have been among us; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none: The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who call'd Milton friend. These moralists could act and comprehend: They knew how genuine glory was put on; Taught us how rightfully a nation shone In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change! No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road; But equally a want of books and men!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

526. England, 1802 iv

IT is not to be thought of that the flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flow'd, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,' Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands,-- That this most famous stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.--In everything we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

527. England, 1802 v

WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; And I by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

528. The Solitary Reaper

BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listen'd, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

529. Perfect Woman

SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

530. Daffodils

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

531. Ode to Duty

STERN Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love, Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts! without reproach or blot; Who do thy work, and know it not: O, if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control; But in the quietness of thought. Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires; My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Yet not the less would I throughout Still act according to the voice Of my own wish; and feel past doubt That my submissiveness was choice: Not seeking in the school of pride For 'precepts over dignified,' Denial and restraint I prize No farther than they breed a second Will more wise.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; O, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

532. The Rainbow

MY heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

533. The Sonnet i

NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room, And hermits are contented with their cells, And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest peak of Furness fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison unto which we doom Ourselves no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

534. The Sonnet ii

SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camöens sooth'd an exile's grief; The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains--alas, too few!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

535. The World

THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

536. Ode Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;-- Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, And the children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:-- I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! --But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-- Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest-- Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:-- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never: Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

537. Desideria

SURPRISED by joy--impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport--O! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind-- But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

538. Valedictory Sonnet to the River Duddon

I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being pass'd away.--Vain sympathies! For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide; Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; The Form remains, the Function never dies; While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, We Men, who in our morn of youth defied The elements, must vanish;--be it so! Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

539. Mutability

FROM low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime, Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whiten'd hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

540. The Trosachs

THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for one Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

541. Speak!

WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant-- Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine-- Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

542. Proud Maisie

PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.

'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?' --'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.'

'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?' --'The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.

'The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!'

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

543. Brignall Banks

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there, Would grace a summer queen: And as I rode by Dalton Hall, Beneath the turrets high, A Maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily:--

'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green! I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English Queen.'

'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down: And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green! I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English Queen.

'I read you by your bugle horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a Ranger sworn To keep the King's green-wood.' 'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay! I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May!

'With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum.' 'I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear.

'And O! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May!

'Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the green-wood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now.'

Chorus. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather flowers there Would grace a summer queen.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

544. Lucy Ashton's Song

LOOK not thou on beauty's charming; Sit thou still when kings are arming; Taste not when the wine-cup glistens; Speak not when the people listens; Stop thine ear against the singer; From the red gold keep thy finger; Vacant heart and hand and eye, Easy live and quiet die.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

545. Answer

SOUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

546. The Rover's Adieu

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green-- No more of me ye knew, My Love! No more of me ye knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.' --He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said 'Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore.'

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

547. Patriotism 1. Innominatus

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land!' Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd As home his footsteps he hath turn'd From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

548. Patriotism 2. Nelson, Pitt, Fox

TO mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears, And in her glory reappears. But oh, my Country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise;

The mind that thought for Britain's weal, The hand that grasp'd the victor steel? The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly may he shine Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave! To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given. Where'er his country's foes were found Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd--and was no more.

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; Who, born to guide such high emprise, For Britain's weal was early wise; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britain's sins, an early grave! --His worth, who in his mightiest hour A bauble held the pride of power, Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd, The pride he would not crush, restrain'd, Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause, And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.

Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne. Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke, The trumpet's silver voice is still, The warder silent on the hill!

O think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey, With Palinure's unalter'd mood Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repell'd, With dying hand the rudder held, Till in his fall with fateful sway The steerage of the realm gave way. Then--while on Britain's thousand plains One polluted church remains, Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, But still upon the hallow'd day Convoke the swains to praise and pray; While faith and civil peace are dear, Grace this cold marble with a tear:-- He who preserved them, PITT, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh; Nor be thy Requiescat dumb Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. For talents mourn, untimely lost, When best employ'd, and wanted most; Mourn genius high, and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine To penetrate, resolve, combine; And feelings keen, and fancy's glow-- They sleep with him who sleeps below: And, if thou mourn'st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppress'd, And sacred be the last long rest. Here, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; Here, where the fretted vaults prolong The distant notes of holy song, As if some angel spoke agen, 'All peace on earth, good-will to men'; If ever from an English heart, O, here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record that Fox a Briton died! When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave Was barter'd by a timorous slave-- Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd, The sullied olive-branch return'd, Stood for his country's glory fast, And nail'd her colours to the mast! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honour'd grave; And ne'er held marble in its trust Of two such wondrous men the dust.

With more than mortal powers endow'd, How high they soar'd above the crowd! Theirs was no common party race, Jostling by dark intrigue for place; Like fabled gods, their mighty war Shook realms and nations in its jar; Beneath each banner proud to stand, Look'd up the noblest of the land, Till through the British world were known The names of PITT and Fox alone. Spells of such force no wizard grave E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, Though his could drain the ocean dry, And force the planets from the sky. These spells are spent, and, spent with these, The wine of life is on the lees. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tomb'd beneath the stone, Where--taming thought to human pride!-- The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound, And Fox's shall the notes rebound. The solemn echo seems to cry, 'Here let their discord with them die. Speak not for those a separate doom Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb; But search the land of living men, Where wilt thou find their like agen?'

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

549. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner