Chapter 11

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighbouring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill: And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends may I share what to-day may afford, And let them spread the table to-morrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again: But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day May become everlasting to-morrow.

-- COLLINS.

165.

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.

Life! we've 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.

A L. BARBAULD.

FOURTH BOOK.

SUMMARY.

It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry, that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few exceptions composed during the first thirty years the nineteenth century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely sudden appearance of individual genius: but none, in the Editor's judgment, can be less adequate than that which assigns the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry, to an impulse from the frantic follies and criminal wars that at the time disgraced the least essentially civilised of our foreign neighbours. The first French Revolution was rather, in his opinion, one result, and in itself by no means the most important, of that far wider and greater spirit which through enquiry and doubt, through pain and triumph, sweeps mankind round the circles of its gradual development: and it is to this that we must trace the literature of modern Europe. But, without more detailed discussion on the motive causes of Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Keats, and Shelley, we may observe that these Poets, with others, carried to further perfection the later tendencies of the Century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human Passion and Character in every sphere, and impassioned love of Nature:--that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art made since the Restoration, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan writers:--that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in language and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the Soul and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger and wiser Humanity,--hitherto hardly attained, and perhaps unattainable even by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, has been the most gifted of all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to itself--hence the many phases of thought and style they present:--to sympathise with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as with the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is absolutely proportionate to Strength:--and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to delight in Excellence, those who love most will be found to love most wisely.

166. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

--Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

J. KEATS.

167. ODE ON THE POETS.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too, Doubled-lived in regions new? --Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon; With the noise of fountains wonderous And the parle of voices thunderous; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, trancéd thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim:-- Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!

J. KEATS.

168. LOVE.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay, Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story-- An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he woo'd The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade.

There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;

And that she nursed him in a cave, And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay;

--His dying words--but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love, and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside, As conscious of my look she stept-- Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up, And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see. The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

169. ALL FOR LOVE.

O talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with all such from the head that is hoary-- What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

O Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

LORD BYRON.

170. THE OUTLAW.

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 greenwood 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 greenwood." "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 greenwood 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 W. SCOTT.

171.

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like Thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charméd ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

LORD BYRON.

172. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I arise from dreams of Thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low And the stars are shining bright: I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Hath led me--who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream-- The champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, Oh, belovéd as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass! I die! I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; O! press it to thine own again Where it will break at last.

P.B. SHELLEY.

173.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent,-- A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent.

LORD BYRON.

174.

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 an angel-light.

W. WORDSWORTH.

175.

She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me. O then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.

H. COLERIDGE.

176.

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden; Thou needest not fear mine; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; Thou needest not fear mine; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine.

P.B. SHELLEY.

177. THE LOST LOVE.

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 O! The difference to me!

W. WORDSWORTH.

178.

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 play'd; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

W. WORDSWORTH.

179. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.

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 her's shall be the breathing balm, And her's 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 E'en 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.

W. WORDSWORTH.

180.

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!

W. WORDSWORTH.

181. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!"

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle This dark and stormy water?" "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride-- Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:--

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger not shall tarry; So though the waves are raging white I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arméd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When O! too strong for human hand The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,-- His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade His child he did discover:-- One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--O my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

T. CAMPBELL.

182. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sall be his bride: And ye sall be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen"-- But aye she loot the tears doon fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha', His sword in battle keen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye shall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you the foremost o' them a' Shall ride our forest queen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, The tapers glimmer'd fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there: They sought her baith by bower and ha'; The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.

SIR W. SCOTT.

183. FREEDOM AND LOVE.

How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying!

Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, Love has bliss, but Love has ruing; Other smiles may make you fickle, Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries, Just as fate or fancy carries; Longest stays, when sorest chidden; Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Bind its odour to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, Then bind Love to last for ever.