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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:34:01 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:34:01 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/10161-0.txt b/10161-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8ae5cce --- /dev/null +++ b/10161-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16810 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10161 *** + +ENGLISH POETS + +OF THE + +EIGHTEENTH CENTURY + + + + +SELECTED AND EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION + + +BY + + +ERNEST BERNBAUM + +PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AT THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS + + + + +1918 + + + + + +PREFACE + +The text of this collection of poetry is authentic and not bowdlerized. +The general reader will, I hope, be gratified to find that its pages +display no pedantic or scholastic traits. His pleasure in the poetry +itself will not be distracted by a marginal numbering of the lines; by +index-figures and footnotes; or by antiquated peculiarities of spelling, +capitalization, and elision. Except where literal conventions are +essential to the poet's purpose,--as in _The Castle of Indolence, The +Schoolmistress_, or Chatterton's poems,--I have followed modern usage. +Dialect words are explained in the glossary; and the student who may wish +to consult the context of any passage will find the necessary references +in the unusually full table of contents. Whenever the title of a poem +gives too vague a notion of its substance, or whenever its substance is +miscellaneous, I have supplied [bracketed] captions for the extracts; +except for these, there is nothing on the pages of the text besides the +poets' own words. + +Originality is not the proper characteristic of an anthologist, and in +the choice of extracts I have rarely indulged my personal likings when +they conflicted with time-honored preferences; yet this anthology,--the +first published in a projected series of four or five volumes comprising +the English poets from Elizabethan to Victorian times,--has certain minor +features that may be deemed objectionably novel. Much the greater portion +of the volume has of course, as usual, been given to those poems (by +Pope, Thomson, Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, Crabbe, Cowper, and Burns) which +have been loved or admired from their day to our own. But I have ventured +to admit also a few which, though forgotten to-day, either were popular +in the eighteenth century or possess marked historical significance. In +other words, I present not solely what the twentieth century considers +enduringly great in the poetry of the eighteenth, but also a +little--proportionately very little--of what the eighteenth century +itself (perhaps mistakenly) considered interesting. This secondary +purpose accounts for my inclusion of passages from such neglected authors +as Mandeville, Brooke, Day, and Darwin. The passages of this sort are too +infrequent to annoy him who reads for aesthetic pleasure only; and to the +student they will illustrate movements in the spirit of the age which +would otherwise be unrepresented, and which, as the historical +introduction points out, are an integral part of its thought and feeling. +The inclusion of passages from "Ossian," though almost unprecedented, +requires, I think, no defense against the literal-minded protest that +they are written in "prose." + +Students of poetical history will find it illuminating to read the +passages in chronological order (irrespective of authorship); and in +order to facilitate this method I have given in the table of contents the +date of each poem. + +E. B. + + + +CONTENTS + +JOHN POMFRET + THE CHOICE (1700) + +DANIEL DEFOE + THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN (1701), + ll. 119-132, 189-228, 312-321 + A HYMN TO THE PILLORY (1703), + STANZAS 1, 3, 5-6, 28-30 + +JOSEPH ADDISON + THE CAMPAIGN (1704), + ll. 259-292 + DIVINE ODE (1712) + +MATTHEW PRIOR + TO A CHILD OF QUALITY (1704) + TO A LADY (1704) + THE DYING HADRIAN TO HIS SOUL (1704) + A BETTER ANSWER (1718) + +BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE + THE GRUMBLING HIVE (1705, 1714), + ll. 1-6, 26-52, 149-156, 171-186, + 198-239, 327-336, 377-408 + +ISAAC WATTS + THE HAZARD OF LOVING THE CREATURES (1706) + THE DAY OF JUDGMENT (1709) + O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST (1719) + A CRADLE HYMN (1719) + +ALEXANDER POPE + AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM (1711), + ll. 1-18, 46-51, 68-91, 118-180, + 215-423, 560-577, 612-642 + THE RAPE OF THE LOCK (1714), + CANTOS II AND III + TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD, BOOK VI (1717), + ll. 562-637 + AN ESSAY ON MAN (1733-34), + EPISTLE I; 11, 1-18; IV, 93-204, 361-398 + MORAL ESSAYS, EPISTLE II (1735), + ll. 1-16, 87-180, 199-210, 231-280 + EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT (1735), + ll. 1-68, 115-214, 261-304, 334-367, 389-419 + FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED (1737), + ll. 23-138, 161-296, 338-347 + EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES (1738), DIALOGUE II, ll. 208-223 + THE DUNCIAD (1728-43), BOOK i, ll. 28-84, 107-134; iv. 627-656 + +LADY WINCHILSEA + TO THE NIGHTINGALE (1713) + A NOCTURNAL REVERIE (1713) + +JOHN GAY + RURAL SPORTS (1713), ll. 91-106 + THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK: THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL (1714), + ll. 5-14, 49-60, 83-136 + TRIVIA (1716), BOOK II, ll. 25-64 + SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN (1720) + MY OWN EPITAPH (1720) + +SAMUEL CROXALL + THE VISION (1715), ll. 41-56 + +THOMAS TICKELL + ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON (1721), ll. 9-46, 67-82 + +THOMAS PARNELL + A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH (1721), ll. 1-70 + A HYMN OF CONTENTMENT (1721) + +ALLAN RAMSAY + THE GENTLE SHEPHERD: PATIE AND ROGER (1721), + ll. 1-52, 59-68, 135-202 + +AMBROSE PHILIPS + TO MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER MOTHER'S ARMS (1725) + +JOHN DYER + GRONGAR HILL (1726) + +GEORGE BERKELEY + VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND + LEARNING IN AMERICA (WR. c. 1726; PUBL. 1752) + +JAMES THOMSON + THE SEASONS (1726-30) + WINTER, ll. 223-358 + SUMMER, ll. 1630-1645 + SPRING, ll. 1-113, 846-876 + AUTUMN, ll. 950-1003 + A HYMN + RULE, BRITANNIA (1740) + THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE (1748), STANZAS 1-11, 20, 57-59 + +EDWARD YOUNG + LOVE OF FAME: SATIRES V-VI (1727-28), + SATIRE V, ll. 227-246, 469-484; VI, 393-462 + NIGHT-THOUGHTS (1742-45), NIGHT I, ll. 68-90; + III, 325-342; IV, 201-233; VII, 253-323 + +ANONYMOUS + THE HAPPY SAVAGE (1732) + +SOAME JENYNS + AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE (1734), ll. 148-165, 170-183, 189-199 + +PHILIP DODDRIDGE + SURSUM (1735?) + +WILLIAM SOMERVILLE + THE CHASE (1735), BOOK II, ll. 119-171 + +HENRY BROOKE + UNIVERSAL BEAUTY (1735), BOOK III, ll. 1-8, 325-364; + V, 282-297, 330-339, 361-384 + PROLOGUE TO GUSTAVUS VASA (1739) + CONRADE, A FRAGMENT (WR. 1743?, PUBL. 1778), ll. 1-26 + +MATTHEW GREEN + THE SPLEEN (1737), ll. 89-110, 624-642 + +WILLIAM SHENSTONE + THE SCHOOLMISTRESS (1737), STANZAS 6, 8, 18-20, 23, 28 + WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY (1764) + +JONATHAN SWIFT + THE BEASTS' CONFESSION (1738), ll. 1-128, 197-220 + VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT (1739), + ll. 39-66, 299-338, 455-482 + +CHARLES WESLEY + FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY (1739) + FOR EASTER-DAY (1739) + IN TEMPTATION: JESU, LOVER OF MY SOUL (1740) + +WRESTLING JACOB (1742) + ROBERT BLAIR + THE GRAVE (1743), ll. 28-44, 56-84, 750-767 + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + ON RIDICULE (1743), ll. 27-52, 153-171, 225-226, 233-236, 287-301 + THE ENTHUSIAST (1754) + +MARK AKENSIDE + THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION (1744), BOOK I, ll. 34-43, 113-124; + III, 515-535, 568-633 + +JOSEPH WARTON + THE ENTHUSIAST; OR, THE LOVER OF NATURE (1744), + ll. 1-20, 26-38, 87-103, 167-244 + +JOHN GILBERT COOPER + THE POWER OF HARMONY (1745), BOOK II, ll. 35-51, 125-140, 330-343 + +WILLIAM COLLINS + ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 (1746) + ODE TO EVENING (1746) + ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER (1746) + THE PASSIONS (1746) + ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS + (WR. 1749, PUBL. 1788) + +THOMAS WARTON + THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY (1747), ll. 28-69, 153-165, 196-210 + THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR (1777), ll. 31-74 + SONNET WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON (1777) + SONNET WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE (1777) + SONNET TO THE RIVER LODON (1777) + +THOMAS GRAY + AN ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE (1747) + HYMN TO ADVERSITY (1748) + ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD (1751) + THE PROGRESS OF POESY (1757) + THE BARD (1757) + THE FATAL SISTERS (1768) + ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE (1775) + +SAMUEL JOHNSON + THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES (1749), ll. 99-118, + 133-160, 189-220, 289-308, 341-366 + +RICHARD JAGO + THE GOLDFINCHES (1753), STANZAS 3-10 + +JOHN DALTON + A DESCRIPTIVE POEM (1755), ll. 222-227, 238-257, 265-272, 279-290 + +JANE ELLIOT + THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST (WR. 1756) + +CHARLES CHURCHILL + THE ROSCIAD (1761), ll. 963-986 + THE GHOST (1762), BOOK II, ll. 653-676 + +JAMES MACPHERSON + + "TRANSLATIONS" FROM OSSIAN + FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM (1762), BOOK VI, §§ 10-14 + THE SONGS OF SELMA (1762), §§ 4-8, 20-21 + +CHRISTOPHER SMART + A SONG TO DAVID (1763), ll. 451-516 + +OLIVER GOLDSMITH + THE TRAVELLER (1764), ll. 51-64, 239-280, 423-438 + THE DESERTED VILLAGE (1770) + RETALIATION (1774), ll. 29-42, 61-78, 93-124, 137-146 + +JAMES BEATTIE + THE MINSTREL, BOOK I (1771), STANZAS 4-5, 16, 22, 32-33, 52-55 + +LADY ANNE LINDSAY + AULD ROBIN GRAY (WR. 1771) + +JEAN ADAMS + THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE (c. 1771) + +ROBERT FERGUSSON + THE DAFT DAYS (1772) + +ANONYMOUS + ABSENCE (c. 1773?) + +JOHN LANGHORNE + THE COUNTRY JUSTICE, PART I (1774), ll. 132-165 + +AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY + ROCK OF AGES (1775) + +JOHN SKINNER + TULLOCHGORUM (1776) + +THOMAS CHATTERTON + SONGS FROM AELLA (1777) + THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES ATTE THE LYGHTE + O, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE + AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE + +THOMAS DAY + THIS DESOLATION OF AMERICA (1777), ll. 29-53, 279-299, + 328-335, 440-458, 489-501 + +GEORGE CRABBE + THE LIBRARY (1781), ll. 1-12, 99-110, 127-134, + AND A COMMONLY OMITTED PASSAGE FOLLOWING l. 594 + THE VILLAGE (1783), BOOK I, ll. 1-78, 109-317; II, 63-100 + +JOHN NEWTON + A VISION OF LIFE IN DEATH (1779?) + +WILLIAM COWPER + TABLE TALK (1782), ll. 716-739 + CONVERSATION (1782), ll. 119-162 + TO A YOUNG LADY (1782) + THE SHRUBBERY (1782) + THE TASK (1785), BOOK I, ll. 141-180; II, 1-47, 206-254; + III, 108-l33; IV, 1-41; V, 379-445; VI, 56-117, 560-580 + ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE (1798) + TO MARY (WR. c. 1795, PUBL. 1803) + THE CASTAWAY (WR. c. 1799, PUBL. 1803) + +WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES + EVENING (1789) + DOVER CLIFFS (1789) + +ROBERT BURNS + MARY MORISON (WR. 1784?, PUBL. 1800) + THE HOLY FAIR (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786) + TO A LOUSE (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786) + EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786), STANZAS 9-13 + THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT (WR. 1785-86, PUBL. 1786) + TO A MOUSE (1786) + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY (1786) + EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND (1786) + A BARD'S EPITAPH (1786) + ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID (1787) + JOHN ANDERSON, MY Jo (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1790) + THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + A RED, RED ROSE (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + AULD LANG SYNE (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + SWEET AFTON (WR. c. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + THE HAPPY TRIO (WR. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + TO MARY IN HEAVEN (WR. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + TAM O' SHANTER (WR. 1790, PUBL. 1791) + AE FOND KISS (WR. 1791, PUBL. 1792) + DUNCAN GRAY (WR. 1792, PUBL. 1798) + HIGHLAND MARY (WR. 1792, PUBL. 1799) + SCOTS, WHA HAE (WR. 1793, PUBL. 1794) + IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY (WR. 1794, PUBL. 1795) + LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER (WR. c. 1795, PUBL. 1799) + O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST (WR. 1796, PUBL. 1800) + +ERASMUS DARWIN + THE BOTANIC GARDEN (1789-92), PART I, CANTO I, ll. 1-38; + PART II, CANTO I, ll. 299-310 + +WILLIAM BLAKE + TO WINTER (1783) + SONG: FRESH FROM THE DEWY HILL (1783) + TO THE MUSES (1783) + INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OF INNOCENCE (1789) + THE LAMB (1789) + THE LITTLE BLACK BOY (1789) + A CRADLE SONG (1789) + HOLY THURSDAY (1789) + THE DIVINE IMAGE (1789) + ON ANOTHER'S SORROW (1789) + THE BOOK OF THEL (1789) + THE FRENCH REVOLUTION (PRINTED 1791), ll, 198-240 + A SONG OP LIBERTY (c. 1792), §§ 1-3, 12, 18-20, AND CHORUS + THE FLY (1794) + THE TIGER (1794) + HOLY THURSDAY (1794) + THE GARDEN OF LOVE (1794) + A LITTLE BOY LOST (1794) + THE SCHOOL-BOY (1794) + LONDON (1794) + AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE (WR. c. 1801-03), LL. 1-44, 73-90 + VERSES FROM "MILTON" (ENGRAVED c. 1804) + AND DID THOSE FEET IN ANCIENT TIME + REASON AND IMAGINATION + VERSES FROM "JERUSALEM" (ENGRAVED c. 1804-11) + TO THE DEISTS + +GEORGE CANNING + THE PROGRESS OF MAN (1798), CANTO XXIII, ll. 7-16, 17-30 + THE NEW MORALITY (1798), ll. 87-157 + +CAROLINA, LADY NAIRNE + THE LAND O' THE LEAL (WR. 1798) + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +I. ORTHODOXY AND CLASSICISM QUIESCENT (1700-1725) The clearest portrayal +of the prominent features of an age may sometimes be seen in poems which +reveal what men desire to be rather than what they are; and which express +sentiments typical, even commonplace, rather than individual. John +Pomfret's _Choice_ (1700) is commonplace indeed; it was never deemed +great, but it was remarkably popular. "No composition in our language," +opined Dr. Johnson, "has been oftener perused,"--an opinion quite +incredible until one perceives how intimately the poem harmonizes with +the prevalent mood of its contemporary readers. It was written by a +clergyman (a circumstance not insignificant); its form is the heroic +couplet; its content is a wish, for a peaceful and civilized mode of +existence. And what; is believed to satisfy that longing? A life of +leisure; the necessaries of comfort plentifully provided, but used +temperately; a country-house upon a hillside, not too distant from the +city; a little garden bordered by a rivulet; a quiet-study furnished with +the classical Roman poets; the society of a few friends, men who know the +world as well as books, who are loyal to their nation and their church, +and whose; conversation is intellectually vigorous but always polite; the +occasional companionship of a woman of virtue, wit, and poise of manner; +and, above all, the avoidance of public or private contentions. Culture +and peace--and the greater of these is peace! The sentiment characterizes +the first quarter of the eighteenth century. + +The poets of that period had received an abundant heritage from the +Elizabethans, the Cavaliers, Dryden, and Milton. It was a poetry of +passionate love, chivalric honor, indignant satire, and sublime faith. +Much of it they admired, but their admiration was tempered with +fear. They heard therein the tones of violent generations,--of men whose +intensity, though yielding extraordinary beauty and grandeur, yielded +also obscurity and extravagance; men whom the love of women too often +impelled to utter fantastic hyperbole, and the love of honor to glorify +preposterous adventures; quarrelsome men, who assailed their opponents +with rancorous personalities; doctrinaires, who employed their fiery +energy of mind in the creation of rigid systems of religion and +government; uncompromising men, who devoted to the support of those +systems their fortunes and lives, drenched the land in the blood of a +civil war, executed a king, presently restored his dynasty, and finally +exiled it again, thus maintaining during half a century a general +insecurity of life and property which checked the finer growths of +civilization. Their successors trusted that the compromise of 1688 had +reduced political and sectarian affairs to a state of calm equilibrium; +and they desired to cultivate the fruits of serenity by fostering in all +things the spirit of moderation. In poetry, as in life, they tended more +and more to discountenance manifestations of vehemence. Even the poetry +of Dryden, with its reflections of the stormy days through which he had +struggled, seemed to them, though gloriously leading the way toward +perfection, to fall short of equability of temper and smoothness of form. +To work like Defoe's _True-Born Englishman_ (1701) and _Hymn to the +Pillory_ (1703), combative in spirit and free in style, they gave only +guarded and temporary approval. + +Inevitably the change of mood entailed losses. Sir Henry Wotton's +_Character of a Happy Life_ (c. 1614) treats the same theme as Pomfret's +_Choice_; but Pomfret's contemporaries were rarely if ever visited by +such gleams as shine in Wotton's lines describing the happy man as one + + who never understood + How deepest wounds are given by praise, + +and as one + + Who God doth late and early pray + More of his grace than gifts to lend. + +Such touches of penetrative wisdom and piety, like many other precious +qualities, are of an age that had passed. In the poetry of 1700-1725, +religion forgoes mysticism and exaltation; the intellectual life, daring +and subtlety; the imagination, exuberance and splendor. Enthusiasm for +moral ideals declines into steadfast approval of ethical principles. Yet +these were changes in tone and manner rather than in fundamental views. +The poets of the period were conservatives. They were shocked by the +radicalism of Mandeville, the Nietzsche of his day, who derided the +generally accepted moralities as shallow delusions, and who by means of a +clever fable supported a materialistic theory which implied that in the +struggle for existence nothing but egotism could succeed: + + Fools only strive + To make a great and honest hive. + +Obloquy buried him; he was a sensational exception to the rule. As a +body, the poets of his time retained the orthodox traditions concerning +God, Man, and Nature. + +Their theology is evidenced by Addison, Watts, and Parnell. It is a +Christianity that has not ceased to be stern and majestic. In Addison's +_Divine Ode_, the planets of the firmament proclaim a Creator whose power +knows no bounds. In the hymns of Isaac Watts, God is as of old a jealous +God, obedience to whose eternal will may require the painful sacrifice +of temporal earthly affections, even the sacrifice of our love for our +fellow-creatures; a just God, who by the law of his own nature cannot +save unrepentant sin from eternal retribution; yet an adored God, whose +providence protects the faithful amid stormy vicissitudes,-- + + Under the shadow of whose throne + The saints have dwelt secure. + +Spirits as gentle and kindly as Parnell insist that the only approach +to happiness lies through a religious discipline of the feelings, and +protest that death is not to be feared but welcomed--as the passage from +a troublous existence to everlasting peace. In most of the poetry of +the time, religion, if at all noticeable, is a mere undercurrent; but +whenever it rises to the surface, it reflects the ancient creed. + +Traditional too is the general conception of human character. Man is +still thought of as a complex of lofty and mean qualities, widely +variable in their proportion yet in no instance quite dissevered. To +interpret--not God or Nature--but this self-contradictory being, in both +his higher and his lower manifestations and possibilities, remains the +chief vocation of the poets. They have not ceased the endeavor to lend +dignity to life by portraying its nobler features. Addison, in _The +Campaign_, glorifies the national hero whose brilliant victories thwarted +the great monarch of France on his seemingly invincible career toward +the hegemony of Europe, the warrior Marlborough, serene of soul amid the +horror and confusion of battle. Tickell, in his noble elegy on Addison, +not only, while voicing his own grief, illustrates the beauty of +devoted friendship, but also, when eulogizing his subject, holds up to +admiration, as a type to be revered, the wise moralist, cultured and +versatile man of letters, and adept in the art of virtuous life. Pope, +in the most ambitious literary effort of the day, his translation of the +_Iliad_, labors to enrich the treasury of English poetry with an epic +that sheds radiance upon the ideals and manners of an heroic age. In such +attempts to exalt the grander phases of human existence, the poets were, +however, owing to their fear of enthusiasm, never quite successful. It is +significant that though most critics consider Pope's Homer no better than +a mediocre performance, none denies that his _Rape of the Lock_ is, in +its kind, perfection. + +Here, as in the _vers de société_ of Matthew Prior and Ambrose Philips, +the age was illuminating with the graces of poetry something it really +understood and delighted in,--the life of leisure and fashion; and here, +accordingly, is its most original and masterly work. _The Rape of the +Lock_ is the product of a society which had the good sense and good +breeding to try to laugh away incipient quarrels, and which greeted with +airy banter the indiscreet act of an enamoured young gallant,--the kind +of act which vulgarity meets with angry lampoons or rude violence. The +poem is an idyll quite as much as a satire. The follies of fashionable +life are treated with nothing severer than light raillery; and its +actually distasteful features,--its lapses into stupidity, its vacuous +restlessness, its ennui,--are cunningly suppressed. But all that made it +seem the height of human felicity is preserved, and enhanced in charm. +"Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames," one glides to Hampton Court +amid youth and gayety and melting music; and for the nonce this realm of +"airs, flounces, and furbelows," of merry chit-chat, and of pleasurable +excitement, seems as important as it is to those exquisite creatures of +fancy that hover about the heroine, assiduous guardians of her "graceful +ease and sweetness void of pride." Of that admired world likewise are the +lovers that Matthew Prior creates, who woo neither with stormy passion +nor with mawkish whining, but in a courtly manner; lovers who deem +an epigram a finer tribute than a sigh. So the tender fondness of a +middle-aged man for an infant is elevated above the commonplace by +assuming the tone of playful gallantry. + +The ignobler aspects of life,--nutriment of the comic sense,--were not +ignored. The new school of poets, however deficient in the higher vision, +were keen observers of actuality; and among them the satiric spirit, +though not militant as in the days of Dryden, was still active. The value +which they attached to social culture is again shown in the persistence +of the sentiment that as man grew in civility he became less ridiculous. +The peccadilloes of the upper classes they treated with comparatively +gentle humor, and aimed their strokes of satire chiefly against the +lower. Rarely did they idealize humble folk: Gay's _Sweet William's +Farewett to Black-Eyed Susan_ is in this respect exceptional. Their +typical attitude is seen in his _Shepherd's Week_, with its ludicrous +picture of rustic superstition and naive amorousness; and in Allan +Ramsay's _Gentle Shepherd_, where the pastoral, once remote from life, +assumes the manners and dialect of the countryside in order to arouse +laughter. + +The obvious fact that these poets centered their attention upon +Man, particularly in his social life, and that their most memorable +productions are upon that theme, led posterity to complain that they +wholly lacked interest in Nature, were incapable of delineating it, and +did not feel its sacred influence. The last point in the indictment,--and +the last only,--is quite true. No one who understood and believed, as +they did, the doctrines of orthodoxy could consistently ascribe divinity +to Nature. To them Nature exhibited the power of God, but not his will; +and the soul of Man gained its clearest moral light directly from a +_super_natural source. This did not, however, imply that Nature was +negligible. The celebrated essays of Addison on the pleasures of the +imagination (_Spectator_, Nos. 411-414) base those pleasures upon the +grandeur of Nature; upon its variety and freshness, as of "groves, +fields, and meadows in the opening of the Spring"; and upon its beauty of +form and color. The works of Nature, declares Addison, surpass those of +art, and accordingly "we always find the poet in love with a country +life." Such was the theory; the practice was not out of accord therewith. +Passages appreciative of the lovelier aspects of Nature, and not, despite +the current preference for general rather than specific terms, inaccurate +as descriptions, were written between 1700 and 1726 by Addison himself, +Pope, Lady Winchilsea, Gay, Parnell, Dyer, and many others. Nature +worshippers they were not. Nature lovers they can be justly styled,--if +such love may discriminate between the beautiful and the ugly aspects +of the natural. It is characteristic that Berkeley, in his _Prospect of +Planting Arts and Learning in America_, does not indulge the fancy that +the wilderness is of itself uplifting; it requires, he assumes, the aid +of human culture and wisdom,--"the rise of empire and of arts,"--to +develop its potentialities. + +A generation which placidly adhered to the orthodox sentiments of its +predecessors was of course not moved to revolutionize poetical theories +or forms. Its theories are authoritatively stated in Pope's _Essay on +Criticism_; they embrace principles of good sense and mature taste which +are easier to condemn than to confute or supersede. In poetical diction +the age cultivated clearness, propriety, and dignity: it rejected words +so minutely particular as to suggest pedantry or specialization; and +it refused to sacrifice simple appropriateness to inaccurate vigor of +utterance or meaningless beauty of sound. Its favorite measure, the +decasyllabic couplet, moulded by Jonson, Sandys, Waller, Denham, and +Dryden, it accepted reverently, as an heirloom not to be essentially +altered but to be polished until it shone more brightly than ever. Pope +perfected this form, making it at once more artistic and more natural. He +discountenanced on the one hand run-on lines, alexandrines, hiatus, and +sequence of monosyllables; on the other, the resort to expletives and the +mechanical placing of caesura. If his verse does not move with the "long +resounding pace" of Dryden at his best, it has a movement better suited +to the drawing-room: it is what Oliver Wendell Holmes terms + + The straight-backed measure with the stately stride. + +Thus in form as in substance the poetry of the period voiced the mood, +not of carefree youth, nor yet of vehement early manhood, but of still +vigorous middle age,--a phase of existence perhaps less ingratiating than +others, but one which has its rightful hour in the life of the race as of +the individual. The sincere and artistic expression of its feelings will +be denied poetical validity only by those whose capacity for appreciating +the varieties of poetry is limited by their lack of experience or by +narrowness of sympathetic imagination. + + +II. ORTHODOXY AND CLASSICISM ASSAILED (1726-1750) + +During the second quarter of the century, Pope and his group remained +dominant in the realm of poetry; but their mood was no longer pacific. +Their work showed a growing seriousness and acerbity. Partly the change +was owing to disappointment: life had not become so highly cultured, +literature had not prospered so much, nor displayed so broad a diffusion +of intelligence and taste, as had been expected. Pope's _Dunciad, Epistle +to Dr. Arbuthnot_, and ironic satire on the state of literature under +"Augustus" (George II, the "snuffy old drone from the German hive"), +brilliantly express this indignation with the intellectual and literary +shortcomings of the times. + +A cause of the change of mood which was to be of more lasting consequence +than the failure of the age to put the traditional ideal more generally +into practice, was the appearance of a distinctly new ideal,--one which +undermined the very foundations of the old. This new spirit may be termed +sentimentalism. In prose literature it had already been stirring for +about twenty-five years, changing the tone of comedy, entering into some +of the periodical essays, and assuming a philosophic character in the +works of Lord Shaftesbury. Its chief doctrines, rhapsodically promulgated +by this amiable and original enthusiast, were that the universe and all +its creatures constitute a perfect harmony; and that Man, owing to his +innate moral and aesthetic sense, needs no supernatural revelation of +religious or ethical truth, because if he will discard the prejudices +of tradition, he will instinctively, when face to face with Nature, +recognize the Spirit which dwells therein,--and, correspondingly, when +in the presence of a good deed he will recognize its morality. In other +words. God and Nature are one; and Man is instinctively good, his +cardinal virtue being the love of humanity, his true religion the love of +Nature. Be therefore of good cheer: evil merely appears to exist, sin is +a figment of false psychology; lead mankind to return to the natural, and +they will find happiness. + +The poetical possibilities of sentimentalism were not grasped by any +noteworthy poet before Thomson. _The Seasons_ was an innovation, and +its novelty lay not so much in the choice of the subject as in the +interpretation. Didactic as well as descriptive, it was designed not +merely to present realistic pictures but to arouse certain explicitly +stated thoughts and feelings. Thomson had absorbed some of Shaftesbury's +ideas. Such sketches as that of the hardships which country folk suffer +in winter, contrasted with the thoughtless gayety of city revelers, +and inculcating the lesson of sympathy, are precisely in the vein that +sentimentalism encouraged. So, too, the tendency of Shaftesbury to deify +Nature appears in several ardent passages. The choice of blank verse +as the medium of this liberal and expansive train of thought was +appropriate. It should not be supposed, however, that Thomson accepted +sentimentalism in its entirety or fully understood its ultimate bearings. +The author of _Rule, Britannia_ praised many things,--like commerce +and industry and imperial power,--that are not favored by the thorough +sentimentalist. Often he was inconsistent: his _Hymn to Nature_ is +in part a pantheistic rhapsody, in part a monotheistic Hebrew psalm. +Essentially an indolent though receptive mind, he made no effort to trace +the new ideas to their consequences; he vaguely considered them not +irreconcilable with the old. + +A keener mind fell into the same error. Pope, in the _Essay on Man_, +tried to harmonize the orthodox conception of human character with +sentimental optimism. As a collection of those memorable half-truths +called aphorisms, the poem is admirable; as an attempt to unite new +half-truths with old into a consistent scheme of life, it is fallacious. +No creature composed of such warring elements as Pope describes in the +superb antitheses that open Epistle II, can ever become in this world as +good and at the same time as happy as Epistle IV vainly asserts. Pope, +charged with heresy, did not repeat this endeavor to console mankind; he +returned to his proper element, satire. But his effort to unite the +new philosophy with the old psychology is striking evidence of the +attractiveness and growing vogue of Shaftesbury's theories. + +It was minor poets who first expressed sentimental ideas without +inconsistency. As early as 1732, anonymous lines in the _Gentleman's +Magazine_ advanced what must have seemed the outrageously paradoxical +thought that the savage in the wilderness was happier than civilized +man. Two years later Soame Jenyns openly assailed in verse the orthodox +doctrines of sin and retribution. These had long been assailed in prose; +and under the influence of the attacks, within the pale of the Church +itself, some ministers had suppressed or modified the sterner aspects of +the creed,--a movement which Young's satires had ridiculed in the person +of a lady of fashion who gladly entertained the notion that the Deity +was too well-bred to call a lady to account for her offenses. Jenyns +versified this effeminization of Christianity, charged orthodoxy with +attributing cruelty to God, and asserted that faith in divine and human +kindness would banish all wrong and discord from the world. In 1735 a far +more important poet of sentimentalism arose in Henry Brooke, an +undeservedly neglected pioneer, who, likewise drawing his inspiration +from Shaftesbury, developed its theories with unusual consistency and +fullness. His _Universal Beauty_ voiced his sense of the divine immanence +in every part of the cosmos, and emphasized the doctrine that animals, +because they unhesitatingly follow the promptings of Nature, are more +lovely, happy, and moral than Man, who should learn from them the +individual and social virtues, abandon artificial civilization, and +follow instinct. Brooke, in the prologue of his _Gustavus Vasa_, shows +that he foresaw the political bearings of this theory; it is, in his +opinion, peculiarly a people "guiltless of courts, untainted, and unread" +that, illumined by Nature, understands and upholds freedom: but this was +a thought too advanced to be general at this time even among Brooke's +fellow-sentimentalists. + +Though sentimental literature bore the seeds of revolution, its earliest +effect upon its devotees was to create, through flattery of human +character, a feeling of good-natured complacency. Against this optimism +the traditional school reacted in two ways,--derisive and hortatory. +Pope, Young, and Swift satirized with masterful skill the inherent +weaknesses and follies of mankind, the vigor of their strokes drawing +from the sentimentalist Whitehead the feeble but significant protest, +_On Ridicule_, deprecating satire as discouraging to benevolence. On the +other hand, Wesley's hymns fervently summoned to repentance and piety; +while Young's _Night Thoughts_, yielding to the new influence only in its +form (blank verse), reasserted the hollowness of earthly existence, +the justice of God's stern will, and the need of faith in heavenly +immortality as the only adequate satisfaction of the spiritual elements +in Man. The literary powers of Pope, Swift, and Young were far superior +to those of the opposed school, which might have been overborne had not a +second generation of sentimentalists arisen to voice its claims in a more +poetical manner. + +These newcomers,--Akenside, J.G. Cooper, the Wartons, and Collins,--all +of them very young, appeared between 1744 and 1747; and each rendered +distinct service to their common cause. The least original of the group, +John Gilbert Cooper, versified in _The Power of Harmony_ Shaftesbury's +cosmogony. More independently, Mark Akenside developed out of the same +doctrine of universal harmony the theory of aesthetics that was to guide +the school,--the theory that the true poet is created not by culture and +discipline at all, but owes to the impress of Nature--that beauty which +is goodness--his imagination, his taste, and his moral vision. Though +comparatively ardent and free in manner, Akenside pursued the customary, +didactic method. Less abstract, more nearly an utterance of personal +feeling, was Joseph Warton's _Enthusiast, or the Lover of Nature_, +historically a remarkable poem, which, through its expression of the +author's tastes and preferences, indicated briefly some of the most +important touchstones of the sentimentalism (_videlicet_, "romanticism") +of the future. Warton found odious such things as artificial gardens, +commercial interests, social and legal conventions, and a formal +Addisonian style; he yearned for mountainous wilds, unspoiled savages, +solitudes where the voice of Wisdom was heard above the storms, and +poetry that was "wildly warbled." His younger brother Thomas, who wrote +_The Pleasures of Melancholy_, and sonnets showing an interest in +non-classical antiquities, likewise felt the need of new literary gods to +sanction the practices of their school: Pope and Dryden were accordingly +dethroned; Spenser, Shakespeare, and the young Milton, all of whom were +believed to warble wildly, were invoked. + +William Collins was the most gifted of this band of enthusiasts. His +general views were theirs: poetry is in his mind associated with wonder +and ecstacy; and it finds its true themes, as the _Ode on Popular +Superstitions_ shows, in the weird legends, the pathetic mischances, and +the blameless manners of a simple-minded folk remote from cities. Unlike +his fellows, Collins had moments of great lyric power, and gave posterity +a few treasured poems. His further distinction is that he desired really +to create that poetical world about which Akenside theorized and for +which the Wartons yearned. Unhappily, however, he too often peopled it +with allegorical figures who move in a hazy atmosphere; and his melody is +then more apparent than his meaning. + +The hopeful spirit of these enthusiasts found little encouragement in the +poems with which the period closed,--Gray's _Ode on Eton_ and _Hymn to +Adversity_, and Johnson's _Vanity of Human Wishes_. + + Some bold adventurers disdain + The limits of their little reign, + +wrote Gray, adding with the wisdom of disillusion, + + Gay hopes are theirs, by fancy fed, + Less pleasing when possessed. + +He was speaking of schoolboys whose ignorance is bliss; but the general +tenor of his mind allows us to surmise that he also smiled pityingly upon +some of the aspirations of the youthful sentimentalists. Dr. Johnson's +hostility to them was, of course, outspoken. He laughed uproariously at +their ecstatic manner, and ridiculed the cant of sensibility; and in +solemn mood he struck in _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ another blow at the +heresy of optimism. In style the contrast between these poems and those +of the Wartons and Collins is marked. Heirs of the Augustans, Johnson and +Gray have perfect control over their respective diction and metres: here +are no obscurities or false notes; Johnson sustains with superb +dignity the tone of moral grandeur; Gray is ever felicitous. Up to the +mid-century then, despite assailants, the classical school held its +supremacy; for its literary art was incomparably more skillful than that +of its enemies. + + +III. THE PROGRESS OF SENTIMENTALISM + +(1751-1775) + +During the 1750's sentimental poetry did not fulfill the expectations +which the outburst of 1744 had seemed to promise. It sank to lower +levels, and its productions are noteworthy only as signs of the times and +presages of the future. Richard Jago wrote some bald verses intended to +foster opposition to hunting, and love for the lower animals,--according +to the sentimental view really the "little brothers" of Man. John +Dalton's crude _Descriptive Poem_ apostrophized what was regarded as the +"savage grandeur" of the Lake country; it is interesting only because it +mentions Keswick, Borrowdale, Lodore, and Skiddaw, half a century +later to become sacred ground. The practical dilemma of the +sentimentalist,--drawn toward solitude by his worship of Nature, and +toward society by his love for Man,--was described by Whitehead in _The +Enthusiast_, the humanitarian impulse being finally given the preference. +Though the last of these pieces is not contemptible in style, none +of these writers had sufficient ardor to compel attention; and if +sentimentalism had not been steadily disseminated through other literary +forms, especially the novel, it might well have been regarded as a lost +cause. + +The great poet of this decade was Gray, whose _Elegy Written in a Country +Churchyard_, by many held the noblest English lyric, appeared in 1751. +His classical ideal of style, according to which poetry should have, +in his words, "extreme conciseness of expression," yet be "pure, +perspicuous, and musical," was realized both in the _Elegy_ and in the +otherwise very different _Pindaric Odes_. The ethical and religious +implications of the _Elegy_, its piety, its sense of the frailties as +well as the merits of mankind, are conservative. Nor is there in the +_Pindaric Odes_ any violation of classical principles. Gray never +deviates into a pantheistic faith, a belief in human perfection, a +conception of poetry as instinctive imagination unrestrained, or any +other essential tenet of sentimentalism. Yet the influence of the new +spirit upon him may be discerned. It modified his choice of subjects, and +slightly colored their interpretation, without causing him to abandon the +classical attitude. The _Elegy_ treats with reverence what the Augustans +had neglected,--the tragic dignity of obscure lives; _The Progress of +Poesy_ emphasizes qualities (emotion and sublimity) which the _Essay on +Criticism_ had not stressed; and _The Bard_ presents a wildly picturesque +figure of ancient days. Gray felt that classicism might quicken its +spirit and widen its interests without surrendering its principles, that +a classical poem might be a popular poem; and the admiration of posterity +supports his belief. + +An astounding and epochal event was the publication (1760 ff.) of +the poems attributed to Ossian. Their "editor and translator," James +Macpherson, author of a forgotten sentimental epic, alleged that Ossian +was a Gaelic poet of the third century A.D., who sang the loves and wars +of the heroes of his people, brave warriors fighting the imperial legions +of Rome; and that his poems had been orally transmitted until now, +fifteen centuries later, they had been taken down from the lips of Scotch +peasants. It was a fabrication as ingenious as brazen. As a matter of +fact, Macpherson had found only an insignificant portion of his extensive +work in popular ballads; and what little he had found he had expanded and +changed out of all semblance to genuine ancient legend. Both the +guiding motive of his prose-poem (it is his as truly as _King Lear_ +is Shakespeare's), and the furore of welcome which greeted it, may be +understood by recalling the position of the sentimental school on the eve +of its appearance. The sentimentalists were maintaining that civilization +had corrupted tastes, morals, and poetry, that it had perverted Man from +his instinctive goodness, and that only by a return to communion with +Nature could humanity and poetry be redeemed. But all this was based +merely on philosophic theory, and could find no confirmation in history +or literature: history knew of no innocent savages; and even as +unsophisticated literature as Homer was then supposed to be, disclosed no +heroes perfect in the sentimental virtues. + +_Ossian_ appeared; and the truth of sentimentalism seemed historically +established. For here was poetry of the loftiest tone, composed in the +unlearned Dark Ages, and answering the highest expectations concerning +poetry inspired by Nature only. (Was not a distinguished Professor of +Rhetoric saying, "Ossian's poetry, more perhaps than that of any other +writer, deserves to be styled the poetry of the heart"?) And here was +the record of a nature-people whose conduct stood revealed as flawless. +"Fingal," Macpherson himself accommodatingly pointed out, "exercised +every manly virtue in Caledonia while Heliogabalus disgraced human nature +in Rome." More than fifty years afterwards Byron compared Homer's Hector, +greatly to his disadvantage, with Ossian's Fingal: the latter's conduct +was, in his admirer's words, "uniformly illustrious and great, without +one mean or inhuman action to tarnish the splendor of his fame." The +benevolent magnanimity of the heroes, the sweet sensibility of the +heroines, their harmony with Nature's moods (traits which Macpherson had +supplied from his own imagination), were the very traits that won +the enthusiasm of the public. The poem in its turn stimulated the +sentimentalism which had produced it; and henceforth the new school +contended on even terms with the old. + +One of the effects of the progress of sentimentalism was the decline of +satire. Peculiarly the weapon of the classical school, it had fallen into +unskillful hands: Churchill, though keen and bold, lacked the grace of +Pope and the power of Johnson. Goldsmith might have proved a worthier +successor; but though his genius for style was large, his capacity for +sustained indignation was limited. Even his _Retaliation_ is humorous in +spirit rather than satiric. He was a being of conflicting impulses; and +in his case at least, the style is not precisely the man. His temperament +was emotional and affectionate; by nature he was a sentimentalist. But +his inclinations were restrained, partly by the personal influence of Dr. +Johnson, partly by his own admiration for the artistic traditions of +the classicists. He despised looseness of style, considered blank verse +unfinished, and cultivated what seemed to him the more polished elegance +of the heroic couplet. The vacillation of his views appears in the +difference between the sentiments of _The Traveller_ and those of _The +Deserted Village_. The former is a survey of the nations of Europe, the +object being to discover a people wholly admirable. Merit is found in +Italians, Swiss, French, Dutch, and English,--but never perfection; even +the free and happy Swiss are disgusting in the vulgar sensuality of their +pleasures; happiness is nowhere. One is not surprised to learn that Dr. +Johnson contributed at least a few lines to a poem with so orthodox a +message. + +In _The Deserted Village_, on the other hand, Goldsmith employed the +classical graces to point a moral which from the classical point of view +was false. His sympathetic feelings had now been captivated by the notion +of rural innocence. The traits of character which he attributed to the +village inhabitants,--notably to the immortal preacher who, entertaining +the vagrants, + + Quite forgot their vices in their woe,-- + +are those exalted in the literature of sentimentalism, as, for example, +in his contemporary, Langhorne's _Country Justice_. _The Deserted +Village_ was in point of fact an imaginative idyll,--the supreme idyll of +English poetry; but Goldsmith insisted that it was a realistic record +of actual conditions. Yet he could never have observed such an English +village, either in its depopulated and decayed state (as Macaulay has +remarked), or in its rosy prosperity and unsullied virtue; his economic +history and theory were misleading. Like Macpherson, but through +self-delusion rather than intent, he was engaged in an effort to deceive +by giving sentimental doctrines a basis of apparent actuality. But the +world has forgotten or forgiven his pious fraud in its gratitude for the +loveliness of his art. + + +IV. THE TRIUMPH OF SENTIMENTALISM (1776-1800) + +Goldsmith's application of sentimental ideas to contemporary affairs +foreshadowed what was to be one of the marked tendencies of the movement +in the last quarter of the century. Thus in 1777 Thomas Day interpreted +the American Revolution as a conflict between the pitiless tyranny of a +corrupt civilization and the appealing virtues of a people who had found +in sequestered forests and prairies the abiding place of Freedom and the +only remaining opportunity "to save the ruins of the human name." At the +same time the justification of sentimentalism on historical grounds was +strengthened by the young antiquarian and poet, Thomas Chatterton. Like +Macpherson, he answers to Pope's description of archaizing authors,-- + + Ancients in words, mere moderns in their sense. + +He fabricated, in what he thought to be Middle English, a body of songs +and interludes, which he attributed to a monk named Thomas Rowleie, +and which showed that, in the supposedly unsophisticated simplicity of +medieval times, charity to Man and love for Nature had flourished as +beautifully as lyric utterance. Even more lamentable than Chatterton's +early death is the fact that his fanciful and musical genius was shrouded +in so grotesque a style. + +In 1781 appeared a new poet of real distinction, George Crabbe, now the +hope of the conservatives. Edmund Burke, who early in his great career +had assailed the radicals in his ironic _Vindication of Natural Society_, +and who to the end of his life contended against them in the arena of +politics, on reading some of Crabbe's manuscripts, rescued this cultured +and ingenuous man from obscurity and distress; and Dr. Johnson presently +aided him in his literary labors. In _The Library_ Crabbe expressed the +reverence of a scholarly soul for the garnered wisdom of the past, and +satirized some of the popular writings of the day, including sentimental +fiction. He would not have denied the world those consolations which flow +from the literature that mirrors our hopes and dreams; but his honest +spirit revolted when such literature professed to be true to life. +His acquaintance with actual conditions in humble circles, and with +hardships, was as personal as Goldsmith's; but he was not the kind of +poet who soothes the miseries of mankind by ignoring them. In _The +Village_ he arose with all the vigor and intensity of insulted common +sense to refute the dreamers who offered a rose-colored picture of +country life as a genuine portrayal of truth and nature. So evident +was his mastery of his subject, his clearness of perception, and his +earnestness of feeling, that he attracted immediate attention; and he +might well have led a new advance under the ancient standards. But +silence fell upon Crabbe for many years; and this proved, to be the last +occasion in the poetical history of the century that a powerful voice was +raised in behalf of the old cause. + +The poet who became the favorite of moderate sentimentalists, in what +were called "genteel" circles, was William Cowper. He presented little +or nothing that could affright the gentle emotions, and much that +pleasurably stimulated them. He enriched the poetry of the domestic +affections, and had a vein of sadness which occasionally, as in _To +Mary_, deepened into the most touching pathos. In _The Task_, a +discursive familiar essay in smooth-flowing blank verse, he dwelt fondly +upon those satisfactions which his life of uneventful retirement offered; +intimated that truth and wisdom were less surely found by poring upon +books than by meditating among beloved rural scenes; and, turning his sad +gaze toward the distant world of action, deplored that mankind strained +"the natural bond of brotherhood" by tolerating cruel imprisonments, +slavery, and warfare. Such humanitarian views, when they seek the aid of +religious ethics, ought normally to find support in that sentimentalized +Christianity which professes the entire goodness of the human heart; +but the discordant element in Cowper's mind was his inclination towards +Calvinism, which goes to the opposite extreme by insisting on total +depravity. Personally he believed that he had committed the unpardonable +sin (against the Holy Spirit),--a dreadful thought which underlies +his tragic poem, _The Castaway_; and probably unwholesome, though +well-intentioned, was the influence upon him of his spiritual adviser, +John Newton, whose gloomy theology may be seen in the hymn, _The Vision +of Life in Death_. Cowper's sense of the reality of evil not only +distracted his mind to madness, but also prevented him from carrying his +sentimental principles to their logical goal. What the hour demanded were +poets who, discountenancing any mistrust of the natural emotions, should +give them free rein. They were found at last in Burns and in Blake. + +The sentimentalists had long yearned for the advent of the ideal poet. +Macpherson had presented him,--but as of an era far remote; latterly +Beattie, in _The Minstrel_, had set forth his growth under the +inspiration of Nature,--but in a purely imaginary tale. Suddenly Burns +appeared: and the ideal seemed incarnated in the living present. The +Scottish bard was introduced to the world by his first admirers as "a +heaven-taught ploughman, of humble unlettered station," whose "simple +strains, artless and unadorned, seem to flow without effort from the +native feelings of the heart"; and as "a signal instance of true and +uncultivated genius." The real Burns, though indeed a genius of song, was +far better read than the expectant world wished to believe, particularly +in those whom he called his "bosom favorites," the sentimentalists +Mackenzie and Sterne; and his sense of rhythm and melody had been trained +by his emulation of earlier Scotch lyricists, whose lilting cadences flow +towards him as highland rills to the gathering torrent. Sung to the notes +of his native tunes, and infused with the local color of Scotch life, the +sentimental themes assumed the freshness of novelty. Giving a new ardor +to revolutionary tendencies,--Burns revolted against the orthodoxy of the +"Auld Lichts," depicting its representatives as ludicrously hypocritical. +He protested against distinctions founded on birth or rank, as in _A +Man's a Man for A' That_; and, on the other hand, he idealized the homely +feelings and manners of the "virtuous populace" in his immortal _Cotter's +Saturday Night_. He scorned academic learning, and protested that true +inspiration was rather to be found in "ae spark o' Nature's fire,"--or at +the nearest tavern: + + Leese me on drink! It gies us mair + Than either school or college. + +Like Sterne, who boasted that his pen governed him, Burns praised and +affected the impromptu: + + But how the subject theme may gang, + Let time or chance determine; + Perhaps it may turn out a sang, + Perhaps turn out a sermon. + +His Muse was to be the mood of the moment. Herein he brought to +fulfillment the sentimental desire for the liberation of the emotions; +but his work, taken as a whole, can scarcely be said to vindicate the +faith that the emotions, once freed, would manifest instinctive purity. +At his almost unrivalled best, he can sing in the sweetest strains the +raptures or pathos of innocent youthful love, as in _Sweet Afton_ or _To +Mary in Heaven_; but straightway sinking from that elevation of feeling +to the depths of vulgarity or grossness, he will chant with equal zest +and skill the indulgence of the animal appetites.[1] He hails the joys of +life, but without discriminating between the higher and the lower. Yet +these exuberant animal spirits which, unrestrained by conscience +or taste, drove him too often into scurrility, gave his work that +passion--warm, throbbing, and personal--which had been painfully wanting +in earlier poets of sensibility. It was his emotional intensity as well +as his lyric genius that made him the most popular poet of his time. + +In Burns, sentimentalism was largely temperamental, unreflective, and +concrete. In William Blake, the singularity of whose work long retarded +its due appreciation, sentimentalism was likewise temperamental; but, +unconfined to actuality, became far broader in scope, more spiritual, +and more consistently philosophic. Indeed, Blake was the ultimate +sentimentalist of the century. A visionary and symbolist, he passed +beyond Shaftesbury in his thought, and beyond any poet of the school +in his endeavor to create a new and appropriate style. His contemporary, +Erasmus Darwin, author of _The Botanic Garden_, was trying to give +sentimentalism a novel interpretation by describing the life of plants +in terms of human life; but, Darwin being destitute of artistic sense, +the result was grotesque. Blake, by training and vocation an engraver, +was primarily an artist; but, partly under Swedenborgian influences, he +had grasped the innermost character of sentimentalism, perceived all its +implications, and carried them fearlessly to their utmost bounds. To him +every atom of the cosmos was literally spiritual and holy; the divine +and the human, the soul and the flesh, were absolutely one; God and Man +were only two aspects of pervasive "mercy, pity, peace, and love." +Nothing else had genuine reality. The child, its vision being as yet +unclouded by false teachings, saw the universe thus truly; and Blake, +therefore, in _Songs of Innocence_, gave glimpses of the world as the +child sees it,--a guileless existence amid the peace that passes all +understanding. He hymned the sanctity of animal life: even the tiger, +conventionally an incarnation of cruelty, was a glorious creature of +divine mould; to slay or cage a beast was, the _Auguries of Innocence_ +protested, to incur anathema. The _Book of Thel_ allegorically showed +the mutual interdependence of all creation, and reprehended the maiden +shyness that shrinks from merging its life in the sacrificial union +which sustains the whole. + +To Blake the great enemy of truth was the cold logical reason, a +truncated part of Man's spirit, which was incapable of attaining wisdom, +and which had fabricated those false notions that governed the practical +world and constrained the natural feelings. Instances of the unhappiness +caused by such constraint, he gave in _Songs of Experience_, where _The +Garden of Love_ describes the blighting curse which church law had laid +upon free love. To overthrow intellectualism and discipline, Man must +liberate his most precious faculty, the imagination, which alone can +reveal the spiritual character of the universe and the beauty that life +will wear when the feelings cease to be unnaturally confined. Temporarily +Blake rejoiced when the French Revolution seemed to usher in the +millennium of freedom and peace; and his interpretation of its earlier +incidents in his poem on that theme[2] illustrates in style and spirit +the highly original nature of his mind. More than any predecessor he +understood how the peculiarly poetical possibilities of sentimentalism +might be elicited, namely by emphasizing its mystical quality. Thus +under his guidance mysticism, which in the early seventeenth century had +sublimated the religious poetry of the orthodox, returned to sublimate +the poetry of the radicals; and with that achievement the sentimental +movement reached its climax. + +Burns died in 1796; Blake, lost in a realm of symbolism, became +unintelligible; and temporarily sentimentalism suffered a reaction. The +French Revolution, with its Reign of Terror, and the rise of a military +autocrat, though supported, even after Great Britain had taken up arms +against Napoleon, by some "friends of humanity" who placed universal +brotherhood above patriotism, seemed to the general public to demonstrate +that the sentimental theories and hopes were untrue to life and led to +results directly contrary to those predicted. Once again, in Canning's +caustic satires of _The Anti-Jacobin_, conservatism raised its voice. But +by this time sentimentalism was too fully developed and widely spread to +be more than checked. Under the new leadership of Wordsworth, Coleridge, +and Southey, the movement, chastened and modified by experience, resumed +its progress; and the fame of its new leaders presently dimmed the memory +of those pioneers who in the eighteenth century had undermined the +foundations of orthodoxy, slowly upbuilt a new world of thought, +gradually fashioned a poetic style more suited to their sentiments than +the classical, and thus helped to plunge the modern world into that +struggle which, in life and in literature, rages about us still. + +ERNEST BERNBAUM + +[Footnote 1: In this edition, the poems of Burns, unlike those of the +other poets, are printed not in the order of their publication but as +nearly as ascertainable in that of their composition.] + +[Footnote 2: _The French Revolution_ was suppressed at the time, and +has been recovered only in our own day by Dr. John Sampson, who first +published it in the admirable Clarendon Press edition of Blake.] + + + + +ENGLISH POETS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY + + + + +JOHN POMFRET + + +THE CHOICE + + _If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, + That I might choose my method how to live; + And all those hours propitious fate should lend, + In blissful ease and satisfaction spend._ + +I. THE GENTLEMAN'S RETIREMENT + + Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, + Built uniform, not little, nor too great: + Better, if on a rising ground it stood; + Fields on this side, on that a neighbouring wood. + It should within no other things contain, + But what are useful, necessary, plain: + Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, + The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. + A little garden, grateful to the eye; + And a cool rivulet run murmuring by, + On whose delicious banks a stately row + Of shady limes, or sycamores, should grow. + At th' end of which a silent study placed, + Should with the noblest authors there be graced: + Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines + Immortal wit, and solid learning, shines; + Sharp Juvenal and amorous Ovid too, + Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew: + He that with judgment reads the charming lines, + In which strong art with stronger nature joins, + Must grant his fancy does the best excel; + His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well: + With all those moderns, men of steady sense, + Esteemed for learning, and for eloquence. + In some of these, as fancy should advise, + I'd always take my morning exercise: + For sure no minutes bring us more content, + Than those in pleasing useful studies spent. + +II. HIS FORTUNE AND CHARITY + + I'd have a clear and competent estate, + That I might live genteelly, but not great: + As much as I could moderately spend; + A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend. + Nor should the sons of poverty repine + At fortune's frown, for they should taste of mine; + And all that objects of true pity were, + Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; + For what our Maker has too largely given, + Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven. + A frugal plenty should my table spread. + With healthy, not luxurious, dishes fed; + Enough to satisfy, and something more, + To feed the stranger, and the neighb'ring poor. + Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food + Creates diseases, and inflames the blood. + But what's sufficient to make nature strong, + And the bright lamp of life continue long, + I'd freely take, and as I did possess, + The bounteous Author of my plenty bless. + +III. HIS HOSPITALITY AND TEMPERANCE + + I'd have a little cellar, cool and neat, + With humming ale and virgin wine replete. + Wine whets the wit, improves its native force, + And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse; + By making all our spirits debonair, + Throws off the lees and sediment of care. + But as the greatest blessing Heaven lends + May be debauched, and serve ignoble ends; + So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice + Does many mischievous effects produce. + My house should no such rude disorders know, + As from high drinking consequently flow; + Nor would I use what was so kindly given, + To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven. + If any neighbour came, he should be free, + Used with respect, and not uneasy be, + In my retreat, or to himself or me. + What freedom, prudence, and right reason give, + All men may, with impunity, receive: + But the least swerving from their rules too much, + And what's forbidden us, 'tis death to touch. + +IV. HIS COMPANY + + That life may be more comfortable yet, + And all my joys refined, sincere, and great; + I'd choose two friends, whose company would be + A great advance to my felicity: + Well-born, of humours suited to my own, + Discreet, that men as well as books have known; + Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free + From loose behaviour or formality; + Airy and prudent, merry but not light; + Quick in discerning; and in judging, right; + They should be secret, faithful to their trust, + In reasoning cool, strong, temperate, and just; + Obliging, open, without huffing, brave; + Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave; + Close in dispute, but not tenacious; tried + By solemn reason, and let that decide; + Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate; + Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state; + Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spite, + Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight; + Loyal and pious, friends to Caesar; true + As dying martyrs to their Makers too. + In their society I could not miss + A permanent, sincere, substantial bliss. + +V. HIS LADY AND CONVERSE + + Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd choose + (For who would so much satisfaction lose + As witty nymphs in conversation give?) + Near some obliging modest fair to live: + For there's that sweetness in a female mind, + Which in a man's we cannot [hope to] find; + That, by a secret but a powerful art, + Winds up the spring of life, and does impart + Fresh, vital heat to the transported heart. + + I'd have her reason all her passions sway; + Easy in company, in private gay; + Coy to a fop, to the deserving free; + Still constant to herself, and just to me. + She should a soul have for great actions fit; + Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit; + Courage to look bold danger in the face, + Not fear, but only to be proud or base; + Quick to advise, by an emergence pressed, + To give good counsel, or to take the best. + + I'd have th' expressions of her thoughts be such, + She might not seem reserved, nor talk too much: + That shows a want of judgment and of sense; + More than enough is but impertinence. + Her conduct regular, her mirth refined; + Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind; + Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride; + In all the methods of deceit untried; + So faithful to her friend, and good to all, + No censure might upon her actions fall: + Then would e'en envy be compelled to say + She goes the least of womankind astray. + + To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire; + Her conversation would new joys inspire; + Give life an edge so keen, no surly care + Would venture to assault my soul, or dare + Near my retreat to hide one secret snare. + But so divine, so noble a repast + I'd seldom, and with moderation, taste: + For highest cordials all their virtue lose, + By a too frequent and too bold an use; + And what would cheer the spirits in distress, + Ruins our health when taken to excess. + +VI. HIS PEACEABLE LIFE + + I'd be concerned in no litigious jar; + Beloved by all, not vainly popular. + Whate'er assistance I had power to bring + T' oblige my company, or to serve my king, + Whene'er they called, I'd readily afford, + My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword. + Lawsuits I'd shun, with as much studious care, + As I would dens where hungry lions are; + And rather put up injuries, than be + A plague to him who'd be a plague to me. + I value quiet at a price too great + To give for my revenge so dear a rate: + For what do we by all our bustle gain, + But counterfeit delight for real pain? + +VII. HIS HAPPY DEATH + + If Heaven a date of many years would give, + Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live. + And as I near approach[ed] the verge of life, + Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) + Should take upon him all my worldly care + While I did for a better state prepare. + Then I'd not be with any trouble vexed, + Nor have the evening of my days perplexed; + But by a silent and a peaceful death, + Without a sigh, resign my aged breath. + And, when committed to the dust, I'd have + Few tears, but friendly, dropped into my grave; + Then would my exit so propitious be, + All men would wish to live and die like me. + + + + + DANIEL DEFOE + + + FROM THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN + + The Romans first with Julius Caesar came, + Including all the nations of that name, + Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards, and, by computation, + Auxiliaries or slaves of every nation. + With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sueno came; + In search of plunder, not in search of fame. + Scots, Picts, and Irish from th' Hibernian shore, + And conquering William brought the Normans o'er. + All these their barbarous offspring left behind, + The dregs of armies, they of all mankind; + Blended with Britons, who before, were here. + Of whom the Welsh ha' blessed the character. + From this amphibious ill-born mob began + That vain, ill-natured thing, an Englishman. + + * * * * * + + And lest by length of time it be pretended + The climate may this modern breed ha' mended, + Wise Providence, to keep us where we are, + Mixes us daily with exceeding care. + We have been Europe's sink, the Jakes where she + Voids all her offal outcast progeny. + From our fifth Henry's time, the strolling bands + Of banished fugitives from neighbouring lands + Have here a certain sanctuary found: + Th' eternal refuge of the vagabond, + Where, in but half a common age of time, + Borrowing new blood and mariners from the clime, + Proudly they learn all mankind to contemn; + And all their race are true-born Englishmen. + Dutch, Walloons, Flemings, Irishmen, and Scots, + Vaudois, and Valtelins, and Huguenots, + In good Queen Bess's charitable reign, + Supplied us with three hundred thousand men. + Religion--God, we thank thee!--sent them hither, + Priests, Protestants, the Devil and all together: + + Of all professions and of every trade, + All that were persecuted or afraid; + Whether for debt or other crimes they fled, + David at Hachilah was still their head. + The offspring of this miscellaneous crowd, + Had not their new plantations long enjoyed, + But they grew Englishmen, and raised their votes + At foreign shoals for interloping Scots. + The royal branch from Pictland did succeed, + With troops of Scots and Scabs from North-by-Tweed. + The seven first years of his pacific reign + Made him and half his nation Englishmen. + Scots from the northern frozen banks of Tay, + With packs and plods came whigging all away; + Thick as the locusts which in Egypt swarmed, + With pride and hungry hopes completely armed; + With native truth, diseases, and no money, + Plundered our Canaan of the milk and honey. + Here they grew quickly lords and gentlemen,-- + And all their race are true-born Englishmen. + + * * * * * + + The wonder which remains is at our pride, + To value that which all wise men deride. + For Englishmen to boast of generation + Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation. + A true-born Englishman's a contradiction, + In speech an irony, in fact a fiction; + A banter made to be a test of fools, + Which those that use it justly ridicules; + A metaphor invented to express + A man akin to all the universe. + + + + FROM A HYMN TO THE PILLORY + + Hail hieroglyphic state-machine, + Contrived to punish fancy in! + Men that are men in thee can feel no pain, + And all thy insignificants disdain. + Contempt, that false new word for shame, + Is, without crime, an empty name, + A shadow to amuse mankind, + But never frights the wise or well-fixed mind: + Virtue despises human scorn, + And scandals innocence adorn. + + * * * * * + + Sometimes, the air of scandal to maintain, + Villains look from thy lofty loops in vain; + But who can judge of crimes by punishment + Where parties rule and L[ord]s subservient? + Justice with, change of interest learns to bow, + And what was merit once is murder now: + Actions receive their tincture from the times, + And as they change, are virtues made or crimes. + Thou art the state-trap of the law, + But neither can keep knaves nor honest men in awe; + These are too hardened in offence, + And those upheld by innocence. + + * * * * * + + Thou art no shame to truth and honesty, + Nor is the character of such defaced by thee + Who suffer by oppressive injury. + Shame, like the exhalations of the sun, + Falls back where first the motion was begun; + And he who for no crime shall on thy brows appear + Bears less reproach than they who placed him there. + + But if contempt is on thy face entailed, + Disgrace itself shall be ashamed; + Scandal shall blush that it has not prevailed + To blast the man it has defamed. + Let all that merit equal punishment + Stand there with him, and we are all content. + + * * * * * + + Thou bugbear of the law, stand up and speak, + Thy long misconstrued silence break; + Tell us who 'tis upon thy ridge stands there, + So full of fault and yet so void of fear; + And from the paper in his hat, + Let all mankind be told for what. + Tell them it was because he was too bold, + And told those truths which should not ha' been told, + + Extol the justice of the land, + Who punish what they will not understand. + Tell them he stands exalted there + For speaking what we would not hear; + And yet he might have been secure + Had he said less or would he ha' said more. + Tell them that this is his reward + And worse is yet for him prepared, + Because his foolish virtue was so nice + As not to sell his friends, according to his friends' advice. + + And thus he's an example made, + To make men of their honesty afraid, + That for the time to come they may + More willingly their friends betray; + Tell them the m[en] who placed him here + Are sc[anda]ls to the times; + But at a loss to find his guilt, + They can't commit his crimes. + + + + + JOSEPH ADDISON + + + FROM THE CAMPAIGN + + Behold in awful march and dread array + The long-extended squadrons shape their way! + Death, in approaching terrible, imparts + An anxious horror to the bravest hearts; + Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, + And thirst of glory quells the love of life. + No vulgar fears can British minds control: + Heat of revenge and noble pride of soul + O'er look the foe, advantaged by his post, + Lessen his numbers, and contract his host; + Though fens and floods possessed the middle space, + That unprovoked they would have feared to pass, + Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands + When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands. + + But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find + To sing the furious troops in battle joined! + Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound + The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, + The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, + And all the thunder of the battle rise! + 'Twas then great Malborough's mighty soul was proved, + That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, + Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, + Examined all the dreadful scenes of death surveyed, + To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, + Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, + And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. + So when an angel by divine command + With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, + Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed, + Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, + And, pleases th' Almighty's orders to perform, + Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. + + + [DIVINE ODE] + + I + + 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. + + II + + 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. + + III + + 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: + Forever singing as they shine, + 'The hand that made us is divine.' + + + + + MATTHEW PRIOR + + + TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD THE AUTHOR 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 fires, and look + The power they have to be obeyed. + + 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 silk-worms 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 lines 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 ordained (would fate but mend it!) + That I shall be past making love + When she begins to comprehend it. + + + TO A LADY + + SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND LEAVING ME IN THE + ARGUMENT + + Spare, generous victor, spare the slave + Who did unequal war pursue, + That more than triumph he might have + In being overcome by you. + + In the dispute whate'er I said, + My heart was by my tongue belied, + And in my looks you might have read + How much I argued on your side. + + You, far from danger as from fear, + Might have sustained an open fight: + For seldom your opinions err; + Your eyes are always in the right. + + Why, fair one, would you not rely + On reason's force with beauty's joined? + Could I their prevalence deny, + I must at once be deaf and blind. + + Alas! not hoping to subdue, + I only to the fight aspired; + To keep the beauteous foe in view + Was all the glory I desired. + + But she, howe'er of victory sure, + Contemns the wreath too long delayed, + And, armed with more immediate power, + Calls cruel silence to her aid. + + Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: + She drops her arms, to gain the field; + Secures her conquest by her flight, + And triumphs when she seems to yield. + + So when the Parthian turned his steed + And from the hostile camp withdrew, + With cruel skill the backward reed + He sent, and as he fled he slew. + + + [THE DYING HADRIAN TO HIS SOUL] + + Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing, + Must we no longer live together? + And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, + To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither? + Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly, + Lies all neglected, all forgot: + And pensive, wavering, melancholy, + Thou dread'st and hop'st, thou know'st not what. + + + A BETTER ANSWER + + Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! + Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled! + Prithee quit this caprice, and (as old Falstaff says) + Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. + + How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy + The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? + Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy; + More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. + + To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, + Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong; + You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: + Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? + + What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows + The difference there is betwixt nature and art: + I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose; + And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart. + + The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun, + How after his journeys he sets up his rest; + If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, + At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast. + + So when I am wearied with wandering all day, + To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: + No matter what beauties I saw in my way; + They were but my visits, but thou art my home. + + Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, + And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; + For thou art a girl as much brighter than her + As he was a poet sublimer than me. + + + + + BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE + + + FROM THE GRUMBLING HIVE; OR, KNAVES TURNED HONEST + + A spacious hive, well stocked with bees, + That lived in luxury and ease; + And yet as famed for laws and arms, + As yielding large and early swarms; + Was counted the great nursery + Of sciences and industry. + + * * * * * + + Vast numbers thronged the fruitful hive; + Yet those vast numbers made 'em thrive; + Millions endeavouring to supply + Each others lust and vanity, + While other millions were employed + To see their handiworks destroyed; + They furnished half the universe, + Yet had more work than labourers. + Some with vast stocks, and little pains, + Jumped into business of great gains; + And some were damned to scythes and spades, + And all those hard laborious trades + Where willing wretches daily sweat + And wear out strength and limbs, to eat; + While others followed mysteries + To which few folks, bind prentices, + That want no stock but that of brass, + And may set up without a cross,-- + As sharpers, parasites, pimps, players, + Pickpockets, coiners, quacks, soothsayers, + And all those that in enmity + With downright working, cunningly + Convert to their own use the labour + Of their good-natured heedless neighbour. + These were called knaves; but bar the name, + The grave industrious were the same: + All trades and places knew some cheat, + No calling was without deceit. + + * * * * * + + Thus every part was full of vice, + Yet the whole mass a paradise: + Flattered in peace, and feared in wars, + They were th' esteem of foreigners, + And lavish of their wealth and lives, + The balance of all other hives. + Such were the blessings of that state; + Their crimes conspired to make them great. + + * * * * * + + The root of evil, avarice, + That damned, ill-natured, baneful vice, + Was slave to prodigality, + That noble sin; whilst luxury + Employed a million of the poor, + And odious pride a million more; + Envy itself, and vanity, + Were ministers of industry; + Their darling folly--fickleness + In diet, furniture, and dress-- + That strange, ridiculous vice, was made + The very wheel that turned the trade. + Their laws and clothes were equally + Objects of mutability; + For what was well done for a time, + In half a year became a crime. + + * * * * * + + How vain, is mortal happiness! + Had they but known the bounds of bliss, + And that perfection here below + Is more than gods can well bestow, + The grumbling brutes had been content + With ministers and government. + But they, at every ill success, + Like creatures lost without redress, + Cursed politicians, armies, fleets; + While every one cried, 'Damn the cheats!' + And would, though conscious of his own, + In others barbarously bear none. + One that had got a princely store + By cheating master, king, and poor, + Dared cry aloud, 'The land must sink + For all its fraud'; and whom d'ye think + The sermonizing rascal chid? + A glover that sold lamb for kid! + The least thing was not done amiss, + Or crossed the public business, + But all the rogues cried brazenly, + 'Good Gods, had we but honesty!' + Mercury smiled at th' impudence, + And others called it want of sense, + Always to rail at what they loved: + But Jove, with indignation moved, + At last in anger swore he'd rid + The bawling hive of fraud; and did. + The very moment it departs, + And honesty fills all their hearts, + There shews 'em, like th' instructive tree, + Those crimes which they're ashamed to see, + Which now in silence they confess + By blushing at their ugliness; + Like children that would hide their faults + And by their colour own their thoughts, + Imagining when they're looked upon, + That others see what they have done. + But, O ye Gods! what consternation! + How vast and sudden was th' alternation! + In half an hour, the nation round, + Meat fell a penny in the pound. + + * * * * * + + Now mind the glorious hive, and see + How honesty and trade agree. + The show is gone; it thins apace, + And looks with quite another face. + For 'twas not only that they went + By whom vast sums were yearly spent; + But multitudes that lived on them, + Were daily forced to do the same. + In vain to other trades they'd fly; + All were o'erstocked accordingly. + + * * * * * + + As pride and luxury decrease, + So by degrees they leave the seas. + Not merchants now, but companies, + Remove whole manufactories. + All arts and crafts neglected lie: + Content, the bane of industry, + Makes 'em admire their homely store, + And neither seek nor covet more. + So few in the vast hive remain, + The hundredth part they can't maintain + Against th' insults of numerous foes, + Whom yet they valiantly oppose, + Till some well-fenced retreat is found, + And here they die or stand their ground. + No hireling in their army's known; + But bravely fighting for their own + Their courage and integrity + At last were crowned with victory. + They triumphed not without their cost, + For many thousand bees were lost. + Hardened with toil and exercise, + They counted ease itself a vice; + Which so improved their temperance + That, to avoid extravagance, + They flew into a hollow tree, + Blessed with content and honesty. + + + THE MORAL: + + Then leave complaints: fools only strive + To make a great an honest hive. + T' enjoy the world's conveniences, + Be famed in war, yet live in ease, + Without great vices, is a vain + Utopia seated in the brain. + + * * * * * + + + + + ISAAC WATTS + + + THE HAZARD OF LOVING THE CREATURES + + Where'er my flattering passions rove, + I find a lurking snare; + 'Tis dangerous to let loose our love + Beneath th' eternal fair. + + Souls whom the tie of friendship binds, + And things that share our blood, + Seize a large portion of our minds, + And leave the less for God. + + Nature has soft but powerful bands, + And reason she controls; + While children with their little hands + Hang closest to our souls. + + Thoughtless they act th' old Serpent's part; + What tempting things they be! + Lord, how they twine about our heart, + And draw it off from Thee! + + Our hasty wills rush blindly on + Where rising passion rolls, + And thus we make our fetters strong + To bind our slavish souls. + + Dear Sovereign, break these fetters off. + And set our spirits free; + God in Himself is bliss enough; + For we have all in Thee. + + + THE DAY OF JUDGMENT + + When the fierce north-wind with his airy forces, + Bears 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. + See 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 through 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 arise to glory, + While our hosannas all along the passage + Shout the Redeemer. + + O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST + + O God, our help in ages past, + Our hope for years for to come, + Our shelter from the stormy blast, + And our eternal home: + + Under the shadow of Thy throne, + Thy saints have dwelt secure; + Sufficient is Thine arm alone, + And our defense is sure. + + Before the hills in order stood, + Or earth received her frame, + From everlasting Thou art God, + To endless years the same. + + A thousand ages in Thy sight + Are like an evening gone; + Short as the watch that ends the night + Before the rising sun. + + Time, like an ever-rolling stream, + Bears all its sons away; + They fly forgotten, as a dream + Dies at the opening day. + + O God, our help in ages past; + Our hope for years to come; + Be thou our guard while troubles last, + And our eternal home! + + + 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 hushed the holy child. + + Lo, He slumbers in His manger, + Where the hornèd oxen fed; + Peace, my darling: here's no danger, + Here's no ox a-near 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 forever near Him, + See His face, and sing His praise! + + + + + ALEXANDER POPE + + + FROM AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM + + 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill + Appear in writing or in judging ill; + But, of the two, less dangerous is th' offense + To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. + Some few in that, but numbers err in this, + Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; + A fool might once himself alone expose, + Now one in verse makes many more in prose. + + 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none + Go just alike, yet each believes his own. + In poets as true genius is but rare, + True taste as seldom is the critic's share; + Both must alike from heaven derive their light, + These born to judge, as well as those to write. + Let such teach others who themselves excel, + And censure freely who have written well. + Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, + But are not critics to their judgment too? + + * * * * * + + But you who seek to give and merit fame + And justly bear a critic's noble name, + Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, + How far your genius, taste, and learning go; + Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, + And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. + + * * * * * + + First follow Nature, and your judgment frame + By her just standard, which is still the same: + Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, + One clear, unchanged, and universal light, + Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, + At once the source, and end, and test of art. + Art from that fund each just supply provides, + Works without show, and without pomp presides: + In some fair body thus th' informing soul + With spirit feeds, with vigour fills the whole. + Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains; + Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. + Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, + Want as much more, to turn it to its use; + For wit and judgment often are at strife, + Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. + 'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's steed; + Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; + The wingèd courser, like a generous horse, + Shows most true mettle when you check his course. + + Those rules of old discovered, not devised, + Are Nature still, but Nature methodized; + Nature, like liberty, is but restrained + By the same laws which first herself ordained. + + You, then, whose judgment the right course would steer, + Know well each ancient's proper character; + His fable, subject, scope in every page; + Religion, country, genius of his age: + Without all these at once before your eyes, + Cavil you may, but never criticise, + Be Homer's works your study and delight, + Read them by day, and meditate by night; + Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, + And trace the Muses upward to their spring. + Still with itself compared, his text peruse; + And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. + + When first young Maro in his boundless mind + A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed, + Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law, + And but from nature's fountains scorned to draw: + But when t' examine every part he came, + Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. + Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design; + And rules as strict his laboured work confine + As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. + Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem; + To copy nature is to copy them. + + Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, + For there's a happiness as well as care. + Music resembles poetry, in each + Are nameless graces which no methods teach, + And which a master-hand alone can reach. + If, where the rules not far enough extend, + (Since rules were made but to promote their end) + Some lucky license answer to the full + Th' intent proposed, that license is a rule. + Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, + May boldly deviate from the common track; + From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, + And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, + Which without passing through the judgment, gains + The heart, and all its end at once attains. + In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, + Which out of nature's common order rise, + The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. + Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, + And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. + But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade, + (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) + Moderns, beware! or if you must offend + Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end; + Let it be seldom and compelled by need; + And have, at least, their precedent to plead. + The critic else proceeds without remorse, + Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. + + I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts + Those freer beauties, e'en in them, seem faults. + Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, + Considered singly, or beheld too near, + Which, but proportioned to their light or place, + Due distance reconciles to form and grace. + A prudent chief not always must display + His powers in equal ranks, and fair array, + But with th' occasion and the place comply, + Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. + Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, + Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. + + * * * * * + + A little learning is a dangerous thing; + Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: + There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, + And drinking largely sobers us again. + Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, + In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, + While from the bounded level of our mind, + Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; + But more advanced, behold with strange surprise + New distant scenes of endless science rise! + So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, + Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, + Th' eternal snows appear already past, + And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; + But, those attained, we tremble to survey + The growing labours of the lengthened way, + Th' increasing prospects tire our wandering eyes, + Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! + + A perfect judge will read each work of wit + With the same spirit that its author writ: + Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find + Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; + Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, + The gen'rous pleasure to be charmed with wit. + But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow, + Correctly cold, and regularly low, + That shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep; + We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep. + In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts + Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts: + 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, + But the joint force and full result of all. + Thus when we view some well-proportioned dome, + (The world's just wonder, and e'en thine, O Rome!) + So single parts unequally surprise, + All comes united to th' admiring eyes; + No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; + The whole at once is bold, and regular. + + Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, + Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. + In every work regard the writer's end, + Since none can compass more than they intend; + And if the means be just, the conduct true, + Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due; + As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, + T' avoid great errors, must the less commit: + Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, + For not to know some trifles, is a praise. + Most critics, fond of some subservient art, + Still make the whole depend upon a part: + They talk of principles, but notions prize, + And all to one loved folly sacrifice. + + Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, + A certain bard encountering on the way, + Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, + As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; + Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, + Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. + Our author, happy in a judge so nice, + Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice; + Made him observe the subject, and the plot, + The manners, passions, unities, what not? + All which, exact to rule, were brought about, + Were but a combat in the lists left out. + 'What! leave the combat out?' exclaims the knight; + Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. + 'Not so, by Heaven' (he answers in a rage), + 'Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage.' + So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain. + 'Then build a new, or act it in a plain.' + + Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice, + Curious not knowing, not exact but nice, + Form short ideas; and offend in arts + (As most in manners) by a love to parts. + + Some to conceit alone their taste confine, + And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at every line; + Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit; + One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. + Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace + The naked nature and the living grace, + With gold and jewels cover every part, + And hide with ornaments their want of art. + True wit is nature to advantage dressed, + What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed; + Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, + That gives us back the image of our mind. + As shades more sweetly recommend the light, + So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. + For works may have more wit than does 'em good, + As bodies perish through excess of blood. + + Others for language all their care express, + And value books, as women, men, for dress: + Their praise is still,--the style is excellent; + The sense, they humbly take upon content. + Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, + Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. + False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, + Its gaudy colours spreads on every place; + The face of nature we no more survey, + All glares alike, without distinction gay: + But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, + Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon, + It gilds all objects, but it alters none. + Expression is the dress of thought, and still + Appears more decent, as more suitable; + A vile conceit in pompous words expressed, + Is like a clown in regal purple dressed: + For different styles with different subjects sort, + As several garbs with country, town, and court. + Some by old words to fame have made pretence, + Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; + Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style, + Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learnèd smile. + Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, + These sparks with awkward vanity display + What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; + And but so mimic ancient wits at best, + As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dressed. + In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; + Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: + Be not the first by whom the new are tried, + Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. + + But most by numbers judge a poet's song; + And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: + In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, + Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; + Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, + Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, + Not for the doctrine, but the music there. + These equal syllables alone require, + Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; + While expletives their feeble aid do join, + And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: + While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, + With sure returns of still expected rhymes; + Where'er you find 'the cooling western breeze,' + In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees;' + If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,' + The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 'sleep': + Then, at the last and only couplet fraught + With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, + A needless Alexandrine ends the song, + That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. + Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know + What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; + And praise the easy vigour of a line, + Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. + True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. + As those move easiest who have learned to dance. + 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, + The sound must seem an echo to the sense. + Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, + And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; + But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, + The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. + When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, + The line too labours, and the words move slow; + Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. + Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, + And bid alternate passions fall and rise! + While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove + Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; + Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, + Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: + Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, + And the world's victor stood subdued by sound! + The power of music all our hearts allow, + And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. + + Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such, + Who still are pleased too little or too much. + At every trifle scorn to take offence, + That always shows great pride, or little sense; + Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, + Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. + Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; + For fools admire, but men of sense approve: + As things seem large which we through mists descry, + Dulness is ever apt to magnify. + + Some foreign writers, some our own despise; + The ancients only, or the moderns prize. + Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied + To one small sect, and all are damned beside. + Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, + And force that sun but on a part to shine, + Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, + But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; + Which from the first has shone on ages past, + Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; + Though each may feel increases and decays, + And see now clearer and now darker days. + Regard not, then, if wit be old or new, + But blame the false, and value still the true. + + Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, + But catch the spreading notion of the town; + They reason and conclude by precedent, + And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. + Some judge of author's names, not works, and then + Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. + Of all this servile herd, the worst is he + That in proud dulness joins with Quality. + A constant critic at the great man's board, + To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord. + What woful stuff this madrigal would be, + In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me? + But let a Lord once own the happy lines, + How the wit brightens! how the style refines! + Before his sacred name flies every fault, + And each exalted stanza teems with thought! + + * * * * * + + Learn then what morals critics ought to show, + For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know, + 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join; + In all you speak, let truth and candour shine: + That not alone what to your sense is due + All may allow; but seek your friendship too. + + Be silent always when you doubt your sense; + And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: + Some positive, persisting fops we know, + Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; + But you, with pleasure own your errors past, + And make each day a critic on the last. + + 'Tis not enough, your counsel still be true; + Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; + Men must be taught as if you taught them not, + And things unknown proposed as things forgot. + Without good breeding, truth is disapproved; + That only makes superior sense beloved. + + * * * * * + + The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, + With loads of learnèd lumber in his head, + With his own tongue still edifies his ears, + And always listening to himself appears. + All books he reads, and all he reads assails, + From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. + With him, most authors steal their works, or buy; + Garth did not write his own Dispensary. + Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, + Nay, showed his faults--but when would poets mend? + No place so sacred from such fops is barred, + Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: + Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead: + For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. + Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, + It still looks home, and short excursions makes; + But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, + And never shocked, and never turned aside, + Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide. + + But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, + Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? + Unbiassed, or by favour, or by spite; + Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right; + Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere, + Modestly bold, and humanly severe: + Who to a friend his faults can freely show, + And gladly praise the merit of a foe? + Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined; + A knowledge both of books and human kind: + Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride; + And love to praise, with reason on his side? + + + THE RAPE OF THE LOCK + + AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM + + CANTO II + + Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, + The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, + Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams + Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. + Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around her shone, + But every eye was fixed on her alone. + On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, + Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. + Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, + Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; + Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; + Oft she rejects, but never once offends. + Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, + And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. + Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, + Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide; + If to her share some female errors fall, + Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. + + This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, + Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind + In equal curls, and well conspired to deck + With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. + Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, + And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. + With hairy springes, we the birds betray, + Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, + Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, + And beauty draws us with a single hair. + + Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired; + He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. + Resolved to win, he meditates the way, + By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; + For when success a lover's toil attends, + Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. + + For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored + Propitious Heaven, and every power adored, + But chiefly Love; to Love an altar built, + Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. + There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, + And all the trophies of his former loves; + With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre, + And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. + Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes + Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. + The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer; + The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. + + But now secure the painted vessel glides, + The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides; + While melting music steals upon the sky, + And softened sounds along the waters die; + Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, + Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. + All but the sylph--with careful thoughts oppressed, + Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. + He summons straight his denizens of air; + The lucid squadrons around the sails repair; + Soft o'er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe, + That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. + Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, + Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; + Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, + Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. + Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, + Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, + Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, + Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, + While every beam new transient colours flings, + Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. + Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, + Superior by the head, was Ariel placed; + His purple pinions opening to the sun, + He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: + + 'Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear! + Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear! + Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assigned + By laws eternal to th' aërial kind. + Some in the fields of purest aether play, + And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. + Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, + Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. + Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale light + Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, + Or suck the mists in grosser air below, + Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, + Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, + Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain; + Others on earth o'er human race preside, + Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: + Of these the chief the care of nations own, + And guard with arms divine the British throne. + + 'Our humbler province is to tend the fair, + Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care; + To save the powder from too rude a gale, + Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale; + To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers; + To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, + A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, + Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; + Nay, oft in dreams, invention we bestow, + To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. + + 'This day, black omens threat the brightest fair + That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; + Some dire disaster, or by force, or sleight; + But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in night. + Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, + Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; + Or stain her honour, or her new brocade; + Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; + Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; + Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must fall. + Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair; + The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; + The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; + And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; + Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock; + Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. + To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, + We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: + Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail, + Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale; + Form a strong line about the silver bound, + And guard the wide circumference around. + + 'Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, + His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, + Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, + Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; + Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, + Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye; + Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, + While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; + Or alum styptics with contracting power + Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled flower; + Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel + The giddy motion of the whirling mill, + In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, + And tremble at the sea that froths below!' + + He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend; + Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; + Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; + Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; + With beating hearts the dire event they wait, + Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. + + CANTO III + + Close by those meads, forever crowned with flowers, + Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, + There stands a structure of majestic frame, + Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name. + Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom + Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; + Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, + Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea. + + Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, + To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; + In various talk th' instructive hours they passed, + Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; + One speaks the glory of the British Queen, + And one describes a charming Indian screen; + A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; + At every word a reputation dies. + Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, + With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. + Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, + The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; + The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, + And wretches hang that jurymen may dine; + The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace, + And the long labours of the toilet cease. + Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, + Burns to encounter two adventurous knights, + At ombre singly to decide their doom; + And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. + Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, + Each band the number of the sacred nine. + Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aërial guard + Descend, and sit on each important card: + First, Ariel perched upon a Matadore, + Then each, according to the rank they bore; + For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, + Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. + + Behold, four kings in majesty revered, + With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; + And four fair queens whose hands sustain a flower, + Th' expressive emblem of their softer power; + Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, + Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand; + And parti-coloured troops, a shining train, + Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. + + The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: + Let spades be trumps! she said, and trumps they were. + + Now moved to war her sable Matadores, + In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. + Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! + Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. + As many more Manillio forced to yield + And marched a victor from the verdant field. + Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard + Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. + With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, + The hoary Majesty of Spades appears, + Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed, + The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed. + The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, + Proves the just victim of his royal rage. + Even mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew, + And mowed down armies in the fights of Loo, + Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, + Falls undistinguished by the victor spade! + + Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; + Now to the baron fate inclines the field. + His warlike Amazon her host invades, + The imperial consort of the crown of spades; + The club's black tyrant first her victim died, + Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride. + What boots the regal circle on his head, + His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; + That long behind he trails his pompous robe, + And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? + + The baron now his diamonds pours apace; + Th' embroidered king who shows but half his face, + And his refulgent queen, with powers combined, + Of broken troops an easy conquest find. + Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, + With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. + Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, + Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, + With like confusion different nations fly, + Of various habit, and of various dye, + The pierced battalions disunited fall, + In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. + + The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, + And wins (oh shameful chance!) the queen of hearts. + At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, + A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; + She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, + Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. + And now (as oft in some distempered state) + On one nice trick depends the general fate. + An ace of hearts steps forth; the king unseen + Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive queen: + He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, + And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. + The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; + The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. + + Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, + Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. + Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away, + And cursed forever this victorious day. + + For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned, + The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; + On shining altars of Japan they raise + The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze; + From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, + While China's earth receives the smoking tide: + At once they gratify their scent and taste, + And frequent cups, prolong the rich repast. + Straight hover round the fair her airy band; + Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned, + Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, + Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. + Coffee (which makes the politician wise, + And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) + Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain + New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. + Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, + Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! + Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, + She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! + + But when to mischief mortals bend their will, + How soon they find fit instruments of ill! + Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace + A two-edged weapon from her shining case: + So ladies in romance assist their knight, + Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. + He takes the gift with reverence, and extends + The little engine on his fingers' ends; + This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, + As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. + Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, + A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; + And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear; + Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near. + Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought + The close recesses of the virgin's thought; + As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, + He watched th' ideas rising in her mind, + Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, + An earthly lover lurking at her heart. + Amazed, confused, he found his power expired, + Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. + + The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, + T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. + E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, + A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; + Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain + (But airy substance soon unites again). + The meeting points the sacred hair dissever + From the fair head, forever, and forever! + + Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, + And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. + Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast, + When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their last; + Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high, + In glittering dust and painted fragments lie! + + 'Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,' + The victor cried; 'the glorious prize is mine! + While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, + Or in a coach and six the British fair, + As long as Atalantis shall be read, + Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, + While visits shall be paid on solemn days, + When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze, + While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, + So long my honour, name, and praise shall live! + What Time would spare, from steel receives its date, + And monuments, like men, submit to fate! + Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, + And strike to dust th' imperial towers of Troy; + Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, + And hew triumphal arches to the ground. + What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel, + The conquering force of unresisted steel?' + + + FROM TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD + + [THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE] + + 'How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, + And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, + Attaint the lustre of my former name, + Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? + My early youth was bred to martial pains, + My soul impels me to th' embattled plains: + Let me be foremost to defend the throne, + And guard my father's glories and my own. + Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates, + (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) + The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, + And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. + And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, + My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, + Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore, + Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, + As thine, Andromache! Thy griefs I dread: + I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, + In Argive looms our battles to design, + And woes of which so large a part was thine! + To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring + The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring! + There, while you groan beneath the load of life, + They cry, "Behold the mighty Hector's wife!" + Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, + Embitters all thy woes by naming me. + The thoughts of glory past and present shame, + A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name! + May I lie cold before that dreadful day, + Pressed with a load of monumental clay! + Thy Hector, wrapped, in everlasting sleep, + Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.' + + Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy + Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. + The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, + Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. + With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, + And Hector hasted to relieve his child; + The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, + And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. + Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, + Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer: + + 'O thou! whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, + And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! + Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, + To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, + Against his country's foes the war to wage, + And rise the Hector of the future age! + So when, triumphant from successful toils, + Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, + Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, + And say, "This chief transcends his father's fame": + While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, + His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy.' + + He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, + Restored the pleasing burthen to her arms; + Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, + Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed. + The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, + She mingled with the smile a tender tear. + The softened chief with kind compassion viewed, + And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued: + + 'Andromache! my soul's far better part, + Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? + No hostile hand can antedate my doom, + Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. + Fixed is the term to all the race of earth, + And such the hard condition of our birth. + No force can then resist, no flight can save: + All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. + No more--but hasten to thy tasks at home, + There guide the spindle, and direct the loom; + Me glory summons to the martial scene, + The field of combat is the sphere for men. + Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, + The first in danger as the first in fame.' + + + From AN ESSAY ON MAN + + OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN, WITH RESPECT TO THE UNIVERSE + + Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things + To low ambition, and the pride of kings. + Let us (since life can little more supply + Than just to look about us, and to die) + Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; + A mighty maze! but not without a plan; + A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot; + Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. + Together let us beat this ample field, + Try what the open, what the covert yield; + The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore + Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; + Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, + And catch the manners living as they rise; + Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, + But vindicate the ways of God to man. + + I. + + Say first, of God above, or man below, + What can we reason, but from what we know? + Of man, what see we but his station here + From which to reason or to which refer? + Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known, + 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. + He, who through vast immensity can pierce, + See worlds on worlds compose one universe, + Observe how system into system runs. + What other planets circle other suns, + What varied being peoples every star, + May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. + But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, + The strong connections, nice dependencies, + Gradations just, has thy pervading soul + Looked through? or can a part contain the whole? + + Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, + And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee? + + II. + + Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find, + Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind? + First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, + Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less? + Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made + Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? + Or ask of yonder argent fields above, + Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. + + Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed + That wisdom infinite must form the best, + Where all must full or not coherent be, + And all that rises, rise in due degree; + Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain, + There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man: + And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) + Is only this, if God has placed him wrong? + + Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, + May, must be right, as relative to all. + In human works, though laboured on with pain, + A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; + In God's, one single can its end produce; + Yet serves to second too some other use. + So man, who here seems principal alone, + Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, + Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; + 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. + + When the proud steed shall know why man restrains + His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; + When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, + Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god: + Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend + His actions', passions', being's, use and end; + Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled; and why + This hour a slave, the next a deity. + + Then say not man's imperfect, Heaven in fault; + Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: + His knowledge measured to his state and place, + His time a moment, and a point his space. + If to be perfect In a certain sphere, + What matter, soon or late, or here or there? + The blest to-day is as completely so, + As who began a thousand years ago. + + III. + + Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, + All but the page prescribed, their present state: + From brutes what men, from men what spirits know + Or who could suffer being here below? + The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, + Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? + Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, + And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. + Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given, + That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven: + Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, + A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, + Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, + And now a bubble burst, and now a world. + + Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; + Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. + What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, + But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. + Hope springs eternal in the human breast: + Man never is, but always to be blessed. + The soul, uneasy and confined from home, + Bests and expatiates in a life to come. + + Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind + Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; + His soul, proud science never taught to stray + Far as the solar walk, or milky way; + Yet simple nature to his hope has given, + Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler Heaven; + Some safer world in depths of woods embraced, + Some happier island in the watery waste, + Where slaves once more their native land behold, + No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. + To be, contents his natural desire, + He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; + But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, + His faithful dog shall bear him company. + + IV. + + Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense + Weigh thy opinion against Providence; + Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, + Say, 'Here he gives too little, there too much;' + Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, + Yet cry, 'If man's unhappy, God's unjust;' + If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, + Alone made perfect here, immortal there, + Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, + Bejudge his justice, be the god of God. + In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; + All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. + Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, + Men would be angels, angels would be gods. + Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, + Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: + And who but wishes to invert the laws + Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause. + + V. + Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, + Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ''Tis for mine: + For me kind nature wakes her genial power, + Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower; + Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew + The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; + For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; + For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; + Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; + My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.' + But errs not Nature from this gracious end, + From burning suns when livid deaths descend, + When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep + Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? + 'No ('tis replied), the first Almighty Cause + Acts not by partial, but by general laws; + Th' exceptions few; some change, since all began: + And what created perfect?' Why then man? + If the great end be human happiness, + Then nature deviates; and can man do less? + As much that end a constant course requires + Of showers and sunshine, as of man's desires; + As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, + As men forever temperate, calm, and wise. + If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's design, + Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? + Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning forms, + Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms; + Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind, + Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? + From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs. + Account for moral, as for natural things: + Why charge we Heaven in those, in these acquit? + In both, to reason right is to submit. + Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, + Were there all harmony, all virtue here; + That never air or ocean felt the wind; + That never passion discomposed the mind. + But all subsists by elemental strife; + And passions are the elements of life. + The general order, since the whole began, + Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. + + VI. + What would this man? Now upward will he soar, + And little less than angel, would he more; + Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears + To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. + Made for his use all creatures if he call, + Say what their use, had he the powers of all? + Nature to these, without profusion, kind, + The proper organs, proper powers assigned; + Each seeming want compensated of course, + Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; + All in exact proportion to the state; + Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. + Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: + Is Heaven unkind to man, and man alone? + Shall he alone, whom rational we call, + Be pleased with nothing, if not blessed with all? + The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) + Is not to act or think beyond mankind; + No powers of body or of soul to share, + But what his nature and his state can bear. + Why has not man a microscopic eye? + For this plain reason, man is not a fly. + Say what the use, were finer optics given, + T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? + Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, + To smart and agonize at every pore? + Or quick effluvia darting through the brain, + Die of a rose in aromatic pain? + If nature thundered in his opening ears, + And stunned him with the music of the spheres, + How would he wish that Heaven had left him still + The whispering zephyr, and the purling rill? + Who finds not Providence all good and wise, + Alike in what it gives and what denies? + + VII. + Far as creation's ample range extends, + The scale of sensual, mental power ascends. + Mark how it mounts, to man's imperial race, + From the green myriads in the peopled grass: + What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, + The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: + Of smell, the headlong lioness between + And hound sagacious on the tainted green: + Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, + To that which warbles through the vernal wood: + The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! + Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: + In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true + From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew? + How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, + Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine! + 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier, + Forever separate, yet forever near! + Remembrance and reflection how allied; + What thin partitions sense from thought divide: + And middle natures, how they long to join, + Yet never pass th' insuperable line! + Without this just gradation, could they be + Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? + The powers of all subdued by thee alone, + Is not thy reason all these powers in one? + + VIII. + See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth + All matter quick, and bursting into birth. + Above, how high, progressive life may go! + Around, how wide! how deep extend below! + Vast chain of being! which from God began, + Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, + Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, + No glass can reach; from infinite to thee, + From thee to nothing.--On superior powers + Were we to pass, Inferior might on ours; + Or in the full creation leave a void, + Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed: + From nature's chain whatever link you strike, + Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. + And, if each system in gradation roll + Alike essential to th' amazing whole, + The least confusion but in one, not all + That system only, but the whole must fall. + Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly, + Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; + Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, + Being on being wrecked, and world on world; + Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, + And nature tremble to the throne of God. + All this dread order break--for whom? for thee? + Vile worm!--Oh, madness! pride! impiety! + + IX. + What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, + Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head? + What if the head, the eye, or ear repined + To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? + Just as absurd for any part to claim + To be another, in this general frame; + Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, + The great directing Mind of all ordains. + All are but parts of one stupendous whole, + Whose body nature is, and God the soul; + That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; + Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; + Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, + Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, + Lives through all life, extends through all extent, + Spreads undivided, operates unspent; + Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, + As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; + As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, + As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: + To him no high, no low, no great, no small; + He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. + + X. + Cease then, nor order imperfection name: + Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. + Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree + Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. + Submit.--In this, or any other sphere, + Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: + Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, + Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. + All nature is but art, unknown to thee; + All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; + All discord, harmony not understood; + All partial evil, universal good: + And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, + One truth is clear, _Whatever is, is right_. + + + [MAN'S POWERS AND FRAILTIES] + + Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; + The proper study of mankind is Man. + Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, + A being darkly wise, and rudely great: + With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, + With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, + He hangs between; in doubt to act or rest, + In doubt to deem himself a god or beast; + In doubt his mind or body to prefer, + Born but to die, and reasoning but to err; + Alike in ignorance, his reason such + Whether he thinks too little or too much: + Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; + Still by himself abused, or disabused; + Created half to rise, and half to fall; + Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; + Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled: + The glory, jest, and riddle of the world! + + + [VIRTUE AND HAPPINESS] + + Oh blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, + Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe! + Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, + Best knows the blessing, and will most be blessed. + But fools, the good alone unhappy call, + For ills or accidents that chance to all. + See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just! + See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust! + See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife! + Was this their virtue, or contempt of life? + Say, was it virtue, more though Heaven ne'er gave, + Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave? + Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, + Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire? + Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath, + When nature sickened, and each gale was death? + Or why so long (in life if long can be) + Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me? + What makes all physical or moral ill? + There deviates nature, and here wanders will. + God sends not ill; if rightly understood, + Or partial ill is universal good. + Or change admits, or nature lets it fall, + Short, and but rare, till man improved it all. + We just as wisely might of Heaven complain + That righteous Abel was destroyed by Cain, + As that the virtuous son is ill at ease, + When his lewd father gave the dire disease. + Think we, like some weak prince, th' Eternal Cause + Prone for his favourites to reverse his laws? + Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires, + Forget to thunder, and recall her fires? + On air or sea new motions be impressed, + Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast? + When the loose mountain trembles from on high, + Shall gravitation cease, if you go by? + Or some old temple, nodding to its fall, + For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall? + But still this world (so fitted for the knave) + Contents us not. A better shall we have? + A kingdom of the just then let it be: + But first consider how those just agree. + The good must merit God's peculiar care; + But who, but God, can tell us who they are? + One thinks on Calvin Heaven's own spirit fell; + Another deems him instrument of hell; + If Calvin feel Heaven's blessing, or its rod. + This cries, there is, and that, there is no God. + What shocks one part will edify the rest, + Nor with one system can they all he blessed. + The very best will variously incline, + And what rewards your virtue, punish mine. + _Whatever is, is right_.--This world 'tis true + Was made for Caesar--but for Titus too. + And which more blessed? who chained his country, say, + Or he whose virtue sighed to lose a day? + 'But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed,' + What then? Is the reward of virtue bread? + That, vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil; + The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil, + The knave deserves it when he tempts the main, + Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. + The good man may be weak, be indolent: + Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. + But grant him riches, your demand is o'er; + 'No--shall the good want health, the good want power?' + Add health, and power, and every earthly thing. + 'Why bounded power? why private? why no king?' + Nay, why external for internal given? + Why is not man a god, and earth a Heaven? + Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive + God gives enough, while he has more to give: + Immense the power, immense were the demand; + Say, at what part of nature will they stand? + What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, + The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, + Is virtue's prize: A better would you fix? + Then give humility a coach and six, + Justice a conqueror's sword, or truth a gown, + Or public spirit its great cure, a crown. + Weak, foolish man! will Heaven reward us there + With the same trash mad mortals wish for here? + The boy and man an individual makes, + Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes? + Go, like the Indian, in another life + Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife, + As well as dream such trifles are assigned, + As toys and empires, for a god-like mind. + Rewards, that either would to virtue bring + No joy, or be destructive of the thing: + How oft by these at sixty are undone + The virtues of a saint at twenty-one! + To whom can riches give repute, or trust, + Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? + Judges and senates have been bought for gold, + Esteem and love were never to be sold. + Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, + The lover and the love of human-kind, + Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, + Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. + Honour and shame from no condition rise; + Act well your part, there all the honour lies. + Fortune in men has some small difference made, + One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; + The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, + The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. + 'What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?' + I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool. + You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, + Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, + Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow, + The rest is all but leather or prunella. + + * * * * * + + God loves from whole to parts; but human soul + Must rise from individual to whole. + Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, + As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; + The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, + Another still, and still another spreads; + Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; + His country next; and next all human race; + Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind + Take every creature in, of every kind; + Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blessed, + And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. + Come then, my friend! my Genius! come along; + Oh master of the poet, and the song! + And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, + To man's low passions, or their glorious ends, + Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, + To fall with dignity, with temper rise; + Formed by thy converse, happily to steer + From grave to gay, from lively to severe; + Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, + Intent to reason, or polite to please. + Oh! while along the stream of time thy name + Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, + Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, + Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? + When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, + Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, + Shall then this verse to future age pretend + Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? + That urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art + From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; + For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; + Shewed erring pride, _Whatever is, is right;_ + That reason, passion, answer one great aim; + That true self-love and social are the same; + That virtue only, makes our bliss below; + And all our knowledge is, _ourselves to know_. + + + FROM MORAL ESSAYS + + OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN + + Nothing so true as what you once let fall, + 'Most women have no characters at all.' + Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, + And best distinguished by black, brown, or fair. + How many pictures of one nymph we view, + All how unlike each other, all how true! + Arcadia's countess, here in ermined pride, + Is there Pastora by a fountain side; + Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, + And there, a naked Leda with a swan. + Let then the fair one beautifully cry, + In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye, + Or dressed in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine, + With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine; + Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, + If folly grow romantic, I must paint it. + + * * * * * + + Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray; + To toast our wants and wishes, is her way; + Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give + The mighty blessing, 'while we live, to live.' + Then for all death, that opiate of the soul! + Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl. + Say, what can cause such impotence of mind? + A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind. + Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please; + With too much spirit to be e'er at ease; + With too much quickness ever to be taught; + With too much thinking to have common thought: + You purchase pain with all that joy can give, + And die of nothing but a rage to live. + Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's mate, + No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate; + Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends, + Because she's honest, and the best of friends; + Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share, + Forever in a passion, or a prayer; + Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace) + Cries, 'Ah! how charming, if there's no such place!' + Or who in sweet vicissitude appears + Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears, + The daily anodyne, and nightly draught, + To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought. + Woman and fool are two hard things to hit; + For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. + But what are these to great Atossa's mind? + Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind! + Who, with herself, or others, from her birth + Finds all her life one warfare upon earth; + Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools, + Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules. + No thought advances, but her eddy brain + Whisks it about, and down it goes again. + Full sixty years the world has been her trade, + The wisest fool much time has ever made. + From loveless youth to unrespected age, + No passion gratified except her rage. + So much the fury still outran the wit, + The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit. + Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell, + But he's a bolder man who dares be well. + Her every turn with violence pursued, + Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude: + To that each passion turns, or soon or late; + Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate: + Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse! + But an inferior not dependent? worse. + Offend her, and she knows not to forgive; + Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live; + But die, and she'll adore you--then the bust + And temple rise--then fall again to dust. + Last night, her lord was all that's good and great; + A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. + Strange! by the means defeated of the ends, + By spirit robbed of power, by warmth of friends, + By wealth of followers! without one distress, + Sick of herself through very selfishness! + Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer, + Childless with all her children, wants an heir. + To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store, + Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor. + Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design, + Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line; + Some wandering touches, some reflected light, + Some flying stroke alone can hit them right: + For how should equal colours do the knack? + Chameleons who can paint in white and black? + 'Yet Chloe sure was formed without a spot'-- + Nature in her then erred not, but forgot. + 'With every pleasing, every prudent part, + Say, what can Chloe want?'--She wants a heart. + She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; + But never, never, reached one generous thought. + Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, + Content to dwell in decencies forever. + So very reasonable, so unmoved, + As never yet to love, or to be loved. + She, while her lover pants upon her breast, + Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; + And when she sees her friend in deep despair, + Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. + Forbid it Heaven, a favour or a debt + She e'er should cancel--but she may forget. + Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear; + But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear. + Of all her dears she never slandered one, + But cares not if a thousand are undone. + Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead? + She bids her footman put it in her head. + Chloe is prudent--would you too be wise? + Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. + + * * * * * + + But grant in public men sometimes are shown, + A woman's seen in private life alone: + Our bolder talents in full light displayed; + Your virtues open fairest in the shade, + Bred to disguise, in public 'tis you hide; + There none distinguish 'twixt your shame or pride, + Weakness or delicacy, all so nice, + That each may seem a virtue or a vice. + In men, we various ruling passions find; + In women two almost divide the kind; + Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, + The love of pleasure, and the love of sway. + + * * * * * + + Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue, + Still out of reach, yet never out of view; + Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most, + To covet flying, and regret when lost: + At last, to follies youth could scarce defend, + It grows their age's prudence to pretend; + Ashamed to own they gave delight before, + Reduced to feign it, when they give no more: + As hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spite, + So these their merry, miserable night; + Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide, + And haunt the places where their honour died. + See how the world its veterans rewards! + A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; + Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, + Young without lovers, old without a friend; + A fop their passion, but their prize a sot; + Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot! + Ah! Friend! to dazzle let the vain design; + To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine! + That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring + Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing: + So when the sun's broad beam has tired the sight, + All mild ascends the moon's more sober light, + Serene in virgin modesty she shines, + And unobserved the glaring orb declines. + Oh! blest with temper whose unclouded ray + Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day; + She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear + Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; + She, who ne'er answers till a husband cools, + Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; + Charms by accepting, by submitting, sways, + Yet has her humour most, when she obeys; + Let fops or fortune fly which way they will; + Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille; + Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all, + And mistress of herself, though china fall. + And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, + Woman's at best a contradiction still. + Heaven, when it strives to polish all it can + Its last best work, but forms a softer man; + Picks from each sex, to make the favourite blest, + Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest: + Blends, in exception to all general rules, + Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools: + Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied, + Courage with softness, modesty with pride; + Fixed principles, with fancy ever new; + Shakes all together, and produces--You. + + + FROM EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT + + _P_. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said; + Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. + The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, + All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: + Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, + They rave, recite, and madden round the land. + What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? + They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; + By land, by water, they renew the charge; + They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. + No place is sacred, not the church is free; + E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me: + Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, + Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. + Is there a parson, much demused in beer, + A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, + A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, + Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? + Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls + With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? + All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain + Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. + Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, + Imputes to me and my damned works the cause; + Poor Comus sees his frantic wife elope, + And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. + Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, + The world had wanted many an idle song) + What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? + Or which must-end me, a fool's wrath or love? + A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped: + If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. + Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! + Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. + To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, + And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. + I sit with sad civility, I read + With honest anguish, and an aching head; + And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, + This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' + 'Nine years!' cries he, who high in Drury Lane, + Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, + Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, + Obliged by hunger, and request of friends: + 'The piece, you think, it incorrect? why, take it, + I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it.' + Three things another's modest wishes bound, + My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. + Pitholeon sends to me: 'You know his Grace, + I want a patron; ask him for a place.' + 'Pitholeon libelled me'--'But here's a letter + Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. + Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, + He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.' + Bless me! a packet.--''Tis a stranger sues, + A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse.' + If I dislike it, 'Furies, death, and rage!' + If I approve, 'Commend it to the stage.' + There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, + The players and I are, luckily, no friends. + Fired that the house reject him, ''Sdeath I'll print it, + And shame the fools--Your interest, sir, with Lintot!' + 'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:' + 'Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.' + All my demurs but double his attacks; + At last he whispers, 'Do; and we go snacks.' + Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door; + 'Sir, let me see your works and you no more.' + + * * * * * + + There are, who to my person pay their court: + I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short, + Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, + Such Ovid's nose, and 'Sir! you have an eye'-- + Go on, obliging creatures, make me see + All that disgraced my betters, met in me. + Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, + 'Just so immortal Maro held his head:' + And when I die, be sure you let me know + Great Homer died three thousand years ago. + Why did I write? what sin to me unknown + Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own? + As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, + I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. + I left no calling for this idle trade, + No duty broke, no father disobeyed. + The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, + To help me through this long disease, my life, + To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, + And teach the being you preserved, to bear. + But why then publish? Granville the polite, + And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; + Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, + And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; + The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; + Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, + And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) + With open arms received one poet more. + Happy my studies, when by these approved! + Happier their author, when by these beloved! + From these the world will judge of men and books, + Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes. + Soft were my numbers; who could take offence + While pure description held the place of sense? + Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, + A painted mistress, or a purling stream. + Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;-- + I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. + Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; + I never answered--I was not in debt. + If want provoked, or madness made them print, + I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. + Did some more sober critic come aboard; + If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. + Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, + And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. + Commas and points they set exactly right, + And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite; + Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, + From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds. + Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, + Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, + Even such small critics some regard may claim, + Preserved in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. + Pretty! in amber to observe the forms + Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! + The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, + But wonder how the devil they got there. + Were others angry: I excused them too; + Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. + A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; + But each man's secret standard in his mind,-- + That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,-- + This, who can gratify? for who can guess? + The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown, + Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, + Just writes to make his barrenness appear, + And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; + He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, + Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; + And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, + Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; + And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, + It is not poetry, but prose run mad: + All these, my modest satire bade translate, + And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. + How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! + And swear, not Addison himself was safe. + Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires + True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; + Blessed with each talent and each art to please, + And born to write, converse, and live with ease: + Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, + Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, + View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, + And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; + Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, + And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; + Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, + Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; + Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, + A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; + Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, + And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; + Like Cato, give his little senate laws, + And sit attentive to his own applause; + While wits and Templars every sentence raise, + And wonder with a foolish face of praise-- + Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? + Who would not weep, if Atticus were he! + + * * * * * + + Oh, let me live my own, and die so too! + (To live and die is all I have to do:) + Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, + And see what friends, and read what books I please; + Above a patron, though I condescend + Sometimes to call a minister my friend. + I was not born for courts or great affairs; + I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; + Can sleep without a poem in my head, + Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. + Why am I asked what next shall see the light? + Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? + Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) + Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? + 'I found him close with Swift.'--'Indeed? no doubt,' + Cries prating Balbus, 'something will come out.' + 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. + 'No, such a genius never can lie still;' + And then for mine obligingly mistakes + The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. + Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, + When every coxcomb knows me by my style? + Cursed be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, + That tends to make one worthy man my foe, + Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, + Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear! + But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, + Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress; + Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about; + Who writes a libel, or who copies out; + That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, + Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame; + Who can your merit selfishly approve, + And show the sense of it without the love; + Who has the vanity to call you friend, + Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend; + Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, + And, if he lie not, must at least betray; + Who to the Dean and silver bell can swear, + And sees at Canons what was never there; + Who reads, but with a lust to misapply, + Make satire a lampoon, and fiction, lie: + A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, + But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. + + * * * * * + + Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, + While yet in Britain honour had applause) + Each parent sprung---_A._ What fortune, pray?-- + _P._ Their own, + And better got, than Bestia's from the throne. + Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, + Nor marrying discord in a noble wife, + Stranger to civil and religious rage, + The good man walked innoxious through his age. + No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, + Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. + Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, + No language, but the language of the heart. + By nature honest, by experience wise, + Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; + His life, though long, to sickness passed unknown, + His death was instant, and without a groan. + O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! + Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. + O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! + Be no unpleasing melancholy mine: + Me, let the tender office long engage, + To rock the cradle of reposing age, + With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, + Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, + Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, + And keep awhile one parent from the sky! + On cares like these if length of days attend, + May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, + Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, + And just as rich as when he served a queen. + _A._ Whether that blessing be denied or given, + Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven. + + + FROM THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED + + [To GEORGE II: ON THE STATE OF LITERATURE] + + To thee, the world its present homage pays + The harvest early, but mature the praise: + Great friend of liberty! in kings a name + Above all Greek, above all Roman fame: + Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered, + As Heaven's own oracles from altars heard. + Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes + None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise. + + Just in one instance, be it yet confessed, + Your people, Sir, are partial in the rest: + Foes to all living worth except your own, + And advocates for folly dead and gone. + Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; + It is the rust we value, not the gold. + Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learned by rote, + And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote: + One likes no language but the Faery Queen; + A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green; + And each true Briton is to Ben so civil, + He swears the muses met him at the Devil. + Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires, + Why should not we be wiser than our sires? + In every public virtue we excel, + We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well. + And learned Athens to our art must stoop, + Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop. + If time improves our wit as well as wine, + Say at what age a poet grows divine? + Shall we, or shall we not, account him so, + Who died, perhaps, a hundred years ago? + End all dispute; and fix the year precise + When British bards begin t' immortalize? + 'Who lasts a century can have no flaw, + I hold that wit a classic, good in law.' + Suppose he wants a year, will you compound? + And shall we deem him ancient, right and sound, + Or damn to all eternity at once, + At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce? + 'We shall not quarrel for a year or two; + By courtesy of England, he may do.' + Then, by the rule that made the horse-tail bare, + I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair, + And melt down ancients like a heap of snow: + While you, to measure merits, look in Stowe, + And estimating authors by the year, + Bestow a garland only on a bier. + Shakespeare, (whom you and every play-house bill + Style the divine, the matchless, what you will,) + For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, + And grew immortal in his own despite. + Ben, old and poor, as little seemed to heed + The life to come, in every poet's creed. + Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet, + His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; + Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art, + But still I love the language of his heart. + 'Yet surely, surely, these were famous men! + What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben? + In all debates where critics bear a part, + Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson's art, + Of Shakespeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit; + How Beaumont's judgment checked what Fletcher writ; + How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow; + But, for the passions, Southern sure and Rowe. + These, only these, support the crowded stage, + From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age.' + All this may be; the people's voice is odd, + It is, and it is not, the voice of God. + To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, + And yet deny the Careless Husband praise, + Or say our fathers never broke a rule; + Why then, I say, the public is a fool. + But let them own, that greater faults than we + They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree. + Spenser himself affects the obsolete, + And Sidney's verse halts ill on Roman feet: + Milton's strong pinion now not heaven can bound, + Now serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground, + In quibbles angel and archangel join, + And God the Father turns a school-divine. + Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book, + Like slashing Bentley with his desperate hook, + Or damn all Shakespeare, like th' affected fool + At court, who hates whate'er he read at school. + But for the wits of either Charles's days, + The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease; + Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more, + (Like twinkling stars the Miscellanies o'er,) + One simile, that solitary shines + In the dry desert of a thousand lines, + Or lengthened thought that gleams through many a page, + Has sanctified whole poems for an age. + I lose my patience, and I owe it too, + When works are censured, not as bad but new; + While if our elders break all reason's laws, + These fools demand not pardon, but applause. + On Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow, + If I but ask, if any weed can grow; + One tragic sentence if I dare deride + Which Betterton's grave action dignified, + Or well-mouthed Booth with emphasis proclaims, + (Though but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names,) + How will our fathers rise up in a rage, + And swear all shame is lost in George's age! + You'd think no fools disgraced the former reign, + Did not some grave examples yet remain, + Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill, + And, having once been wrong, will be so still. + He, who to seem more deep than you or I, + Extols old bards, or Merlin's prophecy, + Mistake him not; he envies, not admires, + And to debase the sons, exalts the sires. + Had ancient times conspired to disallow + What then was new, what had been ancient now? + Or what remained, so worthy to be read + By learned critics, of the mighty dead? + + * * * * * + + Time was, a sober Englishman would knock + His servants up, and rise by five o'clock, + Instruct his family in every rule, + And send his wife to church, his son to school. + To worship like his fathers, was his care; + To teach their frugal virtues to his heir; + To prove that luxury could never hold; + And place, on good security, his gold. + Now times are changed, and one poetic itch + Has seized the court and city, poor and rich: + Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, + Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays, + To theatres, and to rehearsals throng, + And all our grace at table is a song. + I, who so oft renounce the muses, lie, + Not ----'s self e'er tells more fibs than I; + When sick of Muse, our follies we deplore, + And promise our best friends to rhyme no more; + We wake next morning in a raging fit, + And call for pen and ink to show our wit. + He served a prenticeship, who sets up shop; + Ward tried on puppies, and the poor, his drop; + Even Radcliffe's doctors travel first to France, + Nor dare to practise till they've learned to dance. + Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile? + (Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile;) + But those who cannot write, and those who can, + All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man. + Yet, Sir, reflect, the mischief is not great; + These madmen never hurt the church or state: + Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; + And rarely avarice taints the tuneful mind. + Allow him but his plaything of a pen, + He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men: + Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind; + And knows no losses while the Muse is kind. + To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter, + The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, + Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; + And then--a perfect hermit in his diet. + Of little use the man you may suppose + Who says in verse what others say in prose; + Yet let me show, a poet's of some weight, + And (though no soldier) useful to the state. + What will a child learn sooner than a song? + What better teach a foreigner the tongue? + What's long or short, each accent where to place, + And speak in public with some sort of grace? + I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, + Unless he praise some monster of a king; + Or virtue, or religion turn to sport, + To please a lewd, or unbelieving Court. + Unhappy Dryden!--In all Charles's days, + Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays; + And in our own (excuse some courtly stains) + No whiter page than Addison remains. + He, from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, + And sets the passions on the side of truth, + Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, + And pours each human virtue in the heart. + Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause, + Her trade supported, and supplied her laws; + And leave on Swift this grateful verse engraved, + 'The rights a court attacked, a poet saved.' + Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, + Stretched to relieve the idiot and the poor, + Proud vice to brand, or injured worth adorn, + And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn. + Not but there are, who merit other palms; + Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms: + The boys and girls whom charity maintains, + Implore your help in these pathetic strains: + How could devotion touch the country pews, + Unless the Gods bestowed a proper Muse? + Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work, + Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk, + The silenced preacher yields to potent strain, + And feels that grace his prayer besought in vain; + The blessing thrills through all the labouring throng, + And Heaven is won by violence of song. + Our rural ancestors, with little blessed, + Patient of labour when the end was rest, + Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, + With feasts, and offerings, and a thankful strain: + The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share, + Ease of their toil, and partners of their care: + The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl, + Smoothed every brow, and opened every soul: + With growing years the pleasing licence grew, + And taunts alternate innocently flew. + But times corrupt, and nature, ill-inclined, + Produced the point that left a sting behind; + Till friend with friend, and families at strife, + Triumphant malice raged through private life. + Who felt the wrong, or feared it, took th' alarm, + Appealed to law, and justice lent her arm. + At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound, + The poets learned to please, and not to wound: + Most warped to flattery's side; but some, more nice, + Preserved the freedom, and forbore the vice. + Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit, + And heals with morals what it hurts with wit. + We conquered France, but felt our captive's charms; + Her arts victorious triumphed o'er our arms; + Britain to soft refinements less a foe, + Wit grew polite, and numbers learned to flow. + Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join + The varying verse, the full-resounding line, + The long majestic march, and energy divine. + Though still some traces of our rustic vein, + And splay-foot verse, remained, and will remain. + Late, very late, correctness grew our care, + When the tired nation breathed from civil war. + Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire, + Showed us that France had something to admire. + Not but the tragic spirit was our own, + And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway shone: + But Otway failed to polish or refine, + And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. + Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, + The last and greatest art, the art to blot. + Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire + The humbler muse of comedy require. + But in known images of life, I guess + The labour greater, as th' indulgence less. + Observe how seldom even the best succeed: + Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed? + What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ! + How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit! + The stage how loosely does Astraea tread, + Who fairly puts all characters to bed! + And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, + To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause! + But fill their purse, our poet's work is done, + Alike to them, by pathos or by pun. + + * * * * * + + Yet lest you think I rally more than teach, + Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach, + Let me for once presume t' instruct the times + To know the poet from the man of rhymes: + 'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains, + Can make me feel each passion that he feigns; + Enrage, compose, with more than magic art, + With pity, and with terror, tear my heart; + And snatch me, o'er the earth, or through the air, + To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. + + + FROM THE EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES + + [THE POWER OF THE SATIRIST] + + Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see + Men not afraid of God, afraid of me: + Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, + Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone. + O sacred weapon! left for truth's defense, + Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence! + To all but Heaven-directed hands denied, + The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide: + Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal, + To rouse the watchmen of the public weal; + To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, + And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall, + Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, + That counts your beauties only by your stains, + Spin all your cobwebs, o'er the eye of day! + The Muse's wing shall brush you all away. + + + FROM THE DUNCIAD + + [THE COLLEGE OF DULNESS] + + Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, + And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, + Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, + Great Cibber's brazen brainless brothers stand, + One cell there is, concealed from vulgar eye. + The cave of Poverty and Poetry. + Keen, hollow winds howl through the bleak recess, + Emblem of music caused by emptiness. + Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, + Escape in monsters, and amaze the town. + Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast + Of Curll's chaste press and Lintot's rubric post; + Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines; + Hence Journals, Medleys, Mercuries, Magazines, + Sepulchral lies, our holy walls to grace, + And New-year odes, and all the Grub Street race. + In clouded majesty here Dulness shone. + Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne: + Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears + Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears; + Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake + Who hunger and who thirst for scribbling sake; + Prudence, whose glass presents th' approaching jail; + Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, + Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, + And solid pudding against empty praise. + Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, + Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, + Till genial Jacob or a warm third day + Call forth each mass, a poem or a play: + How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie; + How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry; + Maggots, half formed, in rhyme exactly meet, + And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. + Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes, + And ductile Dulness new meanders takes; + There motley images her fancy strike, + Figures ill paired, and similes unlike. + She sees a mob of metaphors advance, + Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance; + How Tragedy and Comedy embrace; + How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race; + How Time himself stands still at her command, + Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land. + Here gay description Egypt glads with showers, + Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers; + Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen, + There painted valleys of eternal green; + In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, + And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow. + All these and more the cloud-compelling queen + Beholds through fogs, that magnify the scene: + She, tinselled o'er in robes of varying hues, + With self-applause her wild creation views; + Sees momentary monsters rise and fall, + And with her own fools-colours gilds them all. + + * * * * * + + + [CIBBER AS DULNESS'S FAVOURITE SON] + + In each she marks her image full expressed, + But chief In Bays's monster-breeding breast; + Bays, formed by nature stage and town to bless, + And act, and be, a coxcomb with success. + Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce, + Rememb'ring she herself was Pertness once. + Now (shame to Fortune!) an ill run at play + Blanked his bold visage, and a thin third day: + Swearing and supperless the hero sate, + Blasphemed his gods, the dice, and damned his fate; + Then gnawed his pen, then dashed it on the ground, + Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! + Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there; + Yet wrote and floundered on in mere despair. + Round him much embryo, much abortion lay, + Much future ode, and abdicated play; + Nonsense precipitate, like running lead, + That slipped through cracks and zigzags of the head; + All that on Folly Frenzy could beget, + Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit. + Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll, + In pleasing memory of all he stole-- + How here he sipped, how there he plundered snug, + And sucked all o'er like an industrious bug. + Here lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes, and here + The frippery of crucified Molière; + There hapless Shakespeare, yet of Tibbald sore, + Wished he had blotted for himself before. + + * * * * * + + + [THE RESTORATION OF NIGHT AND CHAOS] + + In vain, in vain--the all-composing hour + Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the power. + She comes! she comes! the sable throne behold + Of Night primeval and of Chaos old! + Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, + And all its varying rainbows die away. + Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, + The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. + As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, + The sickening stars fade off th' ethereal plain; + As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppressed, + Closed one by one to everlasting rest: + Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, + Art after art goes out, and all is night. + See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, + Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head! + Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before, + Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. + Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, + And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! + See Mystery to Mathematics fly! + In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. + Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, + And unawares Morality expires. + Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; + Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! + Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; + Light dies before thy uncreating word: + Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; + And universal darkness buries all. + + + + + LADY WINCHILSEA + + + TO THE NIGHTINGALE + + Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring! + This moment is thy time to sing, + This moment I attend to praise, + And set my numbers to thy lays. + Free as thine shall be my song; + As thy music, short, or long. + Poets, wild as thee, were born, + Pleasing best when unconfined, + When to please is least designed, + Soothing but their cares to rest; + Cares do still their thoughts molest, + And still th' unhappy poet's breast, + Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. + She begins, let all be still! + Muse, thy promise now fulfil! + Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet! + Can thy words such accents fit? + Canst thou syllables refine, + Melt a sense that shall retain + Still some spirit of the brain, + Till with sounds like these it join? + 'Twill not be! then change thy note; + Let division shake thy throat. + Hark! division now she tries; + Yet as far the muse outflies. + Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune; + Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? + Till thy business all lies waste, + And the time of building's past! + Thus we poets that have speech, + Unlike what thy forests teach, + If a fluent vein be shown + That's transcendent to our own, + Criticise, reform, or preach, + Or censure what we cannot reach. + + + A NOCTURNAL REVERIE + + In such a night, when every louder wind + Is to its distant cavern safe confined, + And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, + And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings; + Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight, + She hollowing clear, directs the wanderer right; + In such a night, when passing clouds give place, + Or thinly veil the heaven's mysterious face; + When in some river, overhung with green, + The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen; + When freshened grass now bears itself upright, + And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, + Whence springs the woodbine and the bramble-rose, + And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows; + Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, + Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes; + When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine, + Show trivial beauties watch their hour to shine, + Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every light + In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright; + When odours which declined repelling day + Through temperate air uninterrupted stray; + When darkened groves their softest shadows wear, + And falling waters we distinctly hear; + When through the gloom more venerable shows + Some ancient fabric, awful in repose, + While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal + And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale; + When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads, + Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads, + Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear, + Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear; + When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, + And unmolested kine re-chew the cud; + When curlews cry beneath the village-walls, + And to her straggling brood the partridge calls; + Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep, + Which but endures whilst tyrant-man does sleep; + When a sedate content the spirit feels, + And no fierce light disturb, whilst it reveals; + But silent musings urge the mind to seek + Something too high for syllables to speak; + Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, + Finding the elements of rage disarmed, + O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, + Joys in th' inferior world and thinks it like her own: + In such a night let me abroad remain + Till morning breaks and all's confused again; + Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renewed, + Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued. + + + + + JOHN GAY + + + FROM RURAL SPORTS + + When the ploughman leaves the task of day, + And, trudging homeward, whistles on the way; + When the big-uddered cows with patience stand, + Waiting the strokings of the damsel's hand; + No warbling cheers the woods; the feathered choir, + To court kind slumbers, to their sprays retire; + When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees, + Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze; + Engaged in thought, to Neptune's bounds I stray, + To take my farewell of the parting day: + Far in the deep the sun his glory hides, + A streak of gold the sea and sky divides; + The purple clouds their amber linings show, + And edged with flame rolls every wave below; + Here pensive I behold the fading light, + And o'er the distant billows lose my sight. + + + FROM THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK + + THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL + + I rue the day, a rueful day I trow, + The woeful day, a day indeed of woe! + When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove: + A maiden fine bedight he happed to love; + The maiden fine bedight his love retains, + And for the village he forsakes the plains. + Return, my Lubberkin! these ditties hear! + Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + * * * * * + + Last May Day fair I searched to find a snail + That might my secret lover's name reveal. + Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found, + For always snails near sweetest fruit abound. + I seized the vermin, home I quickly sped, + And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread: + Slow crawled the snail, and, if I right can spell, + In the soft ashes marked a curious L. + Oh, may this wondrous omen lucky prove! + For L is found in 'Lubberkin' and 'Love.' + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + * * * * * + + This lady-fly I take from off the grass, + Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass: + 'Fly, lady-bird, north, south, or east, or west! + Fly where the man is found that I love best!' + He leaves my hand: see, to the west he's flown, + To call my true-love from the faithless town. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + This mellow pippin, which I pare around, + My shepherd's name shall flourish on the ground: + I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head-- + Upon the grass a perfect L is read. + Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen + Than what the paring marks upon the green. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + This pippin shall another trial make. + See, from the core two kernels brown I take: + This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn, + And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne; + But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground + (A certain token that his love's unsound), + While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last-- + Oh, were his lips to mine but joined so fast! + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, + I twitched his dangling garter from his knee; + He wist not when the hempen string I drew. + Now mine I quickly doff of inkle blue; + Together fast I tie the garters twain, + And while I knit the knot repeat this strain: + 'Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure; + Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure!' + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + As I was wont I trudged last market-day + To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay. + I made my market long before 'twas night; + My purse grew heavy and my basket light: + Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went, + And in love-powder all my money spent. + Behap what will, next Sunday after prayers, + When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs, + These golden flies into his mug I'll throw, + And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + But hold! our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his ears: + O'er yonder stile, see, Lubberkin appears! + He comes, he comes! Hobnelia's not betrayed, + Nor shall she, crowned with willow, die a maid. + He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown: + Oh, dear! I fall adown, adown, adown! + + + FROM TRIVIA + + If clothed in black you tread the busy town, + Or if distinguished by the reverend gown, + Three trades avoid: oft in the mingling press + The barber's apron soils the sable dress; + Shun the perfumer's touch with cautious eye, + Nor let the baker's step advance too nigh. + Ye walkers too that youthful colours wear, + Three sullying trades avoid with equal care: + The little chimney-sweeper skulks along, + And marks with sooty stains the heedless throng; + When 'Small-coal!' murmurs in the hoarser throat, + From smutty dangers guard thy threatened coat; + The dust-man's cart offends thy clothes and eyes, + When through the street a cloud of ashes flies. + But whether black or lighter dyes are worn, + The chandler's basket, on his shoulder borne, + With tallow spots thy coat; resign the way + To shun the surly butcher's greasy tray-- + Butchers whose hands are dyed with blood's foul stain, + And always foremost in the hangman's train. + + Let due civilities be strictly paid: + The wall surrender to the hooded maid, + Nor let thy sturdy elbow's hasty rage + Jostle the feeble steps of trembling age; + And when the porter bends beneath his load, + And pants for breath, clear thou the crowded road; + But, above all, the groping blind direct, + And from the pressing throng the lame protect. + You'll sometimes meet a fop, of nicest tread, + Whose mantling peruke veils his empty head; + At every step he dreads the wall to lose + And risks, to save a coach, his red-heeled shoes: + Him, like the miller, pass with caution by, + Lest from his shoulder clouds of powder fly. + But when the bully, with assuming pace, + Cocks his broad hat, edged round with tarnished lace, + Yield not the way; defy his strutting pride, + And thrust him to the muddy kennel's side; + He never turns again nor dares oppose, + But mutters coward curses as he goes. + + + SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN + + All in the Downs the fleet was moored, + The streamers waving in the wind, + When black-eyed Susan came aboard: + 'Oh, where shall I my true love find? + Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true + If my sweet William sails among the crew?' + + William, who high upon the yard + Rocked with the billow to and fro, + Soon as her well-known voice he heard, + He sighed and cast his eyes below; + The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, + And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. + + So the sweet lark, high poised in air, + Shuts close his pinions to his breast, + If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, + And drops at once into her nest. + The noblest captain in the British fleet + Mighty envy William's lip those kisses sweet. + + 'O, Susan, Susan, lovely dear, + My vows shall ever true remain! + Let me kiss off that falling tear: + We only part to meet again. + Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be + The faithful compass that still points to thee. + + 'Believe not what the landmen say, + Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: + They'll tell thee sailors, when away, + In every port a mistress find-- + Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, + For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. + + 'If to far India's coast we sail, + Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; + Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, + Thy skin is ivory so white. + Thus every beauteous object that I view + Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. + + 'Though battle call me from thy arms, + Let not my pretty Susan mourn; + Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, + William shall to his dear return. + Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, + Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.' + + The boatswain gave the dreadful word; + The sails their swelling bosom spread; + No longer must she stay aboard: + They kissed--she sighed--he hung his head. + Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; + 'Adieu!' she cries, and waved her lily hand. + + + MY OWN EPITAPH + + Life is a jest, and all things show it: + I thought so once, but now I know it. + + + + + SAMUEL CROXALL + + + FROM THE VISION + + Pensive beneath a spreading oak I stood + That veiled the hollow channel of the flood: + Along whose shelving bank the violet blue + And primrose pale in lovely mixture grew. + High overarched the bloomy woodbine hung, + The gaudy goldfinch from the maple sung; + The little warbling minstrel of the shade + To the gay morn her due devotion paid + Next, the soft linnet echoing to the thrush + With carols filled the smelling briar-bush; + While Philomel attuned her artless throat, + And from the hawthorn breathed a trilling note. + + Indulgent Nature smiled in every part, + And filled with joy unknown my ravished heart: + Attent I listened while the feathered throng + Alternate finished and renewed their song. + + * * * * * + + THOMAS TICKELL + + + FROM ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON + + Can I forget the dismal night that gave + My soul's best part forever to the grave? + How silent did his old companions tread, + By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, + Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, + Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! + What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; + The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; + The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid; + And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed! + While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, + Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. + Oh, gone forever! take this long adieu; + And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague! + + To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, + A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; + Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, + And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. + If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, + May shame afflict this alienated heart; + Of thee forgetful if I form a song, + My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, + My griefs be doubled from thy image free, + And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee! + + Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, + (Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown) + Along the walls where speaking marbles show + What worthies form the hallowed mould below; + Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; + In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; + + Chiefs graced with scars and prodigal of blood; + Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood; + Just men by whom impartial laws were given; + And saints who taught and led the way to Heaven. + Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, + Since their foundation came a nobler guest; + Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed + A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. + + * * * * * + + That awful form (which, so ye Heavens decree, + Must still be loved and still deplored by me,) + In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, + Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. + If business calls or crowded courts invite, + Th' unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; + If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, + I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; + If pensive to the rural shades I rove, + His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; + 'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, + Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: + There patient showed us the wise course to steer, + A candid censor, and a friend severe; + There taught us how to live, and (oh! too high + The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. + + + + + THOMAS PARNELL + + + FROM A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH + + By the blue taper's trembling light, + No more I waste the wakeful night, + Intent with endless view to pore + The schoolmen and the sages o'er; + Their books from wisdom widely stray, + Or point at best the longest way. + I'll seek a readier path, and go + Where wisdom's surely taught below. + + How deep yon azure dyes the sky, + Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie, + While through their ranks in silver pride + The nether crescent seems to glide! + The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, + The lake is smooth and clear beneath, + Where once again the spangled show + Descends to meet our eyes below. + The grounds which on the right aspire, + In dimness from the view retire: + The left presents a place of graves, + Whose wall the silent water laves. + That steeple guides thy doubtful sight + Among the livid gleams of night. + There pass, with melancholy state, + By all the solemn heaps of fate, + And think, as softly-sad you tread + Above the venerable dead, + 'Time was, like thee they life possessed, + And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.' + + Those graves, with bending osier bound, + That nameless heave the crumbled ground, + Quick to the glancing thought disclose, + Where toil and poverty repose. + The flat smooth stones that bear a name, + The chisel's slender help to fame, + (Which ere our set of friends decay + Their frequent steps may wear away;) + A middle race of mortals own, + Men, half ambitious, all unknown. + The marble tombs that rise on high, + Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, + Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, + Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones; + These, all the poor remains of state, + Adorn the rich, or praise the great; + Who while on earth in fame they live, + Are senseless of the fame they give. + + Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, + The bursting earth unveils the shades! + All slow, and wan, and wrapped with shrouds + They rise in visionary crowds, + And all with sober accent cry, + 'Think, mortal, what it is to die.' + + Now from yon black and funeral yew + That bathes the charnel house with dew + Methinks I hear a voice begin: + (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din; + Ye tolling clocks, no time resound + O'er the long lake and midnight ground) + It sends a peal of hollow groans + Thus speaking from among the bones: + 'When men my scythe and darts supply, + How great a king of fears am I! + They view me like the last of things: + They make, and then they dread, my stings. + Fools! if you less provoked your fears, + No more my spectre-form appears. + Death's but a path that must be trod + If man would ever pass to God, + A port of calms, a state of ease + From the rough rage of swelling seas.' + + + A HYMN OF CONTENTMENT + + Lovely, lasting peace of mind! + Sweet delight of humankind! + Heavenly-born, and bred on high, + To crown the favourites of the sky + With more of happiness below + Than victors in a triumph know! + Whither, O whither art thou fled, + To lay thy meek, contented head? + What happy region dost thou please + To make the seat of calms and ease? + + Ambition searches all its sphere + Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. + Increasing Avarice would find + Thy presence in its gold enshrined. + + The bold adventurer ploughs his way, + Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, + To gain thy love; and then perceives + Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. + The silent heart which grief assails, + Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, + Sees daisies open, rivers run, + And seeks, as I have vainly done, + Amusing thought; but learns to know + That solitude's the nurse of woe. + No real happiness is found + In trailing purple o'er the ground; + Or in a soul exalted high, + To range the circuit of the sky, + Converse with stars above, and know + All nature in its forms below; + The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, + And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. + + Lovely, lasting peace, appear! + This world itself, if thou art here, + Is once again with Eden blest, + And man contains it in his breast. + + 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, + I sung my wishes to the wood, + And lost in thought, no more perceived + The branches whisper as they waved: + It seemed, as all the quiet place + Confess'd the presence of the Grace. + When thus she spoke--'Go rule thy will, + Bid thy wild passions all be still, + Know God, and bring thy heart to know + The joys which from religion flow; + Then every grace shall prove its guest, + And I'll be there to crown the rest.' + + Oh! by yonder mossy seat, + In my hours of sweet retreat, + Might I thus my soul employ, + With sense of gratitude and joy! + Raised as ancient prophets were, + In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer; + Pleasing all men, hurting none, + Pleased and blessed with God alone; + Then while the gardens take my sight, + With all the colours of delight; + While silver waters glide along, + To please my ear, and court my song; + I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, + And thee, great Source of nature, sing. + + The sun that walks his airy way, + To light the world, and give the day; + The moon that shines with borrowed light; + The stars that gild the gloomy night; + The seas that roll unnumbered waves; + The wood that spreads its shady leaves; + The field whose ears conceal the grain, + The yellow treasure of the plain; + All of these, and all I see, + Should be sung, and sung by me: + They speak their Maker as they can, + But want and ask the tongue of man. + + Go search among your idle dreams, + Your busy or your vain extremes; + And find a life of equal bliss, + Or own the next begun in this. + + + + + ALLAN RAMSAY + + From THE GENTLE SHEPHERD + + PATIE AND ROGER + + Beneath the south side of a craigy bield, + Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield, + Twa youthfu' shepherds on the gowans lay, + Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May. + Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring; + But blither Patie likes to laugh and sing. + + _Patie._ My Peggy is a young thing, + Just entered 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 wauking 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 wauking 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 blythe and bauld, + And naething gi'es me sic delight + At wauking 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 wauking of the fauld. + + This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood, + And puts all Nature in a jovial mood. + How hartsome is't to see the rising plants, + To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants! + + How halesom 'tis to snuff the cauler air, + And all the sweets it bears, when void of care! + What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane? + Tell me the cause of thy ill-seasoned pain. + + _Roger._ I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate; + I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great! + Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood, + Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins' blood; + But I, oppressed with never-ending grief, + Maun ay despair of lighting on relief. + + * * * * * + + You have sae saft a voice and slid a tongue, + You are the darling of baith auld and young: + If I but ettle at a sang or speak, + They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek, + And jeer me hameward frae the loan or bught, + While I'm confused with mony a vexing thought; + Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee, + Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye; + For ilka sheep ye have I'll number ten, + And should, as ane may think, come farer ben. + + * * * * * + + _Patie._ Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way! + Seem careless: there's my hand ye'll win the day. + Hear how I served my lass I love as weel + As ye do Jenny and with heart as leel. + Last morning I was gay and early out; + Upon a dyke I leaned, glowring about. + I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lea; + I saw my Meg, but Peggy saw na me, + For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist, + And she was close upon me e'er she wist: + Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw + Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than snaw. + Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek, + Her haffet-locks hang waving on her cheek; + Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her een sae clear; + And, oh, her mouth's like ony hinny pear; + Neat, neat she was in bustine waistcoat clean, + As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green. + Blythesome I cried, 'My bonnie Meg, come here! + I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer, + + But I can guess ye're gawn to gather dew.' + She scoured awa, and said, 'What's that to you?' + 'Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,' + I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dyke. + I trow when, that she saw, within a crack + She came with a right thieveless errand back: + Misca'd me first; then bade me hound my dog, + To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. + I leugh, an sae did she: then with great haste + I clasped my arms about her neck and waist, + About her yielding waist, and took a fourth + Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth; + While hard and fast I held her in my grips, + My very saul came louping to my lips; + Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack, + But weel I kenned she meant nae as she spak. + Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom, + Do ye sae too and never fash your thumb: + Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood; + Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood. + + Dear Roger, if your Jenny geck, + And answer kindness with a slight, + Seem unconcerned at her neglect; + For women in a man delight, + But them despise who're soon defeat + And with a simple face give way + To a repulse: then he not blate; + Push bauldly on, and win the day. + + When maidens, innocently young, + Say aften what they never mean, + Ne'er mind their pretty lying tongue, + But tent the language of their een: + If these agree, and she persist + To answer all your love with hate, + Seek elsewhere to be better blest, + And let her sigh when'tis too late. + + _Roger._ Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart! + Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have sie an art + + To hearten ane; for now, as clean's a leek, + Ye've cherished me since ye began to speak. + Sae, for your pains, I'll mak ye a propine + (My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine)-- + A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo, + Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blue, + With spraings like gowd and siller crossed with black; + I never had it yet upon my back: + Weel are ye wordy o' 't, what have sae kind + Sed up my reveled doubts and cleared my mind. + + + + + AMBROSE PHILIPS + + + TO MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER + MOTHER'S ARMS + + Timely blossom, infant fair, + Pondling of a happy pair, + Every morn and every night + Their solicitous delight; + Sleeping, waking, still at ease, + Pleasing, without skill to please; + Little gossip, blithe and hale, + Tattling many a broken tale, + Singing many a tuneless song, + Lavish of a heedless tongue. + Simple maiden, void of art, + Babbling out the very heart, + Yet abandoned to thy will, + Yet imagining no ill, + Yet too innocent to blush; + Like the linnet in the bush, + To the mother-linnet's note + Moduling her slender throat, + Chirping forth thy pretty joys; + Wanton in the change of toys, + Like the linnet green, in May, + Flitting to each bloomy spray; + + Wearied then, and glad of rest, + Like the linnet in the nest. + This thy present happy lot, + This, in time, will be forgot; + Other pleasures, other cares, + Ever-busy Time prepares; + And thou shalt in thy daughter see + This picture once resembled thee. + + + + + JOHN DYER + + + GRONGAR HILL + + Silent Nymph, with curious eye! + Who, the purple evening, lie + On the mountain's lonely van, + Beyond the noise of busy man; + Painting fair the form of things, + While the yellow linnet sings; + Or the tuneful nightingale + Charms the forest with her tale; + Come, with all thy various hues, + Come, and aid thy sister Muse; + Now while Phoebus riding high + Gives lustre to the land and sky! + Grongar Hill invites my song, + Draw the landscape bright and strong; + Grongar, in whose mossy cells + Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; + Grongar, in whose silent shade, + For the modest Muses made, + So oft I have, the evening still, + At the fountain of a rill, + Sate upon a flowery bed, + With my hand beneath my head; + While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood. + Over mead, and over wood, + From house to house, from hill to hill, + 'Till Contemplation had her fill. + About his chequered sides I wind, + And leave his brooks and meads behind, + And groves, and grottoes where I lay, + And vistas shooting beams of day: + Wide and wider spreads the vale, + As circles on a smooth canal: + The mountains round--unhappy fate! + Sooner or later, of all height, + Withdraw their summits from the skies, + And lessen as the others rise: + Still the prospect wider spreads, + Adds a thousand woods and meads; + Still it widens, widens still, + And sinks the newly-risen hill. + + Now I gain the mountain's brow, + What a landscape lies below! + No clouds, no vapours intervene, + But the gay, the open scene + Does the face of nature shew, + In all the hues of heaven's bow! + And, swelling to embrace the light, + Spreads around beneath the sight. + + Old castles on the cliffs arise, + Proudly towering in the skies! + Rushing from the woods, the spires + Seem from hence ascending fires! + Half his beams Apollo sheds + On the yellow mountain-heads! + Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, + And glitters on the broken rocks! + + Below me trees unnumbered rise, + Beautiful in various dyes: + The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, + The yellow beech, the sable yew, + The slender fir, that taper grows, + The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; + And beyond the purple grove, + Haunt of Phillis, queen of love! + Gaudy as the opening dawn, + Lies a long and level lawn + On which a dark hill, steep and high, + Holds and charms the wandering eye! + + Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, + His sides are clothed with waving wood, + And ancient towers crown his brow, + That cast an awful look below; + Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, + And with her arms from falling keeps; + So both a safety from the wind + On mutual dependence find. + + 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode; + 'Tis now th' apartment of the toad; + And there the fox securely feeds; + And there the poisonous adder breeds + Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds: + While, ever and anon, there falls + Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls. + Yet time has seen, that lifts the low, + And level lays the lofty brow, + Has seen this broken pile complete, + Big with the vanity of state; + But transient is the smile of fate! + A little rule, a little sway, + A sunbeam in a winter's day, + Is all the proud and mighty have + Between the cradle and the grave. + + And see the rivers how they run, + Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, + Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, + Wave succeeding wave, they go + A various journey to the deep, + Like human life to endless sleep! + Thus is nature's vesture wrought, + To instruct our wandering thought; + Thus she dresses green and gay, + To disperse our cares away. + + Ever charming, ever new, + When will the landscape tire the view! + The fountain's fall, the river's flow, + The woody valleys warm and low; + The windy summit, wild and high, + Roughly rushing on the sky; + The pleasant seat, the ruined tower, + The naked rock, the shady bower; + + The town and village, dome and farm, + Each gives each a double charm, + As pearls upon an Aethiop's arm. + + See, on the mountain's southern side, + Where the prospect opens wide, + Where the evening gilds the tide; + How close and small the hedges lie! + What streaks of meadows cross the eye! + A step methinks may pass the stream, + So little distant dangers seem; + So we mistake the future's face, + Eyed through Hope's deluding glass; + As yon summits soft and fair + Clad in colours of the air, + Which to those who journey near, + Barren, brown, and rough appear; + Still we tread the same coarse way; + The present's still a cloudy day. + + O may I with myself agree, + And never covet what I see: + Content me with an humble shade, + My passions tamed, my wishes laid; + For while our wishes wildly roll, + We banish quiet from the soul: + 'Tis thus the busy beat the air; + And misers gather wealth and care. + + Now, even now, my joys run high, + As on the mountain-turf I lie; + While the wanton Zephyr sings, + And in the vale perfumes his wings; + While the waters murmur deep; + While the shepherd charms his sheep; + While the birds unbounded fly, + And with music fill the sky, + Now, even now, my joys, run high. + + Be full, ye courts, be great who will; + Search for Peace with all your skill: + Open wide the lofty door, + Seek her on the marble floor, + In vain ye search, she is not there; + In vain ye search the domes of Care! + + Grass and flowers Quiet treads, + On the meads, and mountain-heads, + Along with Pleasure, close allied, + Ever by each other's side: + And often, by the murmuring rill, + Hears the thrush, while all is still, + Within the groves of Grongar Hill. + + + + + GEORGE BERKELEY + + + VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING + ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA + + The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime + Barren of every glorious theme, + In distant lands now waits a better time, + Producing subjects worthy fame: + + In happy climes where from the genial sun + And virgin earth such scenes ensue, + The force of art in nature seems outdone, + And fancied beauties by the true: + + In happy climes, the seat of innocence, + Where nature guides and virtue rules, + Where men shall not impose for truth and sense + The pedantry of courts and schools. + + There shall be sung another golden age, + The rise of empire and of arts, + The good and great inspiring epic rage, + The wisest heads and noblest hearts. + + Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; + Such as she bred when fresh and young, + When heavenly flame did animate her clay, + By future poets shall be sung. + + Westward the course of empire takes its way; + The four first acts already past, + A fifth shall close the drama with the day; + Time's noblest offspring is the last. + + + + + JAMES THOMSON + + + THE SEASONS + + FROM WINTER + + [HARDSHIPS AND BENEVOLENCE] + + The keener tempests come; and, fuming dun + From all the livid east or piercing north, + Thick clouds ascend, in whose capacious womb + A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed. + Heavy they roll their fleecy world along, + And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. + Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, + At first thin wavering, till at last the flakes + Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day + With a continual flow. The cherished fields + Put on their winter robe of purest white; + 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts + Along the mazy current; low the woods + Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun + Faint from the west emits his evening ray, + Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill, + Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide + The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox + Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands + The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, + Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around + The winnowing store, and claim the little boon + Which Providence assigns them. One alone, + The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, + Wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky, + In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves + + His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man + His annual visit: half-afraid, he first + Against the window beats; then brisk alights + On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor, + Eyes all the smiling family askance, + And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is, + Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs + Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds + Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, + Though timorous of heart and hard beset + By death in various forms--dark snares, and dogs, + And more unpitying men,--the garden seeks, + Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind + Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth, + With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed, + Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. + + Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind: + Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens + With food at will; lodge them below the storm, + And watch them strict, for from the bellowing east, + In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing + Sweeps up the burthen of whole wintry plains + At one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks, + Hid in the hollow of two neighbouring hills, + The billowy tempest whelms, till, upward urged, + The valley to a shining mountain swells, + Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky. + + As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce + All Winter drives along the darkened air, + In his own loose-revolving fields the swain + Disastered stands; sees other hills ascend, + Of unknown, joyless brow, and other scenes, + Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain; + Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid + Beneath the formless wild, but wanders on + From hill to dale, still more and more astray, + Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, + Stung with the thoughts of home. The thoughts of home + Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth + In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul, + What black despair, what horror fills his heart, + When, for the dusky spot which fancy feigned + + His tufted cottage rising through the snow, + He meets the roughness of the middle waste, + Far from the track and blest abode of man, + While round him night resistless closes fast, + And every tempest, howling o'er his head, + Renders the savage wilderness more wild! + Then throng the busy shapes into his mind + Of covered pits unfathomably deep + (A dire descent!), beyond the power of frost; + Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, + Smoothed up with snow; and--what is land unknown, + What water--of the still unfrozen spring, + In the loose marsh or solitary lake, + Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. + These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks + Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, + Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, + Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots + Through the wrung bosom of the dying man-- + His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. + In vain for him th' officious wife prepares + The fire fair-blazing and the vestment warm; + In vain his little children, peeping out + Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, + With tears of artless innocence. Alas! + Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, + Nor friends nor sacred home: on every nerve + The deadly Winter seizes, shuts up sense, + And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, + Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, + Stretched out and bleaching in the northern blast. + + Ah, little think the gay licentious proud + Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; + They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth + And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; + Ah, little think they, while they dance along, + How many feel, this very moment, death + And all the sad variety of pain: + How many sink in the devouring flood, + Or more devouring flame; how many bleed, + By shameful variance betwixt man and man; + How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms, + + Shut from the common air, and common use + Of their own limbs; how many drink the cup + Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread + Of misery; sore pierced by wintry winds, + How many shrink into the sordid hut + Of cheerless poverty; how many shake + With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, + Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; + Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, + They furnish matter for the tragic Muse; + Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, + With friendship, peace, and contemplation joined, + How many, racked with honest passions, droop + In deep retired distress; how many stand + Around the deathbed of their dearest friends, + And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man + Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, + That one incessant struggle render life, + One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, + Vice in his high career would stand appalled, + And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; + The conscious heart of charity would warm, + And her wide wish benevolence dilate; + The social tear would rise, the social sigh; + And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, + Refining still, the social passions work. + + + From SUMMER + + (LIFE'S MEANING TO THE GENEROUS MIND) + + Forever running an enchanted round, + Passes the day, deceitful vain and void, + As fleets the vision o'er the formful brain, + This moment hurrying wild th' impassioned soul, + The nest in nothing lost. 'Tis so to him, + The dreamer of this earth, an idle blank; + A sight of horror to the cruel wretch, + Who all day long in sordid pleasure rolled, + Himself an useless load, has squandered vile, + Upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheered + A drooping family of modest worth. + + But to the generous still-improving mind, + That gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy, + Diffusing kind beneficence around, + Boastless,--as now descends the silent dew,-- + To him the long review of ordered life + Is inward rapture, only to be felt. + + + FROM SPRING + + [THE DIVINE FORCE IN SPRING] + + Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come! + And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud, + While music wakes around, veiled in a shower + Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend! + + O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts + With unaffected grace, or walk the plain + With Innocence and Meditation joined + In soft assemblage, listen to my song, + Which thy own season paints, when nature all + Is blooming and benevolent, like thee. + + And see where surly Winter passes off, + Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts: + His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill, + The shattered forest, and the ravaged vale; + While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch-- + Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost-- + The mountains lift their green heads to the sky. + As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed, + And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze, + Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets + Deform the day delightless; so that scarce + The bittern knows his time, with bill engulfed, + To shake the sounding marsh, or from the shore + The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath + And sing their wild notes to the listening waste. + At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun, + And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more + Th' expansive atmosphere is cramped with cold, + But, full of life and vivifying soul, + Lifts the light clouds sublime and spreads them thin, + Fleecy and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven; + + Forth fly the tepid airs, and, unconfined, + Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays. + Joyous, th' impatient husbandman perceives + Relenting nature, and his lusty steers + Drives from their stalls, to where the well-used plough + Lies in the furrow, loosened from the frost; + There, unrefusing, to the harnessed yoke + They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil, + Cheered by the simple song and soaring lark; + Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share + The master leans, removes th' obstructing clay, + Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe. + White through the neighbouring fields the sower stalks, + With measured step, and liberal throws the grain + Into the faithful bosom of the ground; + The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene. + + Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious man + Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow! + Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend! + And temper all, thou world-reviving sun, + Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live + In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride, + Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear. + Such themes as these the rural Maro sung + To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height + Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined. + In ancient times, the sacred plough employed + The kings and awful fathers of mankind; + And some, with whom compared your insect tribes + Are but the beings of a summer's day, + Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm + Of mighty war, then with victorious hand, + Disdaining little delicacies, seized + The plough, and, greatly independent, scorned + All the vile stores corruption can bestow. + Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough; + And o'er your hills and long-withdrawing vales + Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun, + Luxuriant and unbounded! As the sea, + Far through his azure, turbulent domain, + Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores + Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports, + + So with superior boon may your rich soil + Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour + O'er every land, the naked nations clothe, + And be th' exhaustless granary of a world. + + Nor only through the lenient air this change, + Delicious, breathes: the penetrative sun, + His force deep-darting to the dark retreat + Of vegetation, sets the steaming power + At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth, + In various hues--but chiefly thee, gay green! + Thou smiling Nature's universal robe, + United light and shade, where the sight dwells + With growing strength and ever new delight. + From the moist meadow to the withered hill, + Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, + And swells and deepens to the cherished eye. + The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves + Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, + Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed + In full luxuriance to the sighing gales, + Where the deer rustle through the twining brake, + And the birds sing concealed. At once, arrayed + In all the colours of the flushing year + By Nature's swift and secret-working hand, + The garden glows, and fills the liberal air + With lavished fragrance, while the promised fruit + Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived, + Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, + Buried in smoke and sleep and noisome damps, + Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, + Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops + From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze + Of sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk; + Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend + Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, + And see the country, far diffused around, + One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower + Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye + Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath + The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. + + * * * * * + + What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say, + That in a powerful language, felt not heard, + Instructs the fowl of heaven, and through their breast + These arts of love diffuses? What but God? + Inspiring God! who boundless spirit all, + And unremitting energy, pervades, + Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole. + He ceaseless works alone, and yet alone + Seems not to work; with such perfection framed + Is this complex, stupendous scheme of things. + But, though concealed, to every purer eye + Th' informing author in his works appears: + Chief, lovely Spring, in thee, and thy soft scenes, + The smiling God is seen; while water, earth, + And air attest his bounty; which exalts + The brute creation to this finer thought, + And annual melts their undesigning hearts + Profusely thus in tenderness and joy, + + Still let my song a nobler note assume, + And sing th' infusive force of Spring on man, + When heaven and earth, as if contending, vie + To raise his being, and serene his soul. + Can he forbear to join the general smile + Of nature? Can fierce passions vex his breast, + While every gale is peace, and every grove + Is melody? Hence from the bounteous walks + Of flowing Spring, ye sordid sons of earth, + Hard, and unfeeling of another's woe; + Or only lavish to yourselves; away! + But come, ye generous minds, la whose wide thought, + Of all his works, creative bounty burns + With warmest beam! + + + FROM AUTUMN + + [THE PLEASING SADNESS OF THE DECLINING YEAR] + + But see! the fading many-coloured woods, + Shade deepening over shade, the country round + Imbrown, a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, + + Of every hue from wan declining green + To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse, + Low-whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks, + And give the season in its latest view. + Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm + Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave + Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn + The gentle current, while, illumined wide, + The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, + And through their lucid veil his softened force + Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, + For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm, + To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, + And soar above this little scene of things, + To tread low-thoughted Vice beneath their feet, + To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, + And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. + Thus solitary, and in pensive guise, + Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead + And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard + One dying strain to cheer the woodman's toil. + Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, + Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse; + While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, + And each wild throat whose artless strains so late + Swelled all the music of the swarming shades, + Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit + On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock, + With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, + And naught save chattering discord in their note. + Oh, let not, aimed from some inhuman eye, + The gun the music of the coming year + Destroy, and harmless, unsuspecting harm, + Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey, + In mingled murder fluttering on the ground! + The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, + A gentler mood inspires: for now the leaf + Incessant rustles from the mournful grove, + Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, + And slowly circles through the waving air; + But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs + + Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams, + Till, choked and matted with the dreary shower, + The forest walks, at every rising gale, + Roll wide the withered waste and whistle bleak. + Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields, + And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race + Their sunny robes resign; even what remained + Of stronger fruits fall from the naked tree; + And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around, + The desolated, prospect thrills the soul. + + + A HYMN + + (CONCLUDING THE SEASONS) + + These, as they change, Almighty Father, these, + Are but the varied God. The rolling year + Is full of Thee. Forth In the pleasing Spring + Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. + Wide-flush the fields; the softening air is balm; + Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; + And every sense, and every heart is joy. + Then comes thy glory in the summer-months, + With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun + Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: + And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; + And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, + By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. + Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, + And spreads a common feast for all that lives. + In winter awful thou' with clouds and storms + Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled + Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, + Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, + And humblest nature with thy northern blast. + + Mysterious round! what skill, what force Divine + Deepfelt, in these appear! a simple train, + Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, + Such beauty and beneficence combined: + Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; + And all so forming an harmonious whole; + + That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. + But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, + Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand; + That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres; + Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence + The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring: + Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; + Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; + And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, + With transport touches all the springs of life. + + Nature, attend! join every living soul, + Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, + In adoration join; and ardent raise + One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, + Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes. + Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms + Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine + Fills the brown shade with a religious awe; + And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, + Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven + Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. + His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; + And let me catch it as I muse along. + Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; + Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze + Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, + A secret world of wonders in thyself, + Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice + Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. + So roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, + In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, + Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. + Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to Him; + Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, + As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. + Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as earth asleep + Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams; + Ye constellations, while your angels strike, + Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. + + Great source of day! blest image here below + Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, + Prom world to world, the vital ocean round, + On nature write with every beam His praise. + The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world, + While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. + Bleat out afresh, ye hills: ye mossy rocks, + Retain the sound; the broad responsive low, + Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns, + And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. + Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song + Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, + Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, + Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm + The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. + Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles; + At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, + Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, + Assembled men to the deep organ join + The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, + At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; + And, as each mingling flame increases each, + In one united ardour rise to Heaven. + Or if you rather choose the rural shade, + And find a fane in every sacred grove, + There let the shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay, + The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, + Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. + For me, when I forget the darling theme, + Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray + Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, + Or Winter rises in the blackening east-- + Se my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, + And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. + + Should Fate command me to the furthest verge + Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, + Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun + Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam + Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me; + Since God is ever present, ever felt, + In the void waste as in the city full; + + And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. + When even at last the solemn hour shall come, + And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, + I cheerfully will obey; there with new powers, + Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go + Where Universal Love not smiles around, + Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns; + From seeming evil still educing good, + And better thence again, and better still, + In infinite progression. But I lose + Myself in Him, in Light ineffable! + Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise. + + + [RULE, BRITANNIA] + + AN ODE: FROM ALFRED, A MASQUE + + When Britain first, at Heaven's command, + Arose from out the azure main, + This was the charter of the land, + And guardian angels sang this strain: + Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! + Britons never will be slaves! + + The nations not so blest as thee, + Must in their turns to tyrants fall, + Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, + The dread and envy of them all. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + Still more majestic shalt thou rise, + More dreadful from each foreign stroke; + As the loud blast that tears the skies, + Serves but to root thy native oak. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; + And their attempts to bend thee down + Will but arouse thy generous flame, + But work their woe and thy renown. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + To thee belongs the rural reign; + Thy cities shall with commerce shine; + All thine shall be the subject main, + And every shore it circles thine. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + The Muses, still with freedom found, + Shall to thy happy coast repair; + Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, + And manly hearts to guard the fair! + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + + From THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE + + O mortal man, who livest here by toil, + Do not complain of this thy hard estate: + That like an emmet thou must ever moil + Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; + And, certes, there is for it reason great, + For though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail + And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, + Withouten that would come an heavier bale-- + Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. + + In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, + With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, + A most enchanting wizard did abide, + Than whom, a fiend more fell is nowhere found. + It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; + And there a season atween June and May, + Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, + A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, + No living wight could work, ne carèd even for play. + + Was naught around but images of rest: + Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; + And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, + From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, + Where never yet was creeping creature seen. + Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, + And hurlèd everywhere their waters sheen, + That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, + Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. + + Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, + Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, + And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, + And vacant shepherds piping in the dale; + And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, + Or stock doves 'plain amid the forest deep, + That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; + And still a coil the grasshopper did keep: + Yet all these sounds, yblent, inclinèd all to sleep. + + Pull in the passage of the vale, above, + A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, + Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move, + As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood; + And up the hills, on either side, a wood + Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, + Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; + And where this valley winded out, below, + The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. + + A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was: + Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; + And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, + Forever flushing round a summer sky. + There eke the soft delights, that witchingly + Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, + And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; + But whate'er smacked of 'noyance or unrest + Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. + + The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease, + Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) + Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, + That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, + And made a kind of checkered day and night. + Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, + Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight + Was placed; and, to his lute, of cruel fate + And labour harsh complained, lamenting man's estate. + + Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, + From all the roads of earth that pass there by; + For, as they chaunced to breathe on neighbouring hill, + The freshness of this valley smote their eye, + And drew them ever and anon more nigh, + Till clustering round th' enchanter false they hung, + Ymolten with his syren melody. + While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung, + And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung: + + 'Behold, ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! + See all but man with unearned pleasure gay! + See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, + Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May. + What youthful bride can equal her array? + Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? + From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, + From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, + Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. + + 'Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, + The swarming songsters of the careless grove, + Ten thousand throats that, from the flowering thorn, + Hymn their good God and carol sweet of love, + Such grateful kindly raptures them emove! + They neither plough nor sow; ne, fit for flail, + E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; + Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, + Whatever crowns the hill or smiles along the vale. + + 'Outcast of Nature, man! the wretched thrall + Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, + Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, + And of the vices, an inhuman train, + That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: + For when hard-hearted Interest first began + To poison earth, Astraea left the plain; + Guile, violence, and murder seized on man, + And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran.' + + He ceased. But still their trembling ears retained + The deep vibrations of his 'witching song, + That, by a kind of magic power, constrained + To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng: + Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipped along + In silent ease; as when beneath the beam + Of summer moons, the distant woods among, + Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam, + The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream. + + * * * * * + + Of all the gentle tenants of the place, + There was a man of special grave remark; + A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, + Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not dark; + As soote this man could sing as morning lark, + And teach the noblest morals of the heart; + But these his talents were yburied stark: + Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, + Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. + + To noontide shades incontinent he ran, + Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound, + Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, + Amid the broom he basked him on the ground, + Where the wild thyme and camomil are found; + There would he linger, till the latest ray + Of light sate trembling on the welkin's bound, + Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray, + Sauntering and slow: so had he passed many a day. + + Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they passed; + For oft the heavenly fire, that lay concealed + Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, + And all its native light anew revealed; + Oft as he traversed the cerulean field, + And marked the clouds that drove before the wind, + Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, + Ten thousand great ideas filled his mind: + But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. + + + + + EDWARD YOUNG + + + From LOVE OF FAME + + ON WOMEN + + Such blessings Nature pours, + O'erstocked mankind enjoy but half her stores: + In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, + She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green: + Pure, gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, + And waste their music on the savage race. + Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss? + Repine we guiltless in a world like this? + But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, + And painted art's depraved allurements choose. + Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air + (An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair; + Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs, + And larks, and nightingales, are odious things; + But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds, delight; + And to be pressed to death, transports her quite: + Where silver rivulets play through flowery meads, + And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their shades, + Black kennels' absent odours she regrets, + And stops her nose at beds of violets. + + * * * * * + + Few to good-breeding make a just pretense; + Good-breeding is the blossom of good-sense; + The last result of an accomplished mind, + With outward grace, the body's virtue, joined. + A violated decency now reigns; + And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains. + With Chinese painters modern toasts agree, + The point they aim at is deformity: + They throw their persons with a hoyden air + Across the room, and toss into the chair. + So far their commerce with mankind is gone, + They, for our manners, have exchanged their own. + + The modest look, the castigated grace, + The gentle movement, and slow-measured pace, + For which her lovers died, her parents prayed, + Are indecorums with the modern maid. + + * * * * * + + What swarms of amorous grandmothers I see! + And misses, ancient in iniquity! + What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming! + What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming! + Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence; + Such griping avarice, such profuse expense; + Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes; + Such licensed ill, such masquerading times; + Such venal faith, such misapplied applause; + Such flattered guilt, and such inverted laws! + + Such dissolution through the whole I find, + 'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind. + Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dressed belle + Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of Hell; + And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all + Who listen less to Collins than St. Paul. + Atheists have been but rare; since Nature's birth + Till now, she-atheists ne'er appeared on earth. + Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs + This daring character, in timorous things? + Who start at feathers, from an insect fly, + A match for nothing--but the Deity. + But, not to wrong the fair, the Muse must own + In this pursuit they court not fame alone; + But join to that a more substantial view, + 'From thinking free, to be free agents, too.' + + They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down, + In complaisance to all the fools in town. + O how they tremble at the name of prude! + And die with shame at thought of being good! + For, what will Artimis, the rich and gay, + What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs, say? + They Heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave; + Through cowardice, most execrably brave. + With our own judgments durst we to comply, + In virtue should we live, in glory die. + + Rise then, my Muse, In honest fury rise; + They dread a satire who defy the skies. + + Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own; + And nothing but his attributes dethrone. + From atheists far, they steadfastly believe + God is, and is almighty--to forgive, + His other excellence they'll not dispute; + But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute. + Shall pleasures of a short duration chain + A lady's soul in everlasting pain? + Will the great Author us poor worms destroy, + For now and then a sip of transient joy? + No; he's forever in a smiling mood; + He's like themselves; or how could he be good? + And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose. + Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose, + The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead, + A deity that's perfectly well bred. + + 'Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men; + Nor thought he more than thought great Origen. + Though once upon a time he misbehaved, + Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be saved. + Let priests do something for their one in ten; + It is their trade; so far they're honest men. + Let them cant on, since they have got the knack, + And dress their notions, like themselves, in black; + Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown, + From joys of this, to keep them all their own. + Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee; + But then they leave our untithed virtue free. + Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show: + Did ever mortal write like Rochefoucauld? + Thus pleads the Devil's fair apologist, + And, pleading, safely enters on his list. + + + + + NIGHT-THOUGHTS + + + [MAN'S MARVELLOUS NATURE] + + How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, + How complicate, how wonderful is man! + How passing wonder He who made him such, + Who centred in our make such strange extremes! + From different natures marvellously mixed, + Connection exquisite of distant worlds! + Distinguished link in being's endless chain! + Midway from nothing to the Deity! + A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed! + Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine! + Dim miniature of greatness absolute! + An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! + Helpless immortal! insect infinite! + A worm! A god!--I tremble at myself, + And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, + Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast + And wondering at her own. How reason reels! + O what a miracle to man is man, + Triumphantly distressed; what joy! what dread! + Alternately transported and alarmed! + What can preserve my life? or what destroy? + An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; + Legions of angels can't confine me there. + + + [SATIETY IN THIS WORLD] + + Live ever here, Lorenzo? Shocking thought! + So shocking, they who wish disown it, too; + Disown from shame what they from folly crave. + Live ever in the womb nor see the light? + For what live ever here? With labouring step + To tread our former footsteps? pace the round + Eternal? to climb life's worn, heavy wheel, + Which draws up nothing new? to beat, and beat + The beaten track? to bid each wretched day + The former mock? to surfeit on the same, + And yawn our joys? or thank a misery + For change, though sad? to see what we have seen; + Hear, till unheard, the same old slabbered tale? + To taste the tasted, and at each return + Less tasteful? o'er our palates to decant + Another vintage? strain a flatter year, + Through loaded vessels and a laxer tone? + Crazy machines, to grind earth's wasted fruits! + + + [GOD JUST AS WELL AS MERCIFUL] + + Thou most indulgent, most tremendous Power! + Still more tremendous for thy wondrous love! + That arms, with awe more awful, thy commands; + And foul transgression dips in sevenfold guilt! + How our hearts tremble at thy love immense! + In love immense, inviolably just! + Thou, rather than thy justice should be stained, + Didst stain the cross; and, work of wonders far + The greatest, that thy dearest far might bleed. + + Bold thought! shall I dare speak it, or repress? + Should man more execrate, or boast, the guilt + Which roused such vengeance? which such love inflamed? + Our guilt (how mountainous!) with outstretched arms, + Stern justice and soft-smiling love embrace, + Supporting, in full majesty, thy throne, + When seemed its majesty to need support, + Or that, or man, inevitably lost; + What, but the fathomless of thought divine, + Could labour such expedient from despair, + And rescue both? both rescue! both exalt! + O how are both exalted by the deed! + The wondrous deed! or shall I call it more + A wonder in Omnipotence itself! + A mystery no less to gods than men! + + Not thus our infidels th' Eternal draw,-- + A God all o'er, consummate, absolute, + Full-orbed, in his whole round of rays complete. + They set at odds Heaven's jarring attributes, + And, with one excellence, another wound; + Maim Heaven's perfection, break its equal beams, + Bid mercy triumph over--God himself, + Undeified by their opprobrious praise; + A God all mercy, is a God unjust. + + + + + EDWARD YOUNG + + + (MAN'S NATURE PROVES HIS IMMORTALITY) + + In man, the more we dive, the more we see + Heaven's signet stamping an immortal make. + Dive to the bottom of the soul, the base + Sustaining all, what find we? Knowledge, love. + As light and heat essential to the sun, + These to the soul. And why, if souls expire? + How little lovely here! How little known! + Small knowledge we dig up with endless toil; + And love unfeigned may purchase perfect hate. + Why starved on earth our angel appetites, + While brutal are indulged their fulsome fill? + Were then capacities divine conferred + As a mock diadem, in savage sport, + Rank insult of our pompous poverty, + Which reaps but pain from seeming claims so fair? + In future age lies no redress? And shuts + Eternity the door on our complaint? + If so, for what strange ends were mortals made! + The worst to wallow, and the best to weep; + The man who merits most, must most complain: + Can we conceive a disregard in Heaven + What the worst perpetrate or best endure? + + This cannot be. To love, and know, in man + Is boundless appetite, and boundless power: + And these demonstrate boundless objects, too. + Objects, powers, appetites, Heaven suits in all; + Nor, nature through, e'er violates this sweet + Eternal concord, on her tuneful string. + Is man the sole exception from her laws? + Eternity struck off from human hope, + (I speak with truth, but veneration too) + Man is a monster, the reproach of Heaven, + A stain, a dark impenetrable cloud + On Nature's beauteous aspect; and deforms + (Amazing blot!) deforms her with her lord + If such is man's allotment, what is Heaven? + Or own the soul immortal, or blaspheme. + + Or own the soul immortal, or invert + All order. Go, mock-majesty! go, man! + And bow to thy superiors of the stall; + + Through every scene of sense superior far: + They graze the turf untilled; they drink the stream + Unbrewed, and ever full, and unembittered + With doubts, fears, fruitless hopes, regrets, despair. + Mankind's peculiar! reason's precious dower! + No foreign clime they ransack for their robes, + No brother cite to the litigious bar. + Their good is good entire, unmixed, unmarred; + They find a paradise in every field, + On boughs forbidden, where no curses hang: + Their ill no more than strikes the sense, unstretched + By previous dread or murmur in the rear; + When the worst comes, it comes unfeared; one stroke + Begins and ends their woe: they die but once; + Blessed incommunicable privilege! for which + Proud man, who rules the globe and reads the stars, + Philosopher or hero, sighs in vain. + Account for this prerogative in brutes: + No day, no glimpse of day, to solve the knot + But what beams on it from eternity. + O sole and sweet solution! that unties + The difficult, and softens the severe; + The cloud on Nature's beauteous face dispels, + Restores bright order, easts the brute beneath, + And re-enthrones us in supremacy + Of joy, e'en here. Admit immortal life, + And virtue is knight-errantry no more: + Each virtue brings in hand a golden dower + Far richer in reversion: Hope exults, + And, though much bitter in our cup is thrown, + Predominates and gives the taste of Heaven. + + + + + ANONYMOUS + + + THE HAPPY SAVAGE + + Oh, happy he who never saw the face + Of man, nor heard the sound of human voice! + But soon as born was carried and exposed + In some vast desert, suckled by the wolf + Or shaggy bear, more kind than our fell race; + Who with his fellow brutes can range around + The echoing forest. His rude artless mind + Uncultivated as the soil, he joins + The dreadful harmony of howling wolves, + And the fierce lion's roar; while far away + Th' affrighted traveller retires and trembles. + Happy the lonely savage! nor deceived, + Nor vexed, nor grieved; in every darksome cave, + Under each verdant shade, he takes repose. + Sweet are his slumbers: of all human arts + Happily ignorant, nor taught by wisdom + Numberless woes, nor polished into torment. + + + + + SOAME JENYNS + + + From AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE + + Were once these maxims fixed, that God's our friend, + Virtue our good, and happiness our end. + How soon must reason o'er the world prevail, + And error, fraud, and superstition fail! + None would hereafter then with groundless fear + Describe th' Almighty cruel and severe, + Predestinating some without pretence + To Heaven, and some to Hell for no offence; + Inflicting endless pains for transient crimes, + And favouring sects or nations, men or times. + + To please him none would foolishly forbear + Or food, or rest, or itch in shirts of hair, + Or deem it merit to believe or teach + What reason contradicts, within its reach; + None would fierce zeal for piety mistake, + Or malice for whatever tenet's sake, + Or think salvation to one sect confined, + And Heaven too narrow to contain mankind. + + * * * * * + + No servile tenets would admittance find + Destructive of the rights of humankind; + Of power divine, hereditary right, + And non-resistance to a tyrant's might. + For sure that all should thus for one be cursed, + Is but great nature's edict just reversed. + No moralists then, righteous to excess, + Would show fair Virtue in so black a dress, + That they, like boys, who some feigned sprite array, + First from the spectre fly themselves away: + No preachers in the terrible delight, + But choose to win by reason, not affright; + Not, conjurors like, in fire and brimstone dwell, + And draw each moving argument from Hell. + + * * * * * + + No more applause would on ambition wait, + And laying waste the world be counted great, + But one good-natured act more praises gain, + Than armies overthrown, and thousands slain; + No more would brutal rage disturb our peace, + But envy, hatred, war, and discord cease; + Our own and others' good each hour employ, + And all things smile with universal joy; + Virtue with Happiness, her consort, joined, + Would regulate and bless each human mind, + And man be what his Maker first designed. + + + + + PHILIP DODDRIDGE + + + SURSUM + + Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, + With all your feeble light; + Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, + Pale empress of the night. + + And thou refulgent orb of day, + In brighter flames arrayed; + My soul that springs beyond thy sphere, + No more demands thine aid. + + Ye stars are but the shining dust + Of my divine abode, + The pavement of those heavenly courts + Where I shall reign with God. + + The Father of eternal light + Shall there His beams display; + Nor shall one moment's darkness mix + With that unvaried day. + + No more the drops of piercing grief + Shall swell into mine eyes; + Nor the meridian sun decline + Amidst those brighter skies. + + + + + WILLIAM SOMERVILLE + + + FROM THE CHASE + + Here on this verdant spot, where nature kind, + With double blessings crowns the farmer's hopes; + Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank mead + Affords the wandering hares a rich repast; + Throw off thy ready pack. See, where they spread + And range around, and dash the glittering dew. + If some staunch hound, with his authentic voice, + Avow the recent trail, the justling tribe + Attend his call, then with one mutual cry, + The welcome news confirm, and echoing hills + Repeat the pleasing tale. See how they thread + The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along! + But quick they back recoil, and wisely check + Their eager haste; then o'er the fallowed ground + How leisurely they work, and many a pause + Th' harmonious concert breaks; till more assured + With joy redoubled the low valleys ring. + What artful labyrinths perplex their way! + Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants, she doubts + If now she lives; she trembles as she sits, + With horror seized. The withered grass that clings + Around her head of the same russet hue + Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyes + With life full-beaming her vain wiles betrayed. + At distance draw thy pack, let all be hushed, + No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard, + Lest the wild hound run gadding o'er the plain + Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. + Now gently put her off; see how direct + To her known mew she flies! Here, huntsman, bring + (But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds, + And calmly lay them in. How low they stoop, + And seem to plough the ground! then all at once + With greedy nostrils snuff the fuming steam + That glads their fluttering hearts. As winds let loose + From the dark caverns of the blustering god, + They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn. + Hope gives them wings, while she's spurred on by fear; + The welkin rings; men, dogs, hills, racks, and woods + In the full concert join. Now, my brave youths, + Stripped for the chase, give all your souls to joy! + See how their coursers, than the mountain roe + More fleet, the verdant carpet skim; thick clouds + Snorting they breathe; their shining hoofs scarce print + The grass unbruised; when emulation fired, + They strain, to lead the field, top the barred gate, + O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush + The thorny-twining hedge; the riders bend + O'er their arched necks; with steady hands, by turns + Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. + Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, + Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone, + And with the panting winds lag far behind. + + + + + HENRY BROOKE + + FROM UNIVERSAL BEAUTY + + [THE DEITY IN EVERY ATOM] + + Thus beauty, mimicked in our humbler strains, + Illustrious through the world's great poem reigns! + The One grows sundry by creative power, + Th' eternal's found in each revolving hour; + Th' immense appears in every point of space, + Th' unchangeable in nature's varying face; + Th' invisible conspicuous to our mind, + And Deity in every atom shrined. + + + [NATURE SUPERIOR TO CIVILIZATION] + + O Nature, whom the song aspires to scan! + O Beauty, trod by proud insulting man, + This boasted tyrant of thy wondrous ball, + This mighty, haughty, little lord of all; + This king o'er reason, but this slave to sense, + Of wisdom careless, but of whim immense; + Towards thee incurious, ignorant, profane, + But of his own, dear, strange productions vain! + Then with this champion let the field be fought, + And nature's simplest arts 'gainst human wisdom brought. + Let elegance and bounty here unite-- + There kings beneficent and courts polite; + Here nature's wealth--there chemist's golden dreams; + Her texture here--and there the statesman's schemes; + Conspicuous here let sacred truth appear-- + The courtier's word, and lordling's honour, there; + Here native sweets in boon profusion flow-- + There smells that scented nothing of a beau; + Let justice here unequal combat wage-- + Nor poise the judgment of the law-learned sage; + Though all-proportioned with exactest skill, + Yet gay as woman's wish, and various as her will. + O say ye pitied, envied, wretched great, + Who veil pernicion with the mask of state! + Whence are those domes that reach the mocking skies, + And vainly emulous of nature rise? + Behold the swain projected o'er the vale! + See slumbering peace his rural eyelids seal; + Earth's flowery lap supports his vacant head, + Beneath his limbs her broidered garments spread; + Aloft her elegant pavilion bends, + And living shade of vegetation lends, + With ever propagated bounty blessed, + And hospitably spread for every guest: + No tinsel here adorns a tawdry woof, + Nor lying wash besmears a varnished roof; + With native mode the vivid colours shine, + And Heaven's own loom has wrought the weft divine, + Where art veils art, and beauties' beauties close, + While central grace diffused throughout the system flows. + + + [THE SPLENDOUR OF INSECTS] + + Gemmed o'er their heads the mines of India gleam, + And heaven's own wardrobe has arrayed their frame; + Each spangled back bright sprinkling specks adorn, + Each plume imbibes the rosy-tinctured morn; + Spread on each wing, the florid seasons glow, + Shaded and verged with the celestial bow, + Where colours blend an ever-varying dye, + And wanton in their gay exchanges vie. + Not all the glitter fops and fair ones prize, + The pride of fools, and pity of the wise; + Not all the show and mockery of state, + The little, low, fine follies of the great; + Not all the wealth which eastern pageants wore, + What still our idolizing worlds adore; + Can boast the least inimitable grace + Which decks profusive this illustrious race. + + + [MORAL LESSONS FROM ANIMAL LIFE] + + Ye self-sufficient sons of reasoning pride, + Too wise to take Omniscience for your guide, + Those rules from insects, birds, and brutes discern + Which from the Maker you disdain to learn! + The social friendship, and the firm ally, + The filial sanctitude, and nuptial tie, + Patience in want, and faith to persevere, + Th' endearing sentiment, and tender care, + Courage o'er private interest to prevail, + And die all Decii for the public weal. + + + [PROMPTINGS OF DIVINE INSTINCT] + + Dispersed through every copse or marshy plain, + Where hunts the woodcock or the annual crane, + Where else encamped the feathered legions spread + Or bathe incumbent on their oozy bed, + The brimming lake thy smiling presence fills, + And waves the banners of a thousand hills. + Thou speed'st the summons of thy warning voice: + Winged at thy word, the distant troops rejoice, + From every quarter scour the fields of air, + And to the general rendezvous repair; + Each from the mingled rout disporting turns, + And with the love of kindred plumage burns. + Thy potent will instinctive bosoms feel, + And here arranging semilunar, wheel; + Or marshalled here the painted rhomb display + Or point the wedge that cleaves th' aërial way: + Uplifted on thy wafting breath they rise; + Thou pav'st the regions of the pathless skies, + Through boundless tracts support'st the journeyed host + And point'st the voyage to the certain coast,-- + Thou the sure compass and the sea they sail, + The chart, the port, the steerage, and the gale! + + + PROLOGUE TO 'GUSTAVUS VASA' + + Britons! this night presents a state distressed: + Though brave, yet vanquished; and though great, oppressed. + Vice, ravening vulture, on her vitals preyed; + Her peers, her prelates, fell corruption swayed: + Their rights, for power, the ambitious weakly sold: + The wealthy, poorly, for superfluous gold, + Hence wasting ills, hence severing factions rose, + And gave large entrance to invading foes: + Truth, justice, honour, fled th' infected shore; + For freedom, sacred freedom, was no more. + Then, greatly rising in his country's right, + Her hero, her deliverer sprung to light: + A race of hardy northern sons he led, + Guiltless of courts, untainted and unread; + Whose inborn spirit spurned the ignoble fee, + Whose hands scorned bondage, for their hearts were free. + Ask ye what law their conquering cause confessed?-- + Great Nature's law, the law within the breast: + Formed by no art, and to no sect confined, + But stamped by Heaven upon th' unlettered mind. + Such, such of old, the first born natives were + Who breathed the virtues of Britannia's air, + Their realm when mighty Caesar vainly sought, + For mightier freedom against Caesar fought, + And rudely drove the famed invader home, + To tyrannize o'er polished--venal Rome. + Our bard, exalted in a freeborn flame, + To every nation would transfer this claim: + He to no state, no climate, bounds his page, + But bids the moral beam through every age. + Then be your judgment generous as his plan; + Ye sons of freedom! save the friend of man. + + + From CONRADE, A FRAGMENT + + What do I love--what is it that mine eyes + Turn round in search of--that my soul longs after, + But cannot quench her thirst?--'Tis Beauty, Phelin! + I see it wide beneath the arch of heaven, + When the stars peep upon their evening hour, + And the moon rises on the eastern wave, + Housed in a cloud of gold! I see it wide + In earth's autumnal taints of various landscape + When the first ray of morning tips the trees, + And fires the distant rock! I hear its voice + When thy hand sends the sound along the gale, + Swept from the silver strings or on mine ear + Drops the sweet sadness! At my heart I feel + Its potent grasp, I melt beneath the touch, + When the tale pours upon my sense humane + The woes of other times! What art thou, Beauty? + Thou art not colour, fancy, sound, nor form-- + These but the conduits are, whence the soul quaffs + The liquor of its heaven. Whate'er thou art, + Nature, or Nature's spirit, thou art all + I long for! Oh, descend upon my thoughts! + To thine own music tune, thou power of grace, + The cordage of my heart! Fill every shape + That rises to my dream or wakes to vision; + And touch the threads of every mental nerve, + With all thy sacred feelings! + + + + + MATTHEW GREEN + + + FROM THE SPLEEN + + To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen + Some recommend the bowling-green; + Some, hilly walks; all, exercise; + Fling but a stone, the giant dies. + Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been + Extreme good doctors for the spleen; + And kitten, if the humour hit, + Has harlequined away the fit. + + Since mirth is good in this behalf, + At some particulars let us laugh: + Witlings, brisk fools, cursed with half-sense, + That stimulates their impotence; + Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies, + Err with their wings for want of eyes; + Poor authors worshipping a calf, + Deep tragedies that make us laugh, + A strict dissenter saying grace, + A lecturer preaching for a place, + Folks, things prophetic to dispense, + Making the past the future tense, + The popish dubbing of a priest, + Fine epitaphs on knaves deceased. + + * * * * * + + Forced by soft violence of prayer, + The blithesome goddess soothes my care, + I feel the deity inspire, + And thus she models my desire. + Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid, + Annuity securely made, + A farm some twenty miles from town, + Small, tight, salubrious, and my own; + Two maids, that never saw the town, + A serving-man not quite a clown, + A boy to help to tread the mow, + And drive, while t'other holds the plough; + A chief, of temper formed to please, + Fit to converse, and keep the keys; + And better to preserve the peace, + Commissioned by the name of niece; + With understandings of a size + To think their master very wise. + + + + + WILLIAM SHENSTONE + + + FROM THE SCHOOLMISTRESS + + Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, + Emblem right meet of decency does yield: + Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, + As is the harebell that adorns the field; + + And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield + Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, + With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled; + And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, + And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. + + * * * * * + + A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; + A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; + 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; + 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! + 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare; + And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around, + Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; + For they in gaping wonderment abound, + And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. + + * * * * * + + Lo, now with state she utters the command! + Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; + Their books of stature small they take in hand, + Which with pellucid horn securèd are; + To save from finger wet the letters fair: + The work so gay, that on their back is seen, + St. George's high achievements does declare; + On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been + Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween! + + Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beam + Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write! + As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, + Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, + Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. + For brandishing the rod, she doth begin + To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight! + And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, + Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. + + O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, + His little sister doth his peril see: + All playful as she sate, she grows demure; + She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; + She meditates a prayer to set him free: + Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, + (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) + To her sad grief that swells in either eye, + And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. + + The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, + Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: + By turns, astonied, every twig survey, + And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware; + Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; + Till fear has taught them a performance meet, + And to the well-known chest the dame repairs; + Whence oft with sugared cates she doth 'em greet, + And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet! + + * * * * * + + Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear! + Even now sagacious foresight points to show + A little bench of heedless bishops here, + And there a chancellor in embryo, + Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, + As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die! + Though now he crawl along the ground so low, + Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high, + Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly. + + + + WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY + + + To thee, fair freedom! I retire + From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; + Nor art thou found in mansions higher + Than the low cot, or humble inn. + + 'Tis here with boundless power I reign; + And every health which I begin, + Converts dull port to bright champagne; + Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. + + I fly from pomp, I fly from plate! + I fly from falsehood's specious grin! + Freedom I love, and form I hate, + And choose my lodgings at an inn. + + Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, + Which lacqueys else might hope to win; + It buys, what courts have not in store; + It buys me freedom, at an inn. + + Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, + Where'er his stages may have been, + May sigh to think he still has found + The warmest welcome at an inn. + + + + + JONATHAN SWIFT + + + FROM THE BEASTS' CONFESSION + + When beasts could speak, (the learned say + They still can do so every day,) + It seems they had religion then, + As much as now we find in men. + It happened, when a plague broke out, + (Which therefore made them more devout,) + The king of brutes (to make it plain, + Of quadrupeds I only mean) + By proclamation gave command + That every subject in the land + Should to the priest confess their sins; + And thus the pious Wolf begins:-- + 'Good father, I must own with shame, + That often I have been to blame: + I must confess, on Friday last, + Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: + But I defy the basest tongue + To prove I did my neighbour wrong; + Or ever went to seek my food, + By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.' + + The Ass approaching next, confessed + That in his heart he loved a jest: + A wag he was, he needs must own, + And could not let a dunce alone: + + Sometimes his friend he would not spare, + And might perhaps be too severe: + But yet the worst that could be said, + He was a wit both born and bred; + And, if it be a sin and shame, + Nature alone must bear the blame: + One fault he has, is sorry for't, + His ears are half a foot too short; + Which could he to the standard bring, + He'd show his face before the king: + Then for his voice, there's none disputes + That he's the nightingale of brutes. + + The Swine with contrite heart allowed + His shape and beauty made him proud: + In diet was perhaps too nice, + But gluttony was ne'er his vice: + In every turn of life content, + And meekly took what fortune sent; + Inquire through all the parish round, + A better neighbour ne'er was found; + His vigilance might some displease; + 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. + + The mimic Ape began his chatter, + How evil tongues his life bespatter; + Much of the censuring world complained, + Who said, his gravity was feigned: + Indeed, the strictness of his morals + Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: + He saw, and he was grieved to see 't, + His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: + He found his virtues too severe + For our corrupted times to bear; + Yet such a lewd licentious age + Might well excuse a stoic's rage. + + The Goat advanced with decent pace, + And first excused his youthful face; + Forgiveness begged that he appeared + ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. + 'Tis true, he was not much inclined + To fondness for the female kind: + Not, as his enemies object, + From chance, or natural defect; + + Not by his frigid constitution; + But through a pious resolution: + For he had made a holy vow + Of chastity, as monks do now: + Which he resolved to keep for ever hence + And strictly too, as doth his reverence. + + Apply the tale, and you shall find, + How just it suits with human kind. + Some faults we own; but can you guess? + --Why, virtues carried to excess, + Wherewith our vanity endows us, + Though neither foe nor friend allows us. + + The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) + He never squeezed a needy client; + And this he makes his constant rule, + For which his brethren call him fool; + His conscience always was so nice, + He freely gave the poor advice; + By which he lost, he may affirm, + A hundred fees last Easter term; + While others of the learned robe, + Would break the patience of a Job. + No pleader at the bar could match + His diligence and quick dispatch; + Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, + Above a term or two at most. + + The cringing Knave, who seeks a place + Without success, thus tells his case: + Why should he longer mince the matter? + He failed, because he could not flatter; + He had not learned to turn his coat, + Nor for a party give his vote: + His crime he quickly understood; + Too zealous for the nation's good: + He found the ministers resent it, + Yet could not for his heart repent it. + + The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, + Though it would raise him to the lawn: + He passed his hours among his books; + You find it in his meagre looks: + He might, if he were worldly wise, + Preferment get, and spare his eyes; + But owns he had a stubborn spirit, + That made him trust alone to merit; + Would rise by merit to promotion; + Alas! a mere chimeric notion. + + The Doctor, if you will believe him, + Confessed a sin; (and God forgive him!) + Called up at midnight, ran to save + A blind old beggar from the grave: + But see how Satan spreads his snares; + He quite forgot to say his prayers. + He cannot help it, for his heart, + Sometimes to act the parson's part: + Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, + That moves his patients to repentance; + And, when his medicines do no good, + Supports their minds with heavenly food: + At which, however well intended. + He hears the clergy are offended; + And grown so bold behind his back, + To call him hypocrite and quack. + + * * * * * + + I own the moral not exact, + Besides, the tale is false, in fact; + And so absurd, that could I raise up, + From fields Elysian, fabling. + Aesop, I would accuse him to his face, + For libelling the four-foot race. + Creatures of every kind but ours + Well comprehend their natural powers, + While we, whom reason ought to sway, + Mistake our talents every day. + The Ass was never known so stupid + To act the part of Tray or Cupid; + Nor leaps upon his master's lap. + There to be stroked, and fed with pap, + As Aesop would the world persuade; + He better understands his trade: + Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, + But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. + Our author's meaning, I presume, is + A creature _bipes et implumis_; + + Wherein the moralist designed + A compliment on human kind; + For here he owns, that now and then + Beasts may degenerate into men. + + + FROM VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT + + Vain human kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, + Their empire in our hearts divide. + Give others riches, power, and station, + 'Tis all on me a usurpation. + I have no title to aspire; + Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. + In Pope I cannot read a line + But with a sigh I wish it mine; + When he can in one couplet fix + More sense than I can do in six, + It gives me such a jealous fit I cry, + 'Pox take him and his wit!' + I grieve to be outdone by Gay + In my own humorous biting way. + Arbuthnot is no more my friend, + Who dares to irony pretend, + Which I was born to introduce, + Refined it first, and showed its use. + St. John, as well as Pultney, knows, + That I had some repute for prose; + And, till they drove me out of date, + Could maul a minister of state. + If they have _mortified_ my pride, + And made me throw my pen aside: + If with such talents Heaven has blessed 'em, + Have I not reason to detest 'em? + + * * * * * + + Suppose me dead; and then suppose + A club assembled at the Rose; + Where, from discourse of this and that, + I grow the subject of their chat. + + And while they toss my name about, + With favour some, and some without, + One, quite indifferent in the cause, + My character impartial draws: + + 'The Dean, if we believe report, + Was never ill-received at court. + As for his works in verse and prose, + I own myself no judge of those; + Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em, + But this I know, all people bought 'em, + As with a moral view designed + To cure the vices of mankind, + His vein, ironically grave, + Exposed the fool, and lashed the knave. + To steal a hint was never known, + But what he writ was all his own. + + 'He never thought an honour done him, + Because a duke was proud to own him; + Would rather slip aside and choose + To talk with wits in dirty shoes; + Despised the fools with stars and garters, + So often seen caressing Chartres. + He never courted men in station, + Nor persons held in admiration; + Of no man's greatness was afraid, + Because he sought for no man's aid. + Though trusted long in great affairs, + He gave himself no haughty airs. + Without regarding private ends. + Spent all his credit for his friends; + And only chose the wise and good; + No flatterers; no allies in blood: + But succoured virtue in distress, + And seldom failed of good success; + As numbers in their hearts must own, + Who, but for him, had been unknown. + + * * * * * + + 'Perhaps I may allow the Dean + Had too much satire in his vein; + And seemed determined not to starve it, + Because no age could more deserve it. + + Yet malice never was his aim; + He lashed the vice, but spared the name; + No individual could resent, + Where thousands equally were meant; + His satire points at no defect, + But what all mortals may correct; + For he abhorred that senseless tribe + Who call it humour when they gibe: + He spared a hump, or crooked nose, + Whose owners set not up for beaux. + True genuine dulness moved his pity, + Unless it offered to be witty. + Those who their ignorance confessed, + He never offended with a jest; + But laughed to hear an idiot quote + A verse from Horace learned by rote. + + 'He knew a hundred pleasing stories, + With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: + Was cheerful to his dying day; + And friends would let him have his way. + + 'He gave the little wealth he had + To build a house for fools and mad; + And showed by one satiric touch, + No nation wanted it so much.' + + + + + CHARLES WESLEY + + + FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY + + Hark! how all the welkin rings + 'Glory to the King of kings! + Peace on earth, and mercy mild, + God and sinners reconciled!' + + Joyful, all ye nations, rise, + Join the triumph of the skies; + Universal nature say, + 'Christ the Lord is born to-day!' + + Christ, by highest Heaven adored; + Christ, the everlasting Lord; + Late in time behold Him come, + Offspring of a virgin's womb! + + Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; + Hail, th' incarnate Deity, + Pleased as man with men to appear, + Jesus, our Immanuel here! + + Hail! the heavenly Prince of Peace! + Hail! the Sun of Righteousness! + Light and life to all He brings, + Risen with healing in His wings. + + Mild He lays His glory by, + Barn that man no more may die, + Born to raise the sons of earth, + Born to give them second birth. + + Come, Desire of Nations, come, + Fix in us Thy humble home! + Rise, the Woman's conquering Seed, + Bruise in us the Serpent's head! + + Now display Thy saving power, + Ruined nature now restore, + Now in mystic union join + Thine to ours, and ours to Thine! + + Adam's likeness, Lord, efface; + Stamp Thy image in its place; + Second Adam from above, + Reinstate us in Thy love! + + Let us Thee, though lost, regain, + Thee, the Life, the Inner Man; + O! to all Thyself impart, + Formed in each believing heart! + + + FOR EASTER-DAY + + 'Christ the Lord is risen to-day,' + Sons of men and angels say: + Raise your joys and triumphs high, + Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply. + + Love's redeeming work is done, + Fought the fight, the battle won: + Lo! our Sun's eclipse is o'er; + Lo! He sets in blood no more. + + Vain the stone, the watch, the seal; + Christ hath burst the gates of hell! + Death in vain forbids His rise; + Christ hath opened Paradise! + + Lives again our glorious King: + Where, O Death, is now thy sting? + Dying once, He all doth save: + Where thy victory, O Grave? + + Soar we now where Christ has led, + Following our exalted Head; + Made like Him, like Him we rise; + Ours the Cross, the grave, the skies. + + What though once we perished all, + Partners in our parents' fall? + Second life we all receive, + In our Heavenly Adam live. + + Risen with Him, we upward move; + Still we seek the things above; + Still pursue, and kiss the Son + Seated on His Father's Throne. + + Scarce on earth a thought bestow, + Dead to all we leave below; + Heaven our aim, and loved abode, + Hid our life with Christ in God: + + Hid, till Christ our Life appear + Glorious in His members here; + Joined to Him, we then shall shine, + All immortal, all divine. + + Hail the Lord of Earth and Heaven! + Praise to Thee by both be given! + Thee we greet triumphant now! + Hail, the Resurrection Thou! + + King of glory, Soul of bliss! + Everlasting life is this, + Thee to know, Thy power to prove, + Thus to sing, and thus to love! + + + IN TEMPTATION + + Jesu, lover of my soul, + Let me to Thy bosom fly, + While the nearer waters roll, + While the tempest still is high! + Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, + Till the storm of life is past, + Safe into the haven guide; + O receive my soul at last! + + Other refuge have I none; + Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; + Leave, ah! leave me not alone, + Still support and comfort me! + All my trust on Thee is stayed, + All my help from Thee I bring: + Cover my defenceless head + With the shadow of Thy wing! + + Wilt Thou not regard my call? + Wilt Thou not accept my prayer? + Lo! I sink, I faint, I fall! + Lo! on Thee I cast my care! + Reach me out Thy gracious hand! + While I of Thy strength receive, + Hoping against hope I stand, + Dying, and behold I live! + + Thou, O Christ, art all I want; + More than all in Thee I find: + Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, + Heal the sick, and lead the blind! + Just and holy is Thy Name; + I am all unrighteousness; + False and full of sin I am, + Thou art full of truth and grace. + + Plenteous grace with Thee is found, + Grace to cover all my sin; + Let the healing streams abound; + Make and keep me pure within! + Thou of Life the Fountain art, + Freely let me take of Thee; + Spring Thou up within my heart! + Rise to all eternity! + + + WRESTLING JACOB + + Come, O thou Traveller unknown, + Whom still I hold, but cannot see; + My company before is gone, + And I am left alone with Thee; + With Thee all night I mean to stay, + And wrestle till the break of day. + + I need not tell Thee who I am, + My misery or sin declare; + Thyself hast called me by my name; + Look on Thy hands, and read it there! + But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou? + Tell me Thy name, and tell me now. + + In vain Thou strugglest to get free, + I never will unloose my hold; + Art Thou the Man that died for me? + The secret of Thy love unfold. + + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal + Thy new, unutterable name? + Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell: + To know it now, resolved I am: + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + 'Tis all in vain to hold Thy tongue, + Or touch the hollow of my thigh; + Though every sinew be unstrung, + Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly; + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + What though my shrinking flesh complain, + And murmur to contend so long? + I rise superior to my pain; + When I am weak, then I am strong: + And when my all of strength shall fail, + I shall with the God-Man prevail. + + My strength is gone; my nature dies; + I sink beneath Thy weighty hand, + Faint to revive, and fall to rise; + I fall, and yet by faith I stand: + I stand, and will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + Yield to me now, for I am weak, + But confident in self-despair; + Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, + Be conquered by my instant prayer! + Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move, + And tell me, if Thy name is Love? + + 'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me! + I hear Thy whisper in my heart! + The morning breaks, the shadows flee; + Pure universal Love Thou art! + To me, to all, Thy bowels move; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + My prayer hath power with God; the grace + Unspeakable I now receive; + Through faith I see Thee face to face, + I see Thee face to face, and live: + In vain I have not wept and strove; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art; + Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend! + Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, + But stay, and love me to the end! + Thy mercies never shall remove, + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + The Sun of Righteousness on me + Hath rose, with healing in His wings; + Withered my nature's strength, from Thee + My soul its life and succour brings; + My help is all laid up above; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + Contented now upon my thigh + I halt, till life's short journey end; + All helplessness, all weakness, I + On Thee alone for strength depend; + Nor have I power from Thee to move; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + Lame as I am, I take the prey, + Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome; + I leap for joy, pursue my way, + And as a bounding hart fly home! + Through all eternity to prove, + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + + + + ROBERT BLAIR + + + FROM THE GRAVE + + See yonder hallowed fane;--the pious work + Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, + And buried midst the wreck of things which were; + There lie interred the more illustrious dead. + The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks + Till now I never heard a sound so dreary: + Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, + Rooked in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles, + Black--plastered, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons + And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound + Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, + The mansions of the dead.--Roused from their slumbers, + In grim array the grisly spectres rise, + Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, + Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night. + Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! + I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill. + + * * * * * + + Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seen + By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees, + The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand, + Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, + And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, + (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,) + That tell in homely phrase who lie below. + Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, + The sound of something purring at his heels; + Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, + Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows; + Who gather round, and wonder at the tale + Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, + That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand + O'er some new-opened grave; and (strange to tell!) + Evanishes at crowing of the cock. + + The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spied, + Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead: + Listless, she crawls along in doleful black, + Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye, + Fast falling down her now untasted cheek: + Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man + She drops; whilst busy, meddling memory, + In barbarous succession musters up + The past endearments of their softer hours, + Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks + She sees him, and indulging the fond thought, + Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf, + Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way. + + * * * * * + + When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, + Not unattentive to the call, shall wake, + And every joint possess its proper place + With a new elegance of form unknown + To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul + Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd + Singling its other half, into its arms + Shall rush with all the impatience of a man + That's new come home, who having long been absent + With haste runs over every different room + In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! + Nor time nor death shall part them ever more. + 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night, + We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. + + Thus at the shut of even the weary bird + Leaves the wide air and, in some lonely brake, + Cowers down and dozes till the dawn of day, + Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away. + + + + + WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + + + FROM ON RIDICULE + + Our mirthful age, to all extremes a prey, + Even, courts the lash, and laughs her pains away, + Declining worth imperial wit supplies, + And Momus triumphs, while Astraea flies. + No truth so sacred, banter cannot hit, + No fool so stupid but he aims at wit. + Even those whose breasts ne'er planned one virtuous deed, + Nor raised a thought beyond the earth they tread: + Even those can censure, those can dare deride + A Bacon's avarice, or a Tully's pride; + And sneer at human checks by Nature given. + To curb perfection e'er it rival Heaven: + Nay, chiefly such in these low arts prevail, + Whose want of talents leaves them time to raid. + Born for no end, they worse than useless grow, + (As waters poison, if they cease to flow;) + And pests become, whom kinder fate designed + But harmless expletives of human kind. + See with what zeal th' insidious task they ply! + Where shall the prudent, where the virtuous fly? + Lurk as ye can, if they direct the ray, + The veriest atoms in the sunbeams play. + No venial slip their quick attention 'scapes; + They trace each Proteus through his hundred shapes; + To Mirth's tribunal drag the caitiff train, + Where Mercy sleeps, and Nature pleads in vain. + + * * * * * + + Here then we fix, and lash without control + These mental pests, and hydras of the soul; + Acquired ill-nature, ever prompt debate, + A seal for slander, and deliberate hate: + These court contempt, proclaim the public foe, + And each, Ulysses like, should aim the blow. + Yet sure, even here, our motives should be known: + Rail we to check his spleen, or ease our own? + + Does injured virtue every shaft supply, + Arm the keen tongue, and flush th' erected eye? + Or do we from ourselves ourselves disguise? + And act, perhaps, the villain we chastise? + Hope we to mend him? hopes, alas, how vain! + He feels the lash, not listens to the rein. + + 'Tis dangerous too, in these licentious times, + Howe'er severe the smile, to sport with crimes. + Vices when ridiculed, experience says, + First lose that horror which they ought to raise, + Grow by degrees approved, and almost aim at praise. + + * * * * * + + [The] fear of man, in his most mirthful mood, + May make us hypocrites, but seldom good. + + * * * * * + + Besides, in men have varying passions made + Such nice confusions, blending, light with shade, + That eager zeal to laugh the vice away + May hurt some virtue's intermingling ray. + + * * * * * + + Then let good-nature every charm exert, + And while it mends it, win th' unfolding heart. + Let moral mirth a face of triumph wear, + Yet smile unconscious of th' extorted tear. + See with what grace instructive satire flows, + Politely keen, in Olio's numbered prose! + That great example should our zeal excite, + And censors learn from Addison to write. + So, in our age, too prone to sport with pain, + Might soft humanity resume her reign; + Pride without rancour feel th' objected fault, + And folly blush, as willing to be taught; + Critics grow mild, life's witty warfare cease, + And true good-nature breathe the balm of peace. + + + THE ENTHUSIAST + + Once--I remember well the day, + 'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May + Had lost their freshest hues, + When every flower on every hill, + In every vale, had drank its fill + Of sunshine and of dews. + + In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime + When Spring gives up the reins of time + To Summer's glowing hand, + And doubting mortals hardly know + By whose command the breezes blow + Which fan the smiling land. + + 'Twas then, beside a greenwood shade + Which clothed a lawn's aspiring head, + I urged my devious way, + With loitering steps regardless where, + So soft, so genial was the air, + So wondrous bright the day. + + And now my eyes with transport rove + O'er all the blue expanse above, + Unbroken by a cloud! + And now beneath delighted pass, + Where winding through the deep-green grass + A full-brimmed river flowed. + + I stop, I gaze; in accents rude, + To thee, serenest Solitude, + Bursts forth th' unbidden lay; + 'Begone vile world! the learned, the wise, + The great, the busy, I despise, + And pity even the gay. + + 'These, these are joys alone, I cry, + 'Tis here, divine Philosophy, + Thou deign'st to fix thy throne! + Here contemplation points the road + Through nature's charms to nature's God! + These, these are joys alone! + + 'Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares, + Ye human hopes, and human fears, + Ye pleasures and ye pains!' + While thus I spake, o'er all my soul + A philosophic calmness stole, + A stoic stillness reigns. + + The tyrant passions all subside, + Fear, anger, pity, shame, and pride, + No more my bosom move; + Yet still I felt, or seemed to feel + A kind of visionary zeal + Of universal love. + + When lo! a voice, a voice I hear! + 'Twas Reason whispered in my ear + These monitory strains; + 'What mean'st thou, man? wouldst thou unbind + The ties which constitute thy kind, + The pleasures and the pains? + + 'The same Almighty Power unseen, + Who spreads the gay or solemn scene + To contemplation's eye, + Fixed every movement of the soul, + Taught every wish its destined goal, + And quickened every joy. + + 'He bids the tyrant passions rage, + He bids them war eternal wage, + And combat each his foe: + Till from dissensions concords rise, + And beauties from deformities, + And happiness from woe. + + 'Art thou not man, and dar'st thou find + A bliss which leans not to mankind? + Presumptuous thought and vain + Each bliss unshared is unenjoyed, + Each power is weak unless employed + Some social good to gain. + + 'Shall light and shade, and warmth and air. + With those exalted joys compare + Which active virtue feels, + When oil she drags, as lawful prize, + Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice, + At her triumphant wheels? + + 'As rest to labour still succeeds, + To man, whilst virtue's glorious deeds + Employ his toilsome day, + This fair variety of things + Are merely life's refreshing springs, + To sooth him on his way. + + 'Enthusiast go, unstring thy lyre, + In vain thou sing'st if none admire, + How sweet soe'er the strain, + And is not thy o'erflowing mind, + Unless thou mixest with thy kind, + Benevolent in vain? + + 'Enthusiast go, try every sense, + If not thy bliss, thy excellence, + Thou yet hast learned to scan; + At least thy wants, thy weakness know, + And see them all uniting show + That man was made for man.' + + + + + MARK AKENSIDE + + + FROM THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION + + [THE AESTHETIC AND MORAL INFLUENCE OF NATURE] + + Fruitless is the attempt, + By dull obedience and by creeping toil + Obscure, to conquer the severe ascent + Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath + Must fire the chosen genius; Nature's hand + + Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings, + Impatient of the painful steep, to soar + High as the summit, there to breathe at large + Ethereal air, with bards and sages old, + Immortal sons of praise. + + * * * * * + + Even so did Nature's hand + To certain species of external things + Attune the finer organs of the mind: + So the glad impulse of congenial powers, + Or of sweet sounds, or fair-proportioned form, + The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, + Thrills through imagination's tender frame, + From nerve to nerve; all naked and alive + They catch the spreading rays, till now the soul + At length discloses every tuneful spring, + To that harmonious movement from without + Responsive. + + * * * * * + + What then is taste, but these internal powers + Active, and strong, and feelingly alive + To each fine impulse? a discerning sense + Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust + From things deformed, or disarranged, or gross + In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, + Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; + But God alone, when first his active hand + Imprints the secret bias of the soul. + He, mighty parent wise and just in all, + Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven, + Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain + Who journey's homeward from a summer day's + Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils + And due repose, he loiters to behold + The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds + O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween, + His rude expression and untutored airs, + Beyond the power of language, will unfold + The form of beauty smiling at his heart-- + How lovely! how commanding! + + * * * * * + + Oh! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs + Of Luxury, the siren! nor the bribes + Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils + Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave + Those ever-blooming sweets which, from the store + Of Nature, fair Imagination culls + To charm th' enlivened soul! What though not all + Of mortal offspring can attain the heights + Of envied life, though only few possess + Patrician treasures or imperial state; + Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, + With richer treasure and an ampler state, + Endows at large whatever happy man + Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp; + The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns + The princely dome, the column and the arch, + The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, + Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, + His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring + Distils her dews, and from the silken gem + Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand + Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch + With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. + Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; + And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, + And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze + Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes + The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain + From all the tenants of the warbling shade + Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake + Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes + Fresh pleasure only; for th' attentive mind, + By this harmonious action on her powers, + Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft + In outward things to meditate the charm + Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home + To find a kindred order, to exert + Within herself this elegance of love, + This fair-inspired delight; her tempered powers + Refine at length, and every passion wears + A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. + But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze + On Nature's form where, negligent of all + These lesser graces, she assumes the part + Of that Eternal Majesty that weighed + The world's foundations, if to these the mind + Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far + Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms + Of servile custom cramp her generous powers? + Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth + Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down + To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? + Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds + And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course + The elements and seasons: all declare + For what th' Eternal Maker has ordained + The powers of man: we feel within ourselves + His energy divine: he tells the heart + He meant, he made us, to behold and love + What he beholds and loves, the general orb + Of life and being; to be great like him, + Beneficent and active. Thus the men + Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself + Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, + With his conceptions; act upon his plan; + And form to his, the relish of their souls. + + + + + JOSEPH WARTON + + + FROM THE ENTHUSIAST; OR, THE LOVER OF + NATURE + + Ye green-robed Dryads, oft at dusky eve + By wondering shepherds seen, to forests brown + To unfrequented meads, and pathless wilds, + Lead me from gardens decked with art's vain pomps. + Can gilt alcoves, can marble-mimic gods + Parterres embroidered, obelisks, and urns + Of high relief; can the long, spreading lake, + Or vista lessening to the sight; can Stow, + With all her Attic fanes, such raptures raise, + As the thrush-haunted copse, where lightly leaps + The fearful fawn the rustling leaves along, + And the brisk squirrel sports from bough to bough, + While from an hollow oak, whose naked roots + O'erhang a pensive rill, the busy bees + Hum drowsy lullabies? The bards of old, + Fair Nature's friends, sought such retreats, to charm + Sweet Echo with their songs; oft too they met + In summer evenings, near sequestered bowers, + Or mountain nymph, or Muse, and eager learnt + The moral strains she taught to mend mankind. + + * * * * * + + Rich in her weeping country's spoils, Versailles + May boast a thousand fountains, that can cast + The tortured waters to the distant heavens: + Yet let me choose some pine-topped precipice + Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy stream, + Like Anio, tumbling roars; or some bleak heath, + Where straggling stands the mournful juniper, + Or yew-tree scathed; while in clear prospect round + From the grove's bosom spires emerge, and smoke + In bluish wreaths ascends, ripe harvests wave, + Low, lonely cottages, and ruined tops + Of Gothic battlements appear, and streams + Beneath the sunbeams twinkle. + + Happy the first of men, ere yet confined + To smoky cities; who in sheltering groves, + Warm caves, and deep-sunk valleys lived and loved, + By cares unwounded; what the sun and showers, + And genial earth untillaged, could produce, + They gathered grateful, or the acorn brown + Or blushing berry; by the liquid lapse + Of murmuring waters called to slake their thirst, + Or with fair nymphs their sun-brown limbs to bathe; + With nymphs who fondly clasped their favourite youths, + Unawed by shame, beneath the beechen shade, + Nor wiles nor artificial coyness knew. + Then doors and walls were not; the melting maid + Nor frown of parents feared, nor husband's threats; + + Nor had cursed gold their tender hearts allured: + Then beauty was not venal. Injured Love, + Oh! whither, god of raptures, art thou fled? + + * * * * * + + What are the lays of artful Addison, + Coldly correct, to Shakespeare's warblings wild? + Whom on the winding Avon's willowed banks + Fair Fancy found, and bore the smiling babe + To a close cavern (still the shepherds show + The sacred place, whence with religious awe + They hear, returning from the field at eve, + Strange whisperings of sweet music through the air). + Here, as with honey gathered from the rock, + She fed the little prattler, and with songs + Oft soothed his wandering ears; with deep delight + On her soft lap he sat, and caught the sounds. + + Oft near some crowded city would I walk, + Listening the far-off noises, rattling cars, + Loud shouts of joy, sad shrieks of sorrow, knells + Full slowly tolling, instruments of trade, + Striking my ears with one deep-swelling hum. + Or wandering near the sea, attend the sounds + Of hollow winds and ever-beating waves. + Even when wild tempests swallow up the plains, + And Boreas' blasts, big hail, and rains combine + To shake the groves and mountains, would I sit, + Pensively musing on th' outrageous crimes + That wake Heaven's vengeance: at such solemn hours, + Demons and goblins through the dark air shriek, + While Hecat, with her black-browed sisters nine, + Bides o'er the Earth, and scatters woes and death. + Then, too, they say, in drear Egyptian wilds + The lion and the tiger prowl for prey + With roarings loud! The listening traveller + Starts fear-struck, while the hollow echoing vaults + Of pyramids increase the deathful sounds. + + But let me never fail in cloudless nights, + When silent Cynthia in her silver car + Through the blue concave slides, when shine the hills, + Twinkle the streams, and woods look tipped with gold, + To seek some level mead, and there invoke + + Old Midnight's sister, Contemplation sage, + (Queen of the rugged brow and stern-fixt eye,) + To lift my soul above this little earth, + This folly-fettered world: to purge my ears, + That I may hear the rolling planets' song, + And tuneful turning spheres: if this be barred + The little fays, that dance in neighbouring dales, + Sipping the night-dew, while they laugh and love, + Shall charm me with aërial notes.--As thus + I wander musing, lo, what awful forms + Yonder appear! sharp-eyed Philosophy + Clad in dun robes, an eagle on his wrist, + First meets my eye; next, virgin Solitude + Serene, who blushes at each gazer's sight; + Then Wisdom's hoary head, with crutch in hand, + Trembling, and bent with age; last Virtue's self, + Smiling, in white arrayed, who with her leads + Sweet Innocence, that prattles by her side, + A naked boy!--Harassed with fear I stop, + I gaze, when Virtue thus--'Whoe'er thou art, + Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld + In these my midnight walks; depart, and say, + That henceforth I and my immortal train + Forsake Britannia's isle; who fondly stoops + To vice, her favourite paramour.' She spoke, + And as she turned, her round and rosy neck, + Her flowing train, and long ambrosial hair, + Breathing rich odours, I enamoured view. + + O who will bear me then to western climes, + Since virtue leaves our wretched land, to fields + Yet unpolluted with Iberian swords, + The isles of innocence, from mortal view + Deeply retired, beneath a plantain's shade, + Where happiness and quiet sit enthroned. + With simple Indian swains, that I may hunt + The boar and tiger through savannahs wild, + Through fragrant deserts and through citron groves? + There fed on dates and herbs, would I despise + The far-fetched cates of luxury, and hoards + Of narrow-hearted avarice; nor heed + The distant din of the tumultuous world. + + + + + JOHN GILBERT COOPER + + + FROM THE POWER OF HARMONY + + THE HARMONY OF NATURE + + Hail, thrice hail! + Ye solitary seats, where Wisdom seeks + Beauty and Good, th' unseparable pair, + Sweet offspring of the sky, those emblems fair + Of the celestial cause, whose tuneful word + From discord and from chaos raised this globe + And all the wide effulgence of the day. + From him begins this beam of gay delight, + When aught harmonious strikes th' attentive mind; + In him shall end; for he attuned the frame + Of passive organs with internal sense, + To feel an instantaneous glow of joy, + When Beauty from her native seat of Heaven, + Clothed in ethereal wildness, on our plains + Descends, ere Reason with her tardy eye + Can view the form divine; and through the world + The heavenly boon to every being flows. + + * * * * * + + Nor less admire those things, which viewed apart + Uncouth appear, or horrid; ridges black + Of shagged rocks, which hang tremendous o'er + Some barren heath; the congregated clouds + Which spread their sable skirts, and wait the wind + To burst th' embosomed storm; a leafless wood, + A mouldering ruin, lightning-blasted fields; + Nay, e'en the seat where Desolation reigns + In brownest horror; by familiar thought + Connected to this universal frame, + With equal beauty charms the tasteful soul + As the gold landscapes of the happy isles + Crowned with Hesperian fruit: for Nature formed + One plan entire, and made each separate scene + Co-operate with the general of all + In that harmonious contrast. + + * * * * * + + From these sweet meditations on the charms + Of things external, on the genuine forms + Which blossom in creation, on the scene + Where mimic art with emulative hue + Usurps the throne of Nature unreproved, + On the just concord of mellifluent sounds; + The soul, and all the intellectual train + Of fond desires, gay hopes, or threatening fears, + Through this habitual intercourse of sense + Is harmonized within, till all is fair + And perfect; till each moral power perceives + Its own resemblance, with fraternal joy, + In every form complete, and smiling feels + Beauty and Good the same. + + + + + WILLIAM COLLINS + + ODE + + Written in the beginning of the year 1746 + + How sleep the brave who sink to rest + By all their country's wishes blest! + When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, + Returns to deck their hallowed mould, + She there shall dress a sweeter sod + 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! + + + ODE TO EVENING + + If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song + May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, + Like thy own solemn springs + Thy springs and dying gales, + + O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun + Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, + With brede ethereal wove, + O'erhang his wavy bed: + + Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, + With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing; + 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 softened strain, + + Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, + May not unseemly with its stillness suit, + As, musing slow, I hail + Thy genial loved return! + + For when thy folding-star, arising, shows + His paly circlet, at his warning lamp + The fragrant Hours, and elves + Who slept in flowers 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-hallowed pile + Or upland fallows grey + Reflect its last cool gleam. + + But when chill blustering winds or driving rain + Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut + That from the mountain's side + Views wilds, and swelling floods, + + And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, + And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all + Thy dewy fingers draw + The gradual dusky veil. + + While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, + And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve; + While Summer loves to sport + Beneath thy lingering light; + + While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; + Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, + Affrights thy shrinking train, + And rudely rends thy robes; + + So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, + Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipped Health, + Thy gentlest influence own, + And hymn, thy favourite name! + + + ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER + + STROPHE + + As once---if not with light regard + I read aright that gifted bard + (Him whose school above the rest + His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest)-- + One, only one, unrivalled fair + Might hope the magic girdle wear, + At solemn tourney hung on high, + The wish of each love-darting eye; + Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied, + As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, + Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame, + With whispered spell had burst the starting band, + + It left unblest her loathed, dishonoured side; + Happier, hopeless fair, if never + Her baffled hand, with vain endeavour, + Had touched that fatal zone to her denied! + Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, + To whom, prepared and bathed in heaven, + The cest of amplest power is given, + To few the godlike gift assigns + To gird their blest, prophetic loins, + And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmixed her flame! + + EPODE + + The band, as fairy legends say, + Was wove on that creating day + When He who called with thought to birth + Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, + And dressed with springs and forests tall, + And poured the main engirting all, + Long by the loved enthusiast wood, + Himself in some diviner mood, + Retiring, sate with her alone, + And placed her on his sapphire throne, + The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, + Seraphic wires were heard to sound, + Now sublimest triumph swelling, + Now on love and mercy dwelling; + And she, from out the veiling cloud, + Breathed her magic notes aloud, + And thou, thou rich-haired Youth of Morn, + And all thy subject life, was born! + The dangerous passions kept aloof, + Far from the sainted growing woof: + But near it sate ecstatic Wonder, + Listening the deep applauding thunder; + And Truth, in sunny vest arrayed, + By whose the tarsel's eyes were made; + All the shadowy tribes of mind, + In braided dance, their murmurs joined, + And all the bright uncounted powers + Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers. + Where is the bard whose soul can now + Its high presuming hopes avow? + Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, + This hallowed work for him designed? + + ANTISTROPHE + + High on some cliff, to heaven up-piled, + Of rude access, of prospect wild, + Where, tangled round the jealous steep, + Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep. + And holy genii guard the rock, + Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, + While on its rich ambitious head + An Eden, like his own, lies spread, + + I view that oak, the fancied glades among, + By which as Milton lay, his evening ear, + From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew, + Nigh sphered in heaven, its native strains could hear, + On which that ancient trump he reached was hung: + Thither oft, his glory greeting, + From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, + With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, + My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue; + In vain--such bliss to one alone + Of all the sons of soul was known, + And Heaven and Fancy, kindred powers, + Have now o'erturned th' inspiring bowers, + Or curtained close such scene from every future view. + + + THE PASSIONS + + AN ODE FOR MUSIC + + When Music, heavenly maid, was young, + While yet in early Greece she sung, + The Passions oft, to hear her shell, + Thronged around her magic cell, + Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, + Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; + By turns they felt the glowing mind + Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: + + Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, + Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, + From the supporting myrtles round + They snatched her instruments of sound; + And, as they oft had heard apart + Sweet lessons of her forceful art, + Each (for madness ruled the hour) + Would prove his own expressive power. + + First Fear in hand, its skill to try, + Amid the chords bewildered laid, + And back recoiled, he knew not why, + Even at the sound himself had made. + + Next Anger rushed: his eyes, on fire, + In lightnings owned his secret stings; + In one rude clash he struck the lyre, + And swept with hurried hand the strings. + + With woeful measures wan Despair + Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; + A solemn, strange, and mingled air-- + 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. + + But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, + What was thy delightful measure? + Still it whispered promised pleasure, + And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! + Still would her touch the strain prolong; + And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, + She called on Echo still, through all the song; + And where her sweetest theme she chose, + A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, + And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. + + And longer had she sung--but with a frown + Revenge impatient rose; + He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, + And with a withering look + The war-denouncing trumpet took, + And blew a blast so loud and dread, + Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. + + And ever and anon he beat + The doubling drum with furious heat; + And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, + Dejected Pity, at his side, + Her soul-subduing voice applied, + Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, + While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. + Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed, + Sad proof of thy distressful state; + Of differing themes the veering--song was mixed, + And now It courted Love, now raving called on Hate. + + With eyes upraised, as one inspired, + Pale Melancholy sate retired, + And from her wild sequestered seat, + In notes by distance made more sweet, + Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; + And, dashing soft from rocks around, + Bubbling runnels joined the sound: + Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, + Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, + Round an holy calm diffusing, + Love of peace and lonely musing, + In hollow murmurs died away, + + But O how altered was its sprightlier tone, + When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, + Her how across her shoulder flung, + Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, + Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, + The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known! + The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, + Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, + Peeping from forth their alleys green; + Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; + And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. + Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: + He, with viny crown advancing, + First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; + But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, + Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. + + They would have thought, who heard the strain, + They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, + Amidst the festal-sounding shades, + To some unwearied minstrel dancing, + While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, + Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round; + Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, + And he, amidst his frolic play, + As if he would the charming air repay, + Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. + + O Music! sphere-descended maid! + Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! + Why, goddess, why, to us denied, + Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? + As in that loved Athenian bower + You learned an all-commanding power, + Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared, + Can well recall what then it heard. + Where is thy native simple heart, + Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? + Arise as in that elder time, + Warm energic, chaste, sublime! + Thy wonders, in that godlike age, + Fill thy recording sister's page: + 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, + Thy humblest reed could more prevail, + Had more of strength, diviner rage, + Than all which charms this laggard age, + E'en all at once together found, + Cecilia's mingled world of sound. + O bid our vain endeavours cease: + Revive the just designs of Greece; + Return in all thy simple state; + Confirm the tales her sons relate! + + + ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF + THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND + + CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY + + I + + H----, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long + Have seen thee lingering, with a fond delay, + 'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, + Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. + Go, not, unmindful of that cordial youth + Whom, long-endeared, thou leav'st by Levant's side; + Together let us wish him lasting truth, + And joy untainted, with his destined bride. + Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast + My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; + But think, far off, how on the Southern coast + I met thy friendship with an equal flame! + Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose every vale + Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: + To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; + Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand, + And paint what all believe who own thy genial land. + + II + + There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; + 'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet, + Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet + Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill. + There each trim lass that skims the milky store + To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots; + By night they sip it round the cottage door, + While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. + There every herd, by sad experience, knows + How, winged with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly; + When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, + Or, stretched on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. + Such airy beings awe th' untutored swain: + Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect; + Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain: + These are the themes of simple, sure effect, + That add new conquests to her boundless reign, + And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain. + + III + + Even yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear, + Where to the pole the boreal mountains run, + Taught by the father to his listening son, + Strange lays, whose power had charmed a Spenser's ear. + At every pause, before thy mind possessed, + Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, + With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest, + Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned: + Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat + The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, + When every shrieking maid her bosom beat, + And strewed with choicest herbs his scented grave; + Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel, + Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms, + When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, + The sturdy clans poured forth their bony swarms, + And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms. + + IV + + 'Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells, + In Skye's lone isle the gifted wizard seer, + Lodged in the wintry cave with [Fate's fell spear;] + Or in the depth of Uist's dark forests dwells: + How they whose sight such dreary dreams engross, + With their own visions oft astonished droop, + When o'er the watery strath of quaggy moss + They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop; + Or if in sports, or on the festive green, + Their [destined] glance some fated youth descry, + Who, now perhaps in lusty vigour seen + And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. + For them the viewless forms of air obey, + Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. + They know what spirit brews the stormful day, + And, heartless, oft like moody madness stare + To see the phantom train their secret work prepare. + + V + + [To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, + Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow! + The seer, in Skye, shrieked as the blood did flow, + When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay! + As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth, + In the first year of the first George's reign, + And battles raged in welkin of the North, + They mourned in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! + And as, of late, they joyed in Preston's fight, + Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crowned, + They raved, divining, through their second sight, + Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drowned! + Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! + One William saved us from a tyrant's stroke; + He, for a sceptre, gained heroic fame; + But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, + To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke! + + VI + + These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic Muse + Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar! + Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more! + Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er lose; + Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath: + Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, + He glows, to draw you downward to your death, + In his bewitched, low, marshy willow brake!] + What though far off, from some dark dell espied, + His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight, + Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, + Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; + For, watchful, lurking 'mid th' unrustling reed, + At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, + And listens oft to hear the passing steed, + And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, + If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise. + + VII + + Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest indeed! + Whom, late bewildered in the dank, dark fen, + Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then, + To that sad spot [where hums the sedgy weed:] + On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, + Shall never look with Pity's kind concern, + But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood + O'er its drowned bank, forbidding all return. + Or, if he meditate his wished escape + To some dim hill that seems uprising near, + To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape, + In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. + Meantime, the watery surge shall round him rise, + Poured sudden forth from every swelling source. + What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? + His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, + And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse. + + VIII + + For him, in vain, his anxious wife shall wait, + Or wander forth to meet him on his way; + For him, in vain, at to-fall of the day, + His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate. + Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night + Her travelled limbs in broken slumbers steep, + With dropping willows dressed, his mournful sprite + Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: + Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, + Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, + And with his blue-swoln face before her stand, + And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: + 'Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue + At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; + Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew, + While I lie weltering on the oziered shore, + Drowned by the kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!' + + IX + + Unbounded is thy range; with varied style + Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring + From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing + Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle + To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows: + In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, + Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, + And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground! + Or thither, where, beneath the showery West, + The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: + Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest; + No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: + Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour, + The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, + And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, + In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold, + And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold. + + X + + But oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, + On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, + Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. + Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace! + Then to my ear transmit some gentle song + Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, + Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, + And all their prospect but the wintry main. + With sparing temperance, at the needful time, + They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-pressed, + Along th' Atlantic rock undreading climb, + And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. + Thus blest in primal innocence they live, + Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare + Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. + Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; + Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! + + XI + + Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engage + Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed; + For not alone they touch the village breast, + But filled in elder time th' historic page. + There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned,-- + [Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen!]-- + In musing hour, his wayward Sisters found, + And with their terrors dressed the magic scene. + From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, + Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, + The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line + Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed. + Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, + Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; + Proceed! in forceful sounds and colours bold, + The native legends of thy land rehearse; + To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse. + + XII + + In scenes like these, which, daring to depart + From sober truth, are still to nature true, + And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, + Th' heroic muse employed her Tasso's art! + How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, + Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured; + When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, + And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword! + How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind, + To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,-- + Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind + Believed the magic wonders which he sung! + Hence at each sound imagination glows; + [_The MS. lacks a line here_.] + Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows; + Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear, + And fills th' impassioned heart, and wins th' harmonious ear. + + XIII + + All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail, + Ye [splendid] friths and lakes which, far away, + Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or pastoral Tay, + Or Don's romantic springs; at distance, hail! + The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread + Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom, + Or o'er your stretching heaths by fancy led + [Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom:] + Then will I dress once more the faded bower. + Where Jonson sat in Drummond's [classic] shade, + Or crop from Teviot's dale each [lyric flower] + And mourn on Yarrow's banks [where Willy's laid!] + Meantime, ye Powers that on the plains which bore + The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend, + Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir, + To him I lose your kind protection lend, + And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend! + + + + + THOMAS WARTON + + + FROM THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY + + Beneath yon ruined abbey's moss-grown piles + Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, + Where through some western window the pale moon + Pours her long-levelled rule of streaming light, + While sullen, sacred silence reigns around, + Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bower + Amid the mouldering caverns dark and damp, + Or the calm breeze that rustles in the leaves + Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green + Invests some wasted tower. Or let me tread + Its neighbouring walk of pines, where mused of old + The cloistered brothers: through the gloomy void + That far extends beneath their ample arch + As on I pace, religious horror wraps + My soul in dread repose. But when the world + Is clad in midnight's raven-coloured robe, + 'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame + Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare + O'er the wan heaps, while airy voices talk + Along the glimmering walls, or ghostly shape, + At distance seen, invites with beckoning hand, + My lonesome steps through the far-winding vaults. + Nor undelightful is the solemn noon + Of night, when, haply wakeful, from my couch + I start: lo, all is motionless around! + Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men + And every beast in mute oblivion lie; + All nature's hushed in silence and in sleep: + O then how fearful is it to reflect + That through the still globe's awful solitude + No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep + My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews. + Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born, + My senses lead through flowery paths of joy: + But let the sacred genius of the night + Such mystic visions send as Spenser saw + When through bewildering Fancy's magic maze, + To the fell house of Busyrane, he led + Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew, + When in abstracted thought he first conceived + All Heaven in tumult, and the seraphim + Come towering, armed in adamant and gold. + + * * * * * + + Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces breathe, + And happiest art adorn his Attic page, + Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, + As, at the root of mossy trunk reclined, + In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song + I see deserted Una wander wide + Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths, + Weary, forlorn, than when the fated fair + Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames + Launches in all the lustre of brocade, + Amid the splendours of the laughing sun: + The gay description palls upon the sense, + And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss. + + * * * * * + + The tapered choir, at the late hour of prayer, + Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice + The many-sounding organ peals on high + The clear slow-dittied chant or varied hymn, + Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies + And lapped in Paradise. Or let me sit + Far in sequestered aisles of the deep dome; + There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds, + Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults, + In hollow murmurs reach my ravished ear. + Nor when the lamps, expiring, yield to night, + And solitude returns, would I forsake + The solemn mansion, but attentive mark + The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway, + Measuring Time's flight with momentary sound. + + + From THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR + + [THE PASSING OF THE KING] + + O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared, + High the screaming sea-mew soared; + On Tintagel's topmost tower + Darksome fell the sleety shower; + Round the rough castle shrilly sung + The whirling blast, and wildly flung + On each tall rampart's thundering side + The surges of the tumbling tide: + When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks + On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks: + By Mordred's faithless guile decreed + Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed! + Yet in vain a paynim foe + Armed with fate the mighty blow; + For when he fell, an Elfin Queen + All in secret, and unseen, + O'er the fainting hero threw + Her mantle of ambrosial blue; + And bade her spirits bear him far, + In Merlin's agate-axled car, + To her green isle's enamelled steep + Far in the navel of the deep. + O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew + From flowers that in Arabia grew: + On a rich enchanted bed + She pillowed his majestic head; + O'er his brow, with whispers bland, + Thrice she waved an opiate wand; + And to soft music's airy sound, + Her magic curtains closed around, + There, renewed the vital spring, + Again he reigns a mighty king; + And many a fair and fragrant clime, + Blooming in immortal prime, + By gales of Eden ever fanned, + Owns the monarch's high command: + Thence to Britain shall return + (If right prophetic rolls I learn), + Born on Victory's spreading plume, + His ancient sceptre to resume; + Once more, in old heroic pride, + His barbed courser to bestride; + His knightly table to restore, + And brave the tournaments of yore. + + + SONNET WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S 'MONASTICON' + + Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, + By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled, + Of painful pedantry the poring child, + Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, + Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. + Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smiled + On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage + His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styled, + Intent. While cloistered Piety displays + Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores + New manners, and the pomp of elder days, + Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. + Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways + Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers. + + + SONNET WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE + + Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle! + Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore, + To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, + Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile, + T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile: + Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, + Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: + Or Danish chiefs, enriched with savage spoil, + To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, + Reared the rude heap: or, in thy hallowed round, + Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line; + Or here those kings in solemn state were crowned: + Studious to trace thy wondrous origin, + We muse on many an ancient tale renowned. + + + SONNET TO THE RIVER LODON + + Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, + Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, + And thought my way was all through fairy ground, + Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun, + Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! + While pensive Memory traces back the round, + Which fills the varied interval between; + Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. + Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure + No more return, to cheer my evening road! + Yet still one joy remains: that not obscure + Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed, + From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; + Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed. + + + + + THOMAS GRAY + + + ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE + + Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, + That crown the watery glade, + Where grateful Science still adores + Her Henry's holy shade; + And ye, that from the stately brow + Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below + Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, + Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among + Wanders the hoary Thames along + His silver-winding way. + + Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! + Ah, fields beloved in vain! + Where once my careless childhood strayed, + A stranger yet to pain! + I feel the gales that from ye blow, + A momentary bliss bestow, + As waving fresh their gladsome wing, + My weary soul they seem to soothe, + And, redolent of joy and youth, + To breathe a second spring. + + Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen + Full many a sprightly race + Disporting on thy margent green + The paths of pleasure trace, + Who foremost now delight to cleave + With pliant arm thy glassy wave? + The captive linnet which enthrall? + What idle progeny succeed + To chase the rolling circle's speed, + Or urge the flying ball? + + While some on earnest business bent + Their murmuring labours ply + 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint + To sweeten liberty: + Some bold adventurers disdain + The limits of their little reign, + And unknown regions dare descry: + Still as they run they look behind, + They hear a voice in every wind, + And snatch a fearful joy. + + Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, + Less pleasing when possessed; + The tear forgot as soon as shed, + The sunshine of the breast: + Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, + Wild wit, invention ever-new, + And lively cheer of vigour born; + The thoughtless day, the easy night, + The spirits pure, the slumbers light, + That fly th' approach of morn. + + Alas! regardless of their doom, + The little victims play; + No sense have they of ills to come, + Nor care beyond to-day: + Yet see how all around 'em wait + The ministers of human fate, + And black Misfortune's baleful train! + Ah, shew them where in ambush stand + To seize their prey the murderous band! + Ah, tell them, they are men! + + These shall the fury Passions tear, + The vultures of the mind, + Disdainful, Anger, pallid Fear, + And Shame that skulks behind; + Or pining Love shall waste their youth, + Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, + That inly gnaws the secret heart, + And Envy wan, and faded Care, + Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, + And Sorrow's piercing dart. + + Ambition this shall tempt to rise, + Then whirl the wretch from high, + To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, + And grinning Infamy. + The stings of Falsehood those shall try, + And hard Unkindness' altered eye, + That mocks the tear it forced to flow; + And keen Remorse with blood defiled, + And moody Madness laughing wild + Amid severest woe. + + Lo, in the vale of years beneath + A grisly troop are seen, + The painful family of Death, + More hideous than their Queen: + This racks the joints, this fires the veins, + That every labouring sinew strains, + Those in the deeper vitals rage: + Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, + That numbs the soul with icy hand, + And slow-consuming Age. + + To each his sufferings; all are men, + Condemned alike to groan, + The tender for another's pain; + The unfeeling for his own. + Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, + Since sorrow never comes too late, + And happiness too swiftly flies? + Thought would destroy their paradise. + No more; where ignorance is bliss, + 'Tis folly to be wise. + + + HYMN TO ADVERSITY + + Daughter of Jove, relentless power, + Thou tamer of the human breast, + Whose iron scourge and torturing hour + The bad affright, afflict the best! + Bound in thy adamantine chain, + The proud are taught to taste of pain, + And purple tyrants vainly groan + With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. + + When first thy sire to send on earth + Virtue, his darling child, designed, + To thee he gave the heavenly birth, + And bade to form her infant mind. + Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore + With patience many a year she bore; + What sorrow was thou bad'st her know, + And from her own she learned to melt at other's woe. + + Scared at thy frown terrific, fly + Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, + Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, + And leave us leisure to be good: + Light they disperse, and with them go + The summer friend, the flattering foe; + By vain Prosperity received, + To her they TOW their truth, and are again believed. + + Wisdom in sable garb arrayed, + Immersed in rapturous thought profound, + And Melancholy, silent maid + With leaden eye, that loves the ground, + Still on thy solemn steps attend; + Warm Charity, the genial friend, + With Justice, to herself severe, + And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear, + + Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, + Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! + Hot in thy Gorgon terrors clad, + Nor circled with the vengeful band + (As by the impious thou art seen), + With thundering voice and threatening mien, + With screaming Horror's funeral cry, + Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty: + + Thy form benign, O goddess, wear, + Thy milder influence impart; + Thy philosophic train be there + To soften, not to wound, my heart; + The generous spark extinct revive, + Teach me to love and to forgive, + Exact nay own defects to scan, + What others are to feel, and know myself a man. + + + ELEGY + + WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, + The ploughman 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 tower + The moping owl does to the moon complain + Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, + Molest her ancient solitary reign. + + Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, + Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, + Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. + + The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, + The swallow twittering 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 bowed 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 power, + And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, + Await 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 Flattery 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 swayed, + 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 repressed their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene, + The dark unfathomed 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 listening 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 growing 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 learned to stray; + Along the cool sequestered vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. + + Yet even these bones from insult to protect, + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, + With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + + Their names, their years, spelt by th' unlettered 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 resigned, + Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, + Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? + + On some fond breast the parting soul relies, + Some pious drops the closing eye requires; + Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. + + For thee, who mindful of th' unhonoured 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, + Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; + Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, + Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. + + 'One morn I missed him on the customed hill, + Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 frowned not on his humble birth, + And Melancholy marked him for her own. + + Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; + Heaven did a recompense as largely send: + He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, + He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) 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._ + + + THE PROGRESS OF POESY + + I. 1 + + 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, + Through 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. + + I. 2 + + Oh sovereign of the willing soul, + Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, + Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares + And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. + On Thracia's hills the Lord of War + Has curbed the fury of his car + And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command. + Perching on the sceptred hand + Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king + With ruffled plumes and flagging wing; + Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie + The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye. + + I. 3 + + Thee the voice, the dance, obey, + Tempered to thy warbled lay. + O'er Idalia's velvet-green + The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen, + On Cytherea's day, + With antic Sports and blue-eyed Pleasures + 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. + + II. 1 + + 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 given in vain the heavenly Muse? + Night, and all her sickly dews, + Her spectres 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 glittering shafts of war, + + II. 2 + + 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 shivering native's dull abode. + And oft, beneath the odorous shade + Of Chili's boundless forests laid, + She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, + 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. + + II. 3 + + 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 labyrinths creep, + How do your tuneful echoes languish, + Mute but to the voice of Anguish? + Where each old poetic mountain + Inspiration breathed around, + Every shade and hallowed fountain + Murmured deep a solemn sound; + Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour + Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains: + Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, + And coward Vice that revels in her chains. + When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, + They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast. + + III. 1 + + Far from the sun and summer-gale, + In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, + What time, where lucid Avon strayed, + To him the mighty mother did unveil + Her awful face: the dauntless child + Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. + 'This pencil take,' she said, 'whose colours clear + Richly paint the vernal year. + 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.' + + III. 2 + + Nor second he that rode sublime + Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, + The secrets of th' abyss to spy. + He passed 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! + III. 3 + + 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? Though he inherit + Nor the pride nor ample pinion + That the Theban Eagle bear, + Sailing with supreme dominion + Through the azure deep of air, + Yet oft before his infant eyes would run + Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, + With orient hues unborrowed of the sun: + 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. + + + THE BARD + + I. 1 + + 'Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! + Confusion on thy banners wait; + Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing, + They mock the air with idle state. + Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, + Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail + To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, + From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' + Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride + Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, + As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side + He wound with toilsome march his long array. + Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance; + 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. + + I. 2 + + On a rock, whose haughty brow + Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. + Robed in the sable garb of woe, + With haggard eyes the poet stood + (Loose his heard and hoary hair + Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), + And with a master's hand and prophet's fire + Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: + 'Hark how each giant oak and desert cave + Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! + O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they wave, + Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe, + Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, + To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay. + + I. 3 + + 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, + That hushed the stormy main; + Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed; + Mountains, ye mourn in vain + Modred, whose magic song + Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head: + On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, + Smeared with gore and ghastly pale; + Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; + The famished eagle screams, and passes by. + Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, + Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, + Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, + Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- + No more I weep: they do not sleep! + On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, + I see them sit; they linger yet + Avengers of their native land: + With me in dreadful harmony they join, + And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. + + II. 1 + + '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 through 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 Heaven: what terrors round him wait! + Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, + And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. + + II. 2 + + '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 noontide 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, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. + + II. 3 + + '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 through the kindred squadrons mow their way. + Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, + With many a foul and midnight murther 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 thy thorny shade. + Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, + Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom! + + III. 1 + + '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.) + Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn + Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn! + In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, + They melt, they vanish from my eyes. + But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, + Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? + Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! + Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! + No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: + All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! + + III. 2 + + 'Girt with many a baron bold, + Sublime their starry fronts they rear; + And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old + In bearded majesty, appear. + In the midst a form divine! + Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line; + Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, + Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. + What strings symphonious tremble in the air, + What strains of vocal transport round her play! + Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear: + They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. + Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, + Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings. + + III. 3 + + 'The verse adorn again + Fierce War and faithful Love + And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. + In buskined measures move + Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, + With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. + A voice, as of the cherub-choir, + Gales from blooming Eden bear; + And distant warblings lessen on my ear, + That, lost in long futurity, expire. + Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, + Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day! + To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, + And warms the nations with redoubled ray. + Enough for me; with joy I see + The different doom our Fates assign: + Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; + To triumph and to die are mine.' + He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height + Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. + + + THE FATAL SISTERS + + AN ODE FROM THE NORSE TONGUE + + How the storm begins to lower, + (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) + Iron-sleet of arrowy shower + Hurtles in the darkened air. + + Glittering lances are the loom, + Where the dusky warp we strain, + Weaving many a soldier's doom, + Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane. + + See the grisly texture grow, + ('Tis of human entrails made,) + And the weights, that play below, + Each a gasping warrior's head. + + Shafts for shuttles, dipped in gore, + Shoot the trembling cords along. + Sword, that once a monarch bore, + Keep the tissue close and strong. + + Mista black, terrific maid, + Sangrida, and Hilda see, + Join the wayward work to aid: + 'Tis the woof of victory. + + Ere the ruddy sun be set, + Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, + Blade with clattering buckler meet, + Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. + + (Weave the crimson web of war.) + Let us go, and let us fly, + Where our friends the conflict share, + Where they triumph, where they die. + + As the paths of fate we tread, + Wading through th' ensanguined field: + Gondula, and Geira, spread + O'er the youthful king your shield. + + We the reins to slaughter give, + Ours to kill, and ours to spare: + Spite of danger he shall live. + (Weave the crimson web of war.) + + They, whom once the desert-beach + Pent within its bleak domain, + Soon their ample sway shall stretch + O'er the plenty of the plain. + + Low the dauntless earl is laid, + Gored with many a gaping wound: + Fate demands a nobler head; + Soon a king shall bite the ground. + + Long his loss shall Erin weep, + Ne'er again his likeness see; + Long her strains in sorrow steep, + Strains of immortality! + + Horror covers all the heath, + Clouds of carnage blot the sun. + Sisters,--weave the web of death; + Sisters, cease, the work is done. + + Hail the task, and hail the hands! + Songs of joy and triumph sing! + Joy to the victorious bands; + Triumph to the younger king. + + Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, + Learn the tenor of our song. + Scotland, through each winding Tale + Far and wide the notes prolong. + + Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: + Each her thundering falchion wield; + Each bestride her sable steed. + Hurry, hurry to the field. + + +ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE + + Now the golden Morn aloft + Waves her dew-bespangled wing; + With vermeil cheek and whisper soft + She wooes the tardy Spring; + Till April starts, and calls around + The sleeping fragrance from the ground, + And lightly o'er the living scene + Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. + + New-born flocks, In rustic dance, + Frisking ply their feeble feet; + Forgetful of their wintry trance, + The birds his presence greet; + But chief the sky-lark warbles high + His trembling, thrilling ecstasy, + And, lessening from the dazzled sight, + Melts into air and liquid light. + + Rise, my soul! on wings of fire + Rise the rapturous choir among! + Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre, + And leads the general song. +[_Four lines lacking in the MS_.] + + Yesterday the sullen year + Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; + Mute was the music of the air, + The herd stood drooping by: + Their raptures now that wildly flow + No yesterday nor morrow know; + 'Tis man alone that joy descries + With forward and reverted eyes. + + Smiles on past Misfortune's brow + Soft Reflection's hand can trace, + And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw + A melancholy grace; + While Hope prolongs our happier hour, + Or deepest shades, that dimly lower + And blacken round our weary way, + Gilds with a gleam of distant day. + + Still where rosy Pleasure leads + See a kindred Grief pursue; + Behind the steps that Misery treads, + Approaching Comfort view: + The hues of bliss more brightly glow + Chastised by sabler tints of woe, + And, blended, form with artful strife + The strength and harmony of life. + + See the wretch that long has tossed + On the thorny bed of pain + At length repair his vigour lost + And breathe and walk again: + The meanest flowret of the vale, + The simplest note that swells the gale. + The common sun, the air, the skies, + To him are opening Paradise. + + Humble Quiet builds her cell + Near the source whence Pleasure flows; + She eyes the clear crystalline well, + And tastes it as it goes. + +[_The rest is lacking_.] + + + + + SAMUEL JOHNSON + + + From THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES + + IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL + + In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, + Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: + To him the church, the realm, their powers consign; + Through him the rays of regal bounty shine; + Turned by his nod the stream of honour flows; + His smile alone security bestows. + Still to new heights his restless wishes tower; + Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; + Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, + And rights submitted left him none to seize. + At length his sovereign frowns--the train of state + Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate: + Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye; + His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; + Now drops at once the pride of awful state-- + The golden canopy, the glittering plate, + The regal palace, the luxurious board, + The liveried army, and the menial lord. + With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, + He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. + Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, + And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. + + * * * * * + + When first the college rolls receive his name, + The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame; + Through all his veins the fever of renown + Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown; + O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, + And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. + Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth, + And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth! + Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat, + Till captive science yields her last retreat; + Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray, + And pour on misty doubt resistless day; + Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, + Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright; + Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain, + And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain; + Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, + Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart; + Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, + Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade; + Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, + Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee: + Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, + And pause awhile from letters, to be wise; + There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, + Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. + See nations slowly wise, and meanly just, + To buried merit raise the tardy bust! + + * * * * * + + On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, + How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide. + A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, + No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; + O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, + Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain. + No joys to him pacific sceptres yield-- + War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; + Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, + And one capitulate, and one resign: + Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; + 'Think nothing gained,' he cries, 'till naught remain! + On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, + And all be mine beneath the polar sky!' + The march begins in military state, + And nations on his eye suspended wait. + Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, + And Winter barricades the realms of frost. + He comes; nor want nor cold his course delay-- + Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day! + The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, + And shows his miseries in distant lands, + Condemned a needy supplicant to wait + While ladies interpose and slaves debate. + But did not Chance at length her error mend? + Did no subverted empire mark his end? + Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, + Or hostile millions press him to the ground? + His fall was destined to a barren strand, + A petty fortress, and a dubious hand. + He left the name at which the world grew pale, + To point a moral or adorn a tale. + + * * * * * + + But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime + Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime; + An age that melts with unperceived decay, + And glides in modest innocence away; + Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, + Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers; + The general favourite as the general friend: + Such age there is, and who shall wish its end? + Yet even on this her load Misfortune flings, + To press the weary minutes' flagging wings; + New sorrow rises as the day returns, + A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns, + Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, + Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear. + Year chases year, decay pursues decay, + Still drops some joy from withering life away; + New forms arise, and different views engage, + Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage, + Till pitying Nature signs the last release, + And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. + + * * * * * + + Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? + Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? + Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, + Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? + Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, + No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?-- + Enquirer, cease; petitions yet remain, + Which Heaven may hear; nor deem religion vain. + Still raise for good the supplicating voice, + But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice; + Safe in His power, whose eyes discern afar + The secret ambush of a specious prayer. + Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, + Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best. + Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires, + And strong devotion to the skies aspires, + Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, + Obedient passions, and a will resigned; + For love, which scarce collective man can fill; + For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill; + For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, + Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat: + These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain; + These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain; + With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, + And makes the happiness she does not find. + + + + + RICHARD JAGO + + + FROM THE GOLDFINCHES + + All in a garden, on a currant bush, + With wondrous art they built their airy seat; + In the next orchard lived a friendly thrush + Nor distant far a woodlark's soft retreat. + + Here blessed with ease, and in each other blessed, + With early songs they waked the neighbouring groves, + Till time matured their joys, and crowned their nest + With infant pledges of their faithful loves. + + And now what transport glowed in either's eye! + What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food! + What joy each other's likeness to descry; + And future sonnets in the chirping brood! + + But ah! what earthly happiness can last! + How does the fairest purpose often fail? + A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blast + Their flattering hopes, and leave them both to wail. + + The most ungentle of his tribe was he, + No generous precept ever touched his heart; + With concord false, and hideous prosody, + He scrawled his task, and blundered o'er his part. + + On mischief bent, he marked, with ravenous eyes, + Where wrapped in down the callow songsters lay; + Then rushing, rudely seized the glittering prize. + And bore it in his impious hands away! + + But how stall I describe, in numbers rude, + The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed, + When from her secret stand aghast she viewed + The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed? + + 'O grief of griefs!' with shrieking voice she cried, + 'What sight is this that I have lived to see! + O! that I had in youth's fair season died, + From love's false joys and bitter sorrows free.' + + + + + JOHN DALTON + + + From A DESCRIPTIVE POEM + + ... To nature's pride, + Sweet Keswick's vale, the Muse will guide: + The Muse who trod th' enchanted ground, + Who sailed the wondrous lake around, + With you will haste once more to hail + The beauteous brook of Borrodale. + + * * * * * + + Let other streams rejoice to roar + Down the rough rocks of dread Lodore, + Rush raving on with boisterous sweep, + And foaming rend the frighted deep; + Thy gentle genius shrinks away + From such a rude unequal fray; + Through thine own native dale where rise + Tremendous rocks amid the skies, + Thy waves with patience slowly wind, + Till they the smoothest channel find, + Soften the horrors of the scene, + And through confusion flow serene. + Horrors like these at first alarm, + But soon with savage grandeur charm, + And raise to noblest thought the mind: + Thus by the fall, Lodore, reclined, + The craggy cliff, impendent wood, + Whose shadows mix o'er half the flood, + The gloomy clouds which solemn sail, + Scarce lifted by the languid gale. + + * * * * * + + Channels by rocky torrents torn, + Rocks to the lake in thunder borne, + Or such as o'er our heads appear, + Suspended in their mid-career, + To start again at his command + Who rules fire, water, air, and land, + I view with wonder and delight, + A pleasing, though an awful sight. + + * * * * * + + And last, to fix our wandering eyes, + Thy roofs, O Keswick, brighter rise + The lake and lofty hills between, + Where Giant Skiddow shuts the scene. + Supreme of mountains, Skiddow, hail! + To whom all Britain sinks a vale! + Lo, his imperial brow I see + From foul usurping vapours free! + 'Twere glorious now his side to climb, + Boldly to scale his top sublime, + And thence--My Muse, these flights forbear, + Nor with wild raptures tire the fair. + + + + + JANE ELLIOT + + + THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST + + I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, + Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of 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; + The lasses are lanely, 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, + The 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 more 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. + + + + + CHARLES CHURCHILL + + + FROM THE ROSCIAD + + [QUIN, THE ACTOR] + + His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, + Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul. + Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage, + Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. + When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears, + Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers, + With the same cast of features he is seen + To chide the libertine and court the queen. + From the tame scene which without passion flows, + With just desert his reputation rose. + Nor less he pleased when, on some surly plan, + He was at once the actor and the man. + In Brute he shone unequalled: all agree + Garrick's not half so great a brute as he. + When Cato's laboured scenes are brought to view, + With equal praise the actor laboured too; + For still you'll find, trace passions to their root, + Small difference 'twixt the stoic and the brute. + In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, + He could not for a moment sink the man. + In whate'er cast his character was laid, + Self still, like oil, upon the surface played. + Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in: + Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff--still 'twas Quin. + + + + FROM THE GHOST + + [DR. JOHNSON] + + + Pomposo, insolent and loud, + Vain idol of a scribbling crowd, + Whose very name inspires an awe, + Whose every word is sense and law, + For what his greatness hath decreed, + Like laws of Persia and of Mede, + Sacred through all the realm of wit, + Must never of repeal admit; + Who, cursing flattery, is the tool + Of every fawning, flattering fool; + Who wit with jealous eye surveys, + And sickens at another's praise; + Who, proudly seized of learning's throne, + Now damns all learning but his own; + Who scorns those common wares to trade in, + Reasoning, convincing, and persuading, + But makes each sentence current pass + With 'puppy,' 'coxcomb,' 'scoundrel,' 'ass,' + For 'tis with him a certain rule, + The folly's proved when he calls 'fool'; + Who, to increase his native strength, + Draws words six syllables in length, + With which, assisted with a frown + By way of club, he knocks us down. + + + + + JAMES MACPHERSON + + ["TRANSLATIONS" FROM "OSSIAN, THE SON OF FINGAL"] + + FROM FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM + + [FINGAL'S ROMANTIC GENEROSITY TOWARD HIS CAPTIVE ENEMY] + + + 'King of Lochlin,' said Fingal, 'thy blood flows in the + veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they + loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast in the + hall, and send round the joy of the shell. Let thy face + brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp. + Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy + valour forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands + when they engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise + thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca! + Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful + soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one. I spared + thee in the halls of Starno, when my sword was red with + slaughter, when my eye was full of tears for the maid. + Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat which thy + fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart + renowned, like the sun setting in the west!' + + 'King of the race of Morven!' said the chief of resounding + Lochlin, 'never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a + thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the halls of Starno: + few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I + said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal? We + have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the + shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy + halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let + the bards send his name who overcame to future years, + for noble was the strife of Malmour! But many of the + ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena. Take + these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran! + When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells + shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale.' + + 'Nor ship' replied the king, 'shall Fingal take, nor land + of many hills. The desert is enough to me, with all its + deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, thou noble + friend of Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to the beam + of the morning; return to the echoing hills of Gormal.' + 'Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,' said Swaran of the + dark-brown shield. 'In peace thou art the gale of spring. + In war, the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in + friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mourn + those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to + earth. Raise high the mossy stones of their fame: that + the children of the north hereafter may behold the place + where their fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he + leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and Swaran fought, + the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say, + and our fame shall last for ever!' + + 'Swaran,' said the king of hills, 'to-day our fame is + greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound + will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost + in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our + rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it + when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and + Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more. Give us the + song of other years. Let the night pass away on the sound, + and morning return with joy.' + + We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed + their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened, + like the full moon of heaven: when the clouds + vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst + of the sky. + + + + FROM THE SONGS OF SELMA + + [COLMA'S LAMENT] + + It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. + The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours + down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain, forlorn + on the hill of winds. + + Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, + arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love + rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung; + his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, + by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the + wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why + delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? + Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring + stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! + whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from + my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race + have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar! + + Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a + while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer + hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the + tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why + delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes + forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey + on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come + not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here + I must sit alone! + + Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and + my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they + give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is + tormented with fears! Ah, they are dead! Their swords + are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why + hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou + slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall + I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among + thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear + my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; + silent for ever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay. Oh! + from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy + steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be + afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of + the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on + the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm! + + I sit in my grief? I wait for morning in my tears! + Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till + Colma come. My life flies away like a dream! why should + I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the + stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the + hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in + the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter + shall hear from his booth. He shall fear, but love my + voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: + pleasant were her friends to Colma! + + + + [THE LAST WORDS OF OSSIAN] + + Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; + when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other + times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills and + heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona + [Ossian], the first among a thousand bards! But age is + now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear at times + the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But + memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! + They say as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon + shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise + his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy + on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his + strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. + My voice remains, like a blast that roars lonely on a + sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark + moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving + trees! + + + + + CHRISTOPHER SMART + + + FROM A SONG TO DAVID + + 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 assigned, + Where ask is have, where seek is find, + Where knock is open wide. + + Beauteous the fleet before the gale; + Beauteous the multitudes in mail, + Ranked arms and crested heads; + Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild, + Walk, water, meditated wild, + And all the bloomy beds; + + Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; + And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn + The virgin to her spouse; + Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, + When to the heaven of heavens they build + Their heart-directed vows: + + Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, + The shepherd King upon his knees, + For his momentous trust; + With wish of infinite conceit + For man, beast, mute, the small and great, + And prostrate dust to dust. + + Precious the bounteous widow's mite; + And precious, for extreme delight, + The largess from the churl; + Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, + And Alba's blest imperial rays, + And pure cerulean pearl; + + 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 hallowed sod: + + More precious that diviner part + Of David, even the Lord's own heart, + Great, beautiful, and new; + In all things where it was intent, + In all extremes, in each event, + Proof--answering true to true. + + Glorious the sun in mid career; + Glorious th' assembled fires appear; + Glorious the comet's train; + Glorious the trumpet and alarm; + Glorious th' Almighty's stretched-out arm; + Glorious th' enraptured main; + + Glorious the northern lights a-stream; + Glorious the song, when God's the theme; + Glorious the thunder's roar; + Glorious, Hosannah 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 called Thy son; + Thou that stupendous truth believed, + And now the matchless deed's achieved, + Determined, dared, and done. + + + + + OLIVER GOLDSMITH + + + FROM THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF + SOCIETY + + As some lone miser, visiting his store, + Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts It o'er, + Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, + Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: + Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, + Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies; + Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, + To see the hoard of human bliss so small, + And oft I wish amidst the scene to find + Some spot to real happiness consigned, + Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. + May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. + But where to find that happiest spot below, + Who can direct, when all pretend to know? + + * * * * * + + To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, + I turn; and France displays her bright domain. + Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, + Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, + How often have I led thy sportive choir, + With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire, + Where shading elms along the margin grew, + And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew! + And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, + But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's skill, + Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, + And dance forgetful of the noontide hour. + Alike all ages: dames of ancient days + Have led their children through the mirthful maze; + And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, + Has frisked beneath the burthen of threescore, + + So blessed a life these thoughtless realms display; + Thus idly busy rolls their world away. + + + Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, + For honour forms the social temper here: + Honour, that praise which real merit gains, + Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, + Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, + It shifts in splendid traffic round the land; + From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, + And all are taught an avarice of praise; + They pleased, are pleased; they give, to get, esteem, + Till, seeming blessed, they grow to what they seem. + + But while this softer art their bliss supplies, + It gives their follies also room to rise; + For praise, too dearly loved or warmly sought, + Enfeebles all internal strength of thought, + And the weak soul, within itself unblessed, + Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. + Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, + Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; + Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, + And trims her robes of frieze with copper-lace; + Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer, + To boast one splendid banquet once a year: + The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, + Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. + + * * * * * + + Vain, very vain, my weary search to find + That bliss which only centres in the mind. + Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, + To seek a good each government bestows? + In every government, though terrors reign, + Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, + How small, of all that human hearts endure, + That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! + Still to ourselves in every place consigned, + Our own felicity we make or find: + With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, + Glides the smooth current of domestic joy; + The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, + Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, + To men remote from power but rarely known, + Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own. + + + THE DESERTED VILLAGE + + Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain; + Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, + Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, + And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed: + Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, + Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, + How often have I loitered o'er thy green, + Where humble happiness endeared each scene! + How often have I paused on every charm, + The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, + The never-failing brook, the busy mill, + The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill, + The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade + For talking age and whispering lovers made! + How often have I blest the coming day, + When toil remitting lent its turn to play, + And all the village train, from labour free, + Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, + While many a pastime circled in the shade, + The young contending as the old surveyed; + And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, + And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. + And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, + Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; + The dancing pair that simply sought renown + By holding out to tire each other down; + The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, + While secret laughter tittered round the place; + The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, + The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: + These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, + With sweet succession, taught even toil to please: + These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed: + These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled. + + Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, + Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn + Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, + And desolation saddens all thy green: + One only master grasps the whole domain, + And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. + No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, + But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; + Along the glades, a solitary guest, + The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest; + Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, + And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; + Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, + And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; + And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, + Far, far away thy children leave the land. + + Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, + Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: + Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; + A breath can make them, as a breath has made: + But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, + When once destroyed, can never be supplied. + + A time there was, ere England's griefs began, + When every rood of ground maintained its man; + For him light labour spread her wholesome store, + Just gave what life required, but gave no more: + His best companions, innocence and health; + And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. + + But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train + Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; + Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, + Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, + And every want to opulence allied, + And every pang that folly pays to pride. + These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, + Those calm desires that asked but little room, + Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, + Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; + These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, + And rural mirth and manners are no more. + + Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, + Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. + Here, as I take my solitary rounds + Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, + And, many a year elapsed, return to view + Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, + Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, + Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. + + In all my wanderings round this world of care, + In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- + I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, + Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; + To husband out life's taper at the close, + And keep the flame from wasting by repose: + I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, + Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, + Around my fire an evening group to draw, + And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; + And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue + Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, + I still had hopes, my long vexations past, + Here to return--and die at home at last. + + O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, + Retreats from care, that never must be mine, + How happy he who crowns in shades like these + A youth of labour with an age of ease; + Who quits a world where strong temptations try, + And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! + For him no wretches, born to work and weep, + Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; + No surly porter stands in guilty state, + To spurn imploring famine from the gate; + But on he moves to meet his latter end, + Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; + Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, + While resignation gently slopes the way; + And, all his prospects brightening to the last, + His Heaven commences ere the world be past! + + Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close + Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. + There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, + The mingling notes came softened from below; + The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, + The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, + The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, + The playful children just let loose from school, + The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, + And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;-- + These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, + And filled each pause the nightingale had made. + + + But now the sounds of population fail, + No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, + No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, + For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. + All but yon widowed, solitary thing, + That feebly bends beside the plashy spring: + She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, + To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, + To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, + To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; + She only left of all the harmless train, + The sad historian of the pensive plain. + + Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, + And still where many a garden flower grows wild; + There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, + The village preacher's modest mansion rose. + A man he was to all the country dear, + And passing rich with forty pounds a year; + Remote from towns he ran his godly race, + Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; + Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, + By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; + Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, + More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. + His house was known to all the vagrant train; + He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain: + The long-remembered beggar was his guest, + Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; + The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, + Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; + The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, + Sate by his fire, and talked the night away, + Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, + Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. + Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, + And quite forget their vices in their woe; + Careless their merits or their faults to scan, + His pity gave ere charity began. + + Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, + And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; + But in his duty prompt at every call, + He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all; + + And, as a bird each fond endearment tries + To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, + He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, + Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. + + Beside the bed where parting life was laid, + And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, + The reverend champion stood. At his control + Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; + Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, + And his last faltering accents whispered praise. + + At church, with meek and unaffected grace, + His looks adorned the venerable place; + Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, + And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. + The service past, around the pious man, + With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; + Even children followed with endearing wile, + And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. + His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; + Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed: + To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, + But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. + As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, + Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, + Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, + Eternal sunshine settles on its head. + + Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, + With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, + There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, + The village master taught his little school. + A man severe he was, and stern to view; + I knew him well, and every truant knew; + Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace + The days' disasters in his morning face; + Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee + At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; + Full well the busy whisper circling round + Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. + Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, + The love he bore to learning was in fault: + The village all declared how much he knew; + 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; + Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, + And even the story ran that he could gauge; + In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, + For, even though vanquished, he could argue still; + While words of learned length and thundering sound + Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; + And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, + That one small head could carry all he knew. + + But past is all his fame. The very spot + Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. + Wear yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, + Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, + Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, + Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, + Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, + And news much older than their ale went round. + Imagination fondly stoops to trace + The parlour splendours of that festive place: + The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, + The varnished clock that clicked behind the door: + The chest contrived a double debt to pay, + A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; + The pictures placed for ornament and use, + The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; + The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, + With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; + While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, + Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. + + Vain transitory splendours could not all + Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? + Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart + An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. + Thither no more the peasant shall repair + To sweet oblivion of his daily care; + No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, + No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; + No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, + Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; + The host himself no longer shall be found + Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; + Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, + Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. + + Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, + These simple blessings of the lowly train; + To me more dear, congenial to my heart, + One native charm, than all the gloss of art. + Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, + The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; + Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, + Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. + But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, + With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed-- + In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, + The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; + And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, + The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. + + Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey + The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, + 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand + Between a splendid and an happy land. + Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, + And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; + Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, + And rich men flock from all the world around. + Yet count our gains! This wealth is but a name + That leaves our useful products still the same. + Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride + Takes up a space that many poor supplied; + Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, + Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: + The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth + Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; + His seat, where solitary sports are seen, + Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: + Around the world each needful product flies, + For all the luxuries the world supplies; + While thus the land adorned for pleasure all + In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. + + As some fair female unadorned and plain, + Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, + Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, + Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; + But when those charms are passed, for charms are frail, + When time advances, and when lovers fail, + She then, shines forth, solicitous to bless, + In all the glaring impotence of dress. + Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed: + In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, + But verging to decline, its splendours rise, + Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; + While, scourged by famine from the smiling land + The mournful peasant leads his humble band, + And while he sinks, without one arm to save, + The country blooms--a garden and a grave. + + Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, + To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? + If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, + He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, + Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, + And even the bare-worn common is denied. + + If to the city sped--what waits him there? + To see profusion that he must not share; + To see ten thousand baneful arts combined + To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; + To see those joys the sons of pleasure know + Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. + Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, + There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; + Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, + There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. + The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign + Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train: + Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, + The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. + Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! + Sure these denote one universal joy! + Are these thy serious thoughts?--Ah, turn thine eyes + Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. + She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed, + Has wept at tales of innocence distressed; + Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, + Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: + Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, + Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, + And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, + With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, + + + When idly first, ambitious of the town, + She left her wheel and robes of country brown. + + Do thine, sweet Auburn,--thine, the loveliest train,-- + Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? + Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, + At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! + + Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, + Where half the convex world intrudes between, + Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, + Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. + Far different there from all that charmed before + The various terrors of that horrid shore; + Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, + And fiercely shed intolerable day; + Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, + But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; + Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, + Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; + Where at each step the stranger fears to wake + The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; + Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, + And savage men more murderous still than they; + While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, + Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. + Far different these from every former scene, + The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, + The breezy covert of the warbling grove, + That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. + + Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, + That called them from their native walks away; + When the poor exiles, every pleasure passed, + Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, + And took a long farewell, and wished in vain + For seats like these beyond the western main, + And shuddering still to face the distant deep, + Returned and wept, and still returned to weep, + The good old sire the first prepared to go + To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; + But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, + He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. + His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, + The fond companion of his helpless years, + Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, + And left a lover's for a father's arms. + With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, + And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, + And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, + And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear, + Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief + In all the silent manliness of grief. + + O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, + How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! + How do thy potions, with insidious joy, + Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy! + Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, + Boast of a florid vigour not their own. + At every draught more large and large they grow, + A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; + Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, + Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round. + + Even now the devastation is begun, + And half the business of destruction done; + Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, + I see the rural Virtues leave the land. + Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, + That idly waiting flaps with every gale, + Downward they move, a melancholy band, + Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. + Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, + And kind connubial Tenderness, ate there; + And Piety with wishes placed above, + And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. + And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, + Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; + Unfit in these degenerate times of shame + To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; + Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, + My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; + Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, + That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; + Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, + Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! + Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, + On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, + Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, + Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, + Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, + Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; + Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; + Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; + Teach him, that states of native strength possessed, + Though very poor, may still be very blessed; + That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, + As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away; + While self-dependent power can time defy, + As rocks resist the billows and the sky. + + + FROM RETALIATION + + Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such + We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; + Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, + And to party gave up what was meant for mankind; + Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat + To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; + Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, + And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; + Though equal to all things, for all things unfit-- + Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit, + For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient, + And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient: + In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir, + To eat mutton cold and cut blocks with a razor. + + * * * * * + + Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, + The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; + A flattering painter, who made it his care + To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are: + His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, + And Comedy wonders at being so fine-- + Like a tragedy-queen he has dizened her out, + Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout; + His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd + Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud; + And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, + Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. + Say, where has our poet this malady caught, + Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? + Say, was it that, vainly directing his view + To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, + Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, + He grew lazy at last and drew from himself? + + * * * * * + + Here lies David Garrick: describe me, who can, + An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; + As an actor, confessed without rival to shine; + As a wit, if not first, in the very first line. + Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, + The man had his failings, a dupe to his art: + Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread, + And beplastered with rouge his own natural red; + On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting-- + 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. + With no reason on earth to go out of his way, + He turned and he varied full ten times a day: + Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick + If they were not his own by finessing and trick; + He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, + For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. + Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, + And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; + Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease, + Who peppered the highest was surest to please. + But let us be candid, and speak out our mind: + If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind; + Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, + What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave! + How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised, + While he was be-Rosciused and you were bepraised! + But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies + To act as an angel and mix with the skies! + Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill + Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; + + Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, + And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. + + * * * * * + + Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, + He has not left a better or wiser behind. + His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; + His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; + Still born to improve us in every part-- + His pencil oar faces, his manners our heart. + To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, + When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing; + When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, + He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. + + + + + JAMES BEATTIE + + + FROM THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS + OF GENIUS + + Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, + That a poor villager inspires my strain; + With thee let pageantry and power abide: + The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; + Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain + Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. + They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, + The parasite their influence never warms, + Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. + + Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, + Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. + Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, + While warbling larks on russet pinions float; + Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, + Where the grey linnets carol from the hill: + O let them ne'er, with artificial note, + To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, + But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will! + + * * * * * + + And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. + Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye. + Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy, + Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy; + Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy; + And now his look was most demurely sad; + And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why. + The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad; + Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. + + * * * * * + + In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight, + Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. + In darkness and in storm he found delight, + Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene + The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen. + Even sad vicissitude amused his soul; + And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, + And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, + A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control. + + * * * * * + + When the long-sounding curfew from afar + Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, + Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, + Lingering and listening, wandered down the vale. + There would he dream of graves, and corses pale, + And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng, + And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, + Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, + Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along. + + * * * * * + + Or when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, + Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, + To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, + Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; + And there let fancy rove at large, till sleep + A vision brought to his entranced sight. + And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep + Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, + With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night. + + * * * * * + + Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth. + Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device + Oft cheered the shepherds round their social hearth; + Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice + To purchase chat or laughter at the price + Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed + That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. + Ah! had they been of court or city breed, + Such, delicacy were right marvellous indeed. + + Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave, + He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view + The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave + High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue; + Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new, + Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, + More wildly great than ever pencil drew-- + Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, + And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. + + Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, + The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, + Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar + Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array + When sulphurous clouds rolled on th' autumnal day, + Even then he hastened from the haunts of man, + Along the trembling wilderness to stray, + What time the lightning's fierce career began, + And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. + + Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all + In sprightly dance the village youth were joined, + Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, + From the rude gambol far remote reclined, + Soothed, with the soft notes warbling in the wind. + Ah then all jollity seemed noise and folly + To the pure soul by fancy's fire refined! + Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy + When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy! + + + + + LADY ANNE LINDSAY + + + 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 gaid 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 toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; + Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e + Said, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!' + + My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; + But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; + His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee? + Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me! + + My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; + But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: + They gi'ed him my hand, though 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. + * * * * * + + + + + JEAN ADAMS + + + THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE + + And are ye sure the news is true, + And are ye sure he's weel? + Is this a time to think of wark? + Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. + Is this the time to think of wark, + When Colin's at the door? + Gi'e me my cloak! I'll to the quay + And see him come ashore. + + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck ava; + There's little pleasure in the house, + When our gudeman's awa'. + + Rise up and mak' a clean fireside; + Put on the muckle pot; + Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, + And Jock his Sunday coat: + And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, + Their hose as white as snaw; + It's a' to please my ain gudeman, + For he's been long awa'. + + There's twa fat hens upon the bauk, + Been fed this month and mair; + Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, + That Colin weel may fare; + And mak' the table neat and clean, + Gar ilka thing look braw; + It's a' for love of my gudeman, + For he's been long awa'. + + O gi'e me down my bigonet, + My bishop satin gown, + For I maun tell the bailie's wife + That Colin's come to town. + My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, + My hose o' pearl blue; + 'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman, + For he's baith leal and true. + + Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, + His breath's like caller air! + His very foot has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy with the thought,-- + In troth, I'm like to greet. + + The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, + That thrilled through my heart, + They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe, + Till death we'll never part: + But what puts parting in my head? + It may be far awa'; + The present moment is our ain, + The neist we never saw. + + Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, + I ha'e nae more to crave; + Could I but live to mak' him blest, + I'm blest above the lave: + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-- + In troth, I'm like to greet. + + + + + ROBERT FERGUSSON + + + THE DAFT DAYS + + Now mirk December's dowie face + Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace, + While, thro' his minimum of space, + The bleer-eyed sun, + Wi' blinkin' light and steeling pace, + His race doth run. + + From naked groves nae birdie sings; + To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings; + The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings + From Borean cave; + And dwyning Nature droops her wings, + Wi' visage grave. + + Mankind but scanty pleasure glean + Frae snawy hill or barren plain, + Whan Winter,'midst his nipping train, + Wi' frozen spear, + Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain, + And guides the weir. + + Auld Reikiel thou'rt the canty hole, + A bield for mony a caldrife soul, + What snugly at thine ingle loll, + Baith warm and couth, + While round they gar the bicker roll + To weet their mouth. + + When merry Yule Day comes, I trow, + You'll scantlins find a hungry mou; + Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou + O' gusty gear + And kickshaws, strangers to our view + Sin' fairn-year. + + Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra, + And fling your sorrows far awa'; + Then come and gie's the tither blaw + O' reaming ale, + Mair precious than the Well of Spa, + Our hearts to heal. + + Then, though at odds wi' a' the warl', + Amang oursells we'll never quarrel; + Though Discord gie a cankered snarl + To spoil our glee, + As lang's there's pith into the barrel + We'll drink and 'gree. + + Fiddlers, your pins in temper fix, + And roset weel your fiddlesticks; + But banish vile Italian tricks + From out your quorum, + Nor _fortes_ wi' _pianos_ mix-- + Gie's 'Tullochgorum'! + + For naught can cheer the heart sae weel + As can a canty Highland reel; + It even vivifies the heel + To skip and dance: + Lifeless is he wha canna feel + Its influence. + + Let mirth abound; let social cheer + Invest the dawning of the year; + Let blithesome innocence appear, + To crown our joy; + Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, + Our bliss destroy. + + And thou, great god of _aqua vitae!_ + Wha sways the empire of this city,-- + When fou we're sometimes caperneity,-- + Be thou prepared + To hedge us frae that black banditti, + The City Guard. + + + + + ANONYMOUS + + + ABSENCE + + When I think on the happy days + I spent wi' you, my dearie; + And now what lands between us lie, + How can I be but eerie! + + How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, + As ye were wae and weary! + It was na sae ye glinted by + When I was wi' my dearie. + + + + + JOHN LANGHORNE + + + FROM THE COUNTRY JUSTICE + + GENERAL MOTIVES FOR LENITY + + Be this, ye rural Magistrates, your plan: + Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. + He whom the mighty master of this ball + We fondly deem, or farcically call, + To own the patriarch's truth however loth, + Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth. + Frail in his genius, in his heart, too, frail, + Born but to err, and erring to bewail; + + Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, + And give to life one human weakness more? + Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; + Still mark the strong temptation and the need; + On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, + At least more lenient let thy justice fall. + + + APOLOGY FOR VAGRANTS + + For him who, lost to every hope of life, + Has long with fortune held unequal strife, + Known, to no human love, no human care, + The friendless, homeless object of despair; + For the poor vagrant, feel while he complains, + Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. + Alike, if folly or misfortune brought + Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; + Believe with social mercy and with me, + Folly's misfortune in the first degree. + + Perhaps on some inhospitable shore + The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore, + Who, then no more by golden prospects led, + Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed; + Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, + Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain, + Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, + The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, + Gave the sad presage of his future years, + The child of misery, baptized in tears! + + + * * * * * + + + + + AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY + + + ROCK OF AGES + + Rock of Ages, cleft for me, + Let me hide myself in Thee! + Let the water and the blood + From Thy riven side which flowed, + Be of sin the double cure, + Cleanse me from its guilt and power. + + Not the labors of my hands + Can fulfil Thy law's demands; + Could my zeal no respite know, + Could my tears forever flow, + All for sin could not atone; + Thou must save, and Thou alone. + + Nothing in my hand I bring; + Simply to Thy cross I cling; + Naked, come to Thee for dress; + Helpless, look to Thee for grace; + Foul, I to the fountain fly; + Wash me, Saviour, or I die! + + While I draw this fleeting breath, + When my eyestrings break in death, + When I soar through tracts unknown, + See Thee on Thy judgment-throne; + Book of Ages, cleft for me, + Let me hide myself in Thee! + + * * * * * + + + + + JOHN SKINNER + + + TULLOCHGORUM + + Come gie's a sang! Montgomery cried, + And lay your disputes all aside; + What signifies 't for folk to chide + For what's been done before 'em? + Let Whig and Tory all agree, + Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, + Let Whig and Tory all agree + To drop their Whig-mig-morum! + Let Whig and Tory all agree + To spend the night in mirth and glee, + And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me, + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + O, Tullochgorum's my delight; + It gars us a' in ane unite; + And ony sumph' that keeps up spite, + In conscience I abhor him: + For blythe and cheery we's be a', + Blythe and cheery, blythe and cheery, + Blythe and cheery we's be a', + And mak a happy quorum; + For blythe and cheery we's be a', + As lang as we hae breath to draw, + And dance, till we be like to fa', + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + There needs na be sae great a phrase + Wi' dringing dull Italian lays; + I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys + For half a hundred score o' 'em: + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Wi' a' their variorum; + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Their _allegros_ and a' the rest; + They canna please a Scottish taste, + Compared wi' Tullochgorum. + + Let warldly minds themselves oppress + Wi' fears of want and double cess, + And sullen sots themselves distress + Wi' keeping up decorum: + Shall we sae sour and sulky sit? + Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, + Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, + Like auld Philosophorum? + Shall we so sour and sulky sit, + Wi' neither sense nor mirth nor wit, + Nor ever rise to shake a fit + To the reel o' Tullochgorum? + + May choicest blessings still attend + Each honest, open-hearted friend; + And calm and quiet be his end, + And a' that's good watch o'er him! + May peace and plenty be his lot, + Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, + May peace and plenty be his lot, + And dainties a great store o' em! + May peace and plenty be his lot, + Unstained by any vicious spot, + And may he never want a groat + That's fond o' Tullochgorum! + + But for the dirty, yawning fool + Who wants to be Oppression's tool, + May envy gnaw his rotten soul, + And discontent devour him! + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + And nane say 'wae's me' for him! + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, + Whae'er he be, that winna dance + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + * * * * * + + + + THOMAS CHATTERTON + + + [SONGS FROM "AELLA, A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE, + WROTENN BIE THOMAS ROWLEIE"] + + [THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES + ATTE THE LYGHTE] + + FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE + + The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; + The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue; + Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte; + The nesh yonge coweslepe blendethe wyth the dewe; + The trees enlefèd, yntoe Heavenne straughte, + Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys brought. + + The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge; + The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne; + Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe; + Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne; + I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, + Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle. + + + SECONDE MYNSTRELLE + + So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse, + All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde; + Ynn Womman alleyne mannès pleasaunce lyes; + As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde. + Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see + Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charm for thee. + + + THYRDE MYNSTRELLE + + Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere, + With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe, + Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, + Beerynge uponne hys backe the ripèd shefe; + Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte; + Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte; + + Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie, + Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde; + When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die, + Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde; + Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre, + Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steyncèd wyth somme care. + + + SECONDE MYNSTRELLE + + Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde; + Angelles alleyne fromme chafe desyre bee free: + Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde, + Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot styllèd bee; + Ne seynete yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere, + Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre; + + Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne, + Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire; + Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne, + Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre; + Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete + The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete. + + Albeytte wythout wommen menne were pheeres + To salvage kynde, and wulde botte lyve to slea, + Botte wommenne efte the spryghte of peace so cheres, + Tochelod yn Angel joie heie Angeles bee; + Go, take thee swythyn to thie bedde a wyfe; + Bee bante or blessed hie yn proovynge marryage lyfe. + + + [O, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE] + + O, synge untoe mie roundelaie! + O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee! + Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie; + Lycke a reynynge ryver bee: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, + Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, + Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte; + Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, + Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, + Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote; + O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Alle underre the wyllowe tree. + + Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, + In the briered delle belowe; + Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, + To the nyghte-mares as heie goe: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; + Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude, + Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, + Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, + Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, + Nee one hallie Seyncte to save + Al the celness of a mayde: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Alle under the wyllowe tree. + + Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres + Rounde his hallie corse to gre; + Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres, + Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne + Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; + Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, + Daunce bie nete, or feaste by dale: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, + Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. + I die! I comme! mie true love waytes.-- + Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. + + + AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE + + AS WROTEN BIE THE GODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464 + + In Virgynè the sweltrie sun gan sheene, + And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie; + The apple rodded from its palie greene, + And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; + The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; + 'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode, of the yeare, + And eke the grounde was dighte in its most defte aumere. + + The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, + Deadde still the aire, and eke the welkea blue; + When from the sea arist in drear arraie + A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, + The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, + Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face, + And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace. + + Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side + Which dide unto Seynete Godwine's covent lede, + A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide, + Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede, + Longe bretful of the miseries of neede; + Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie? + He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie. + + Look in his glommèd face, his spright there scanne: + Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade! + Haste to thie church-glebe-house, ashrewed manne; + Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dorture bedde: + Cale as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde + Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; + Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves. + + The gathered storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; + The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; + The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, + And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; + Dashde from the cloudes, the waters flott againe; + The welkin opes, the yellow levynne flies, + And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. + + Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound + Cheves slowie on, and then embollen clangs, + Shakes the hie spyre, and, losst, dispended, drowned, + Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges; + The windes are up, the lofty elmen swanges; + Again the levynne and the thunder poures, + And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers. + + Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, + The Abbote of Seyncte Godwyne's convente came: + His chapournette was drented with the reine, + And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame; + He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same. + The storme encreasen, and he drew aside + With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide. + + His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, + With a gold button fastened neere his chynne; + His autremete was edged with golden twynne, + And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne-- + Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne; + The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, + For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. + + 'An almes, sir prieste!' the droppynge pilgrim saide; + 'O let me waite within your covente dore, + Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, + And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer. + Helpless and ould am I, alas! and poor; + No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; + All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche.' + + 'Varlet,' replyd the Abbatte, 'cease your dinne! + This is no season almes and prayers to give. + Mie porter never lets a faitour in; + None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.' + And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, + And shettynge on the ground his glairie raie: + The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. + Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde: + Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen, + Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; + His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; + A Limitoure he was of order seene, + And from the pathwaie side then turnèd bee, + Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree, + + 'An almes, sir priest!' the droppynge pilgrim sayde, + 'For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake!' + The Limitoure then loosened his pouche threade, + And did thereoute a groate of silver take: + The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. + 'Here, take this silver; it maie eathe thie care: + We are Goddes stewards all, nete of our owne we bare. + + 'But ah, unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me + Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. + Here, take my semecope--thou arte bare, I see; + 'Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.' + He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. + Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, + Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power! + + + + + THOMAS DAY + + + FROM THE DESOLATION OF AMERICA + + I see, I see, swift bursting through the shade, + The cruel soldier, and the reeking blade. + And there the bloody cross of Britain waves, + Pointing to deeds of death an host of slaves. + To them unheard the wretched tell their pain, + And every human sorrow sues in vain: + Their hardened bosoms never knew to melt; + Each woe unpitied, and each pang unfelt.-- + See! where they rush, and with a savage joy, + Unsheathe the sword, impatient to destroy. + Fierce as the tiger, bursting from the wood, + With famished jaws, insatiable of blood! + + Yet, yet a moment, the fell steel restrain; + Must Nature's sacred ties all plead in vain? + Ah! while your kindred blood remains unspilt, + And Heaven allows an awful pause from guilt, + Suspend the war, and recognize the bands, + Against whose lives you arm your impious hands!-- + Not these, the boast of Gallia's proud domains, + Nor the scorched squadrons of Iberian plains; + Unhappy men! no foreign war you wage, + In your own blood you glut your frantic rage; + And while you follow where oppression leads, + At every step, a friend, or brother, bleeds. + + * * * * * + + Devoted realm! what now avails thy claim, + To milder virtue, or sublimer flame? + Or what avails, unhappy land! to trace + The generous labours of thy patriot race? + Who, urged by fate, and fortitude their guide, + On the wild surge their desperate fortune tried; + Undaunted every toil and danger bore, + And fixed their standards on a savage shore; + What time they fled, with an averted eye, + The baneful influence of their native sky, + Where slowly rising through the dusky air, + The northern meteors shot their lurid glare. + In vain their country's genius sought to move, + With tender images of former love, + Sad rising to their view, in all her charms, + And weeping wooed them to her well-known arms. + The favoured clime, the soft domestic air, + And wealth and ease were all below their care, + Since there an hated tyrant met their eyes + And blasted every blessing of the skies. + + * * * * * + + And now, no more by nature's bounds confined + He[A] spreads his dragon pinions to the wind. + The genius of the West beholds him near, + And freedom trembles at her last barrier. + + In vain she deemed in this sequestered seat + To fix a refuge for her wandering feet; + To mark one altar sacred to her fame, + And save the ruins of the human name. + + * * * * * + + Lo! Britain bended to the servile yoke, + Her fire extinguished, and her spirit broke, + Beneath the pressure of [a tyrant's] sway, + Herself at once the spoiler and the prey, + Detest[s] the virtues she can boast no more + And envies every right to every shore! + At once to nature and to pity blind, + Wages abhorred war with humankind; + And wheresoe'er her ocean rolls his wave, + Provokes an enemy, or meets a slave. + + But free-born minds inspired with noble flame, + Attest their origin, and scorn the claim. + Beyond the sweets of pleasure and of rest, + The joys which captivate the vulgar breast; + Beyond the dearer ties of kindred blood; + Or Brittle life's too transitory good; + The sacred charge of liberty they prize, + That last, and noblest, present of the skies. + + * * * * * + + Yet, gracious Heaven! though clouds may intervene, + And transitory horrors shade the scene; + Though for an instant virtue sink depressed, + While vice exulting rears her bloody crest; + Thy sacred truth shall still inspire my mind, + To cast the terrors of my fate behind! + Thy power which nature's utmost hound pervades, + Beams through the void, and cheers destruction's shades, + Can blast the laurel on the victor's head, + And smooth the good man's agonizing bed, + To songs of triumph change the captive's groans, + And hurl the powers of darkness from their thrones! + + [Footnote A: The monster, tyranny.] + + + + + GEORGE CRABBE + + + From THE LIBRARY + + When the sad soul, by care and grief oppressed, + Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest; + When every object that appears in view, + Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too; + Where shall affliction from itself retire? + Where fade away and placidly expire? + Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain; + Care blasts the honours of the flowery plain: + Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, + Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream; + For when the soul is labouring in despair, + In vain the body breathes a purer air. + + * * * * * + + Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find; + The curious here, to feed a craving mind; + Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; + And here the poet meets his fav'ring Muse. + With awe, around these silent walks I tread; + These are the lasting mansions of the dead:-- + 'The dead!' methinks a thousand tongues reply, + 'These are the tombs of such as cannot die! + Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, + And laugh at all the little strife of time.' + + * * * * * + + Lo! all in silence, all in order stand, + And mighty folios first, a lordly band; + Then quartos their well-ordered ranks maintain, + And light octavos fill a spacious plain: + See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows, + A humbler band of duodecimos; + While undistinguished trifles swell the scene, + The last new play and frittered magazine. + + * * * * * + + But who are these, a tribe that soar above, + And tell more tender tales of modern love? + + A _novel_ train! the brood of old Romance, + Conceived by Folly on the coast of France, + That now with lighter thought and gentler fire, + Usurp the honours of their drooping sire: + And still fantastic, vain, and trifling, sing + Of many a soft and inconsistent thing,-- + Of rakes repenting, clogged in Hymen's chain, + Of nymph reclined by unpresuming swain, + Of captains, colonels, lords, and amorous knights, + That find in humbler nymphs such chaste delights. + Such heavenly charms, so gentle, yet so gay, + That all their former follies fly away: + Honour springs up, where'er their looks impart + A moment's sunshine to the hardened heart; + A virtue, just before the rover's jest, + Grows like a mushroom in his melting breast. + Much too they tell of cottages and shades. + Of balls, and routs, and midnight masquerades, + Where dangerous men and dangerous mirth reside, + And Virtue goes----on purpose to be tried. + These are the tales that wake the soul to life, + That charm the sprightly niece and forward wife, + That form the manners of a polished age, + And each pure easy moral of the stage. + + + FROM THE VILLAGE + + The village life, and every care that reigns + O'er youthful peasants and declining swains; + What labour yields, and what, that labour past, + Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; + What form the real picture of the poor, + Demand a song--the Muse can give no more. + + Fled are those times when, in harmonious strains, + The rustic poet praised his native plains; + No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse, + Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse: + Yet still for these we frame the tender strain; + Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, + And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal-- + The only pains, alas! they never feel. + + On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign, + If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, + Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong, + Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? + From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, + Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way? + Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains, + Because the Muses never knew their pains. + They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now + Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough, + And few amid the rural tribe have time + To number syllables and play with rhyme: + Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share + The poet's rapture and the peasant's care, + Or the great labours of the field degrade + With the new peril of a poorer trade? + + From this chief cause these idle praises spring-- + That themes so easy few forbear to sing, + For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask; + To sing of shepherds is an easy task: + The happy youth assumes the common strain, + A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain; + With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer, + But all, to look like her, is painted fair. + + I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms + For him that grazes or for him that farms; + But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace + The poor laborious natives of the place, + And see the mid-day sun with fervid ray + On their bare heads and dewy temples play, + While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts + Deplore their fortune yet sustain their parts, + Then shall I dare these real ills to hide + In tinsel trappings of poetic pride? + + No; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast, + Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast; + Where other cares than those the Muse relates, + And other shepherds dwell with other mates; + By such examples taught, I paint the cot + As Truth will paint it and as bards will not. + Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain: + To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; + O'ercome by labour and bowed down by time, + Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? + Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, + By winding myrtles round your ruined shed? + Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower, + Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? + + Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, + Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor; + From thence a length of burning sand appears, + Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; + Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, + Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye: + There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, + And to the ragged infant threaten war; + There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil; + There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; + Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, + The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; + O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, + And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; + With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, + And a sad splendour vainly shines around. + + * * * * * + + Here, wandering long, amid these frowning fields, + I sought the simple life that Nature yields: + Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurped her place, + And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; + Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe, + The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, + Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, + On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye, + Which to their coast directs its venturous way; + Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. + + As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, + And wait for favouring winds to leave the land; + While still for flight the ready wing is spread: + So waited I the favouring hour, and fled; + Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, + And cried, 'Ah! hapless they who still remain: + Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, + Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore; + + Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway + Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; + When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, + And begs a poor protection from the poor!' + + But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand + Gave a spare portion to the famished land; + Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain + Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain; + But yet in other scenes more fair in view, + Where Plenty smiles--alas! she smiles for few-- + And those who taste not, yet behold her store, + Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore-- + The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. + Or will you deem them amply paid in health, + Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth? + Go, then! and see them rising with the sun, + Through a long course of daily toil to run; + See them beneath the Dog-star's raging heat, + When the knees tremble and the temples beat; + Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er + The labour past, and toils to come explore; + See them alternate suns and showers engage, + And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; + Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, + When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; + Then own that labour may as fatal be + To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee. + + Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride + Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; + There may you see the youth of slender frame + Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; + Yet, urged along, and proudly both to yield, + He strives to join his fellows of the field; + Till long-contending, nature droops at last, + Declining health rejects his poor repast, + His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees, + And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. + + Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, + Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; + Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare, + Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share! + + Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, + Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; + Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such + As you who praise, would never deign to touch. + + Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, + Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; + Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share, + Go look within, and ask if peace be there; + If peace be his, that drooping weary sire; + Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; + Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand + Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand, + + Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these + Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; + For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age + Can with no cares except its own engage; + Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see + The bare arms broken from the withering tree, + On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough, + Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. + + He once was chief in all the rustic trade; + His steady hand the straightest furrow made; + Full many a prize he won, and still is proud + To find the triumphs of his youth allowed; + A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes. + He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs; + For now he journeys to his grave in pain; + The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain: + Alternate masters now their slave command, + Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, + And, when his age attempts its task in vain, + With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. + + Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, + His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep; + Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow + O'er his white locks and bury them in snow, + When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn, + He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn:-- + + 'Why do I live, when I desire to be + At once from life and life's long labour free? + Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away, + Without the sorrows of a slow decay; + I, like you withered leaf, remain behind, + Nipped by the frost, and shivering in the wind; + There it abides till younger buds come on + As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; + Then from the rising generation thrust, + It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. + + 'These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, + Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; + To me the children of my youth are lords, + Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words: + Wants of their own demand their care; and who + Feels his own want and succours others too? + A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, + None need my help, and none relieve my woe; + Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, + And men forget the wretch they would not aid.' + + Thus groan the old, till by disease oppressed, + They taste a final woe, and then they rest. + + Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, + Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; + There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, + And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; + There children dwell who know no parents' care; + Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! + Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, + Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; + Dejected widows with unheeded tears, + And crippled age with more than childhood fears; + The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! + The moping idiot, and the madman gay. + Here too the sick their final doom receive, + Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, + Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, + Mixed with the clamours of the crowd below; + Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, + And the cold charities of man to man: + Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, + And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; + But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, + And pride embitters what it can't deny. + + Say, ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes, + Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; + Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance + With timid eye to read the distant glance; + Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease + To name the nameless, ever-new, disease; + Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, + Which real pain, and that alone, can cure; + How would ye bear in real pain to lie, + Despised, neglected, left alone to die? + How would, ye bear to draw your latest breath + Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? + + Such is that room which one rude beam divides, + And naked rafters form the sloping sides; + Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, + And lath and mud are all that lie between, + Save one dull pane that, coarsely patched, gives way + To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: + Here on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, + The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; + For him no hand the cordial cup applies, + Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; + No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, + Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. + + But soon a load and hasty summons calls, + Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; + Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, + All pride and business, bustle and conceit; + With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe, + With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, + He bids the gazing throng around him fly, + And carries fate and physic in his eye: + A potent quack, long versed in human ills, + Who first insults the victim whom he kills; + Whose murderous hand a drowsy Bench protect, + And whose most tender mercy is neglect. + Paid by the parish for attendance here, + He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer; + In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies, + Impatience marked in his averted eyes; + And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, + Without reply he rushes on the door: + His drooping patient, long inured to pain, + And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain; + He ceases now the feeble help to crave + Of man; and silent sinks into the grave. + + But ere his death some pious doubts arise, + Some simple fears, which 'bold bad' men despise; + Fain would he ask the parish-priest to prove + His title certain to the joys above: + For this he sends the murm'ring nurse, who calls + The holy stranger to these dismal walls: + And doth not he, the pious man, appear, + He, 'passing rich with forty pounds a year?' + Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock, + And far unlike him, feeds this little flock: + A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task + As much as God or man can fairly ask; + The rest he gives to loves and labours light, + To fields the morning, and to feasts the night; + None better skilled the noisy pack to guide, + To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide; + A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, + And, skilled at whist, devotes the night to play: + Then, while such honours bloom around his head, + Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed, + To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal + To combat fears that e'en the pious feel? + + * * * * * + + And hark! the riots of the green begin, + That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn; + What time the weekly pay was vanished all, + And the slow hostess scored the threatening wall; + What time they asked, their friendly feast to close, + A final cup, and that will make them foes; + When blows ensue that break the arm of toil, + And rustic battle ends the boobies' broil. + + Save when to yonder hall they bend their way, + Where the grave justice ends the grievous fray; + He who recites, to keep the poor in awe, + The law's vast volume--for he knows the law:-- + To him with anger or with shame repair + The injured peasant and deluded fair. + Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears, + Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears; + And while she stands abashed, with conscious eye, + Some favourite female of her judge glides by, + Who views with scornful glance the strumpet's fate, + And thanks the stars that made her keeper great; + Near her the swain, about to bear for life + One certain, evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife; + But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath, + Consents to wed, and so secures them both. + + Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate, + Why make the poor as guilty as the great? + To show the great, those mightier sons of pride, + How near in vice the lowest are allied; + Such are their natures and their passions such, + But these disguise too little, those too much: + So shall the man of power and pleasure see + In his own slave as vile a wretch as he; + In his luxurious lord the servant find + His own low pleasures and degenerate mind; + And each in all the kindred vices trace + Of a poor, blind, bewildered, erring race; + Who, a short time in varied fortune past, + Die, and are equal in the dust at last. + + + + + JOHN NEWTON + + + A VISION OF LIFE IN DEATH + + In evil long I took delight, + Unawed by shame or fear, + Till a new object struck my sight, + And stopped my wild career; + I saw One hanging on a Tree + In agonies and Blood, + Who fixed His languid eyes on me, + As near His cross I stood. + + Sure never till my latest breath + Can I forget that look: + It seemed to charge me with His death, + Though not a word he spoke: + My conscience felt and owned the guilt, + And plunged me in despair; + I saw my sins His blood had spilt, + And helped to nail Him there. + + Alas! I know not what I did! + But now my tears are vain: + Where shall my trembling soul be hid? + For I the Lord have slain! + A second look He gave, which said, + 'I freely all forgive; + The blood is for thy ransom paid; + I die, that thou may'st live.' + + Thus, while His death my sin displays + In all its blackest hue, + Such is the mystery of grace, + It seals my pardon too. + With pleasing grief and mournful joy, + My spirit now is filled + That I should such a life destroy,-- + Yet live by Him I killed. + + + + + WILLIAM COWPER + + From TABLE TALK + + [THE POET AND RELIGION] + + Pity Religion has so seldom found + A skilful guide into poetic ground! + The flowers would spring where'er she deigned to stray, + And every muse attend her in her way. + Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, + And many a compliment politely penned, + But unattired in that becoming vest + Religion weaves for her, and half undressed, + Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, + A wintry figure, like a withered thorn. + + The shelves are full, all other themes are sped, + Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread; + Satire has long since done his best, and curst + And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst; + Fancy has sported all her powers away + In tales, in trifles, and in children's play; + And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, + Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. + 'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, + Touched with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre, + And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, + With more than mortal music on his tongue, + That He who died below, and reigns above, + Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. + + + From CONVERSATION + + [THE DUBIOUS AND THE POSITIVE] + + Dubious is such a scrupulous good man,-- + Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. + He would not with a peremptory tone + Assert the nose upon his face his own; + With hesitation admirably slow, + He humbly hopes--presumes--it may be so. + His evidence, if he were called by law + To swear to some enormity he saw, + For want of prominence and just relief, + Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. + Through constant dread of giving truth offence, + He ties up all his hearers in suspense; + Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not; + What he remembers seems to have forgot; + His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, + Centering at last in having none at all. + Yet though he tease and baulk your listening ear, + He makes one useful point exceeding clear; + Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme + A sceptic in philosophy may seem, + Reduced to practice, his beloved rule + Would only prove him a consummate fool; + Useless in him alike both brain and speech, + Fate having placed all truth above his reach; + His ambiguities his total sum, + He might as well be blind and deaf and dumb. + + Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, + The positive pronounce without dismay, + Their want of light and intellect supplied + By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride: + Without the means of knowing right from wrong, + They always are decisive, clear, and strong; + Where others toil with philosophic force, + Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course, + Flings at your head conviction in the lump, + And gains remote conclusions at a jump; + Their own defect, invisible to them, + Seen in another, they at once condemn, + And, though self-idolized in every case, + Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. + The cause is plain and not to be denied, + The proud are always most provoked by pride; + Few competitions but engender spite, + And those the most where neither has a right. + + + TO A YOUNG LADY + + Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, + Apt emblem of a virtuous maid-- + Silent and chaste she steals along, + Far from the world's gay busy throng: + With gentle yet prevailing force, + Intent upon her destined course; + Graceful and useful all she does. + Blessing and blest where'er she goes; + Pure-bosomed as that watery glass + And Heaven reflected in her face. + + + THE SHRUBBERY + + O happy shades! to me unblest! + Friendly to peace, but not to me! + How ill the scene that offers rest, + And heart that cannot rest, agree! + + This glassy stream, that spreading pine, + Those alders quivering to the breeze, + Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, + And please, if anything could please. + + But fixed unalterable Care + Foregoes not what she feels within, + Shows the same sadness everywhere, + And slights the season and the scene. + + For all that pleased in wood or lawn + While Peace possessed these silent bowers, + Her animating smile withdrawn, + Has lost its beauties and its powers. + + The saint or moralist should tread + This moss-grown alley, musing, slow, + They seek like me the secret shade, + But not, like me, to nourish woe! + + Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste + Alike admonish not to roam; + These tell me of enjoyments past, + And those of sorrows yet to come. + + + From THE TASK + + [Love of Familiar Scenes] + + Scenes that soothed + Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find + Still soothing and of power to charm me still. + And witness, dear companion of my walks, + Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive + Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, + Confirmed by long experience of thy worth + And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire, + Witness a joy that them hast doubled long. + Thou knowest my praise of nature most sincere, + And that my raptures are not conjured up + To serve occasions of poetic pomp, + But genuine, and art partner of them all. + + How oft upon yon eminence our pace + Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne + The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, + While admiration feeding at the eye, + And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. + Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned + The distant plough slow moving, and beside + His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, + The sturdy swain diminished to a boy. + Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain + Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, + Conducts the eye along his sinuous course + Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, + Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms, + That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; + While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, + That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, + The sloping land recedes into the clouds; + Displaying on its varied side the grace + Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, + Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells + Just undulates upon the listening ear; + Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. + Scenes must be beautiful which, daily viewed, + Please daily, and whose novelty survives + Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: + Praise justly due to those that I describe. + + + [MAN'S INHUMANITY] + + Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, + Some boundless contiguity of shade, + Where rumour of oppression and deceit, + Of unsuccessful or successful war, + Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, + My soul is sick, with every day's report + Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. + There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, + It does not feel for man; the natural bond + Of brotherhood is severed as the flax + That falls asunder at the touch of fire. + He finds his fellow guilty of a skin + + Not coloured like his own, and, having power + T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause + Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey, + Lands intersected by a narrow frith. + Abhor each other. Mountains interposed + Make enemies of nations who had else + Like kindred drops been mingled into one. + Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; + And worse than all, and most to be deplored, + As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, + Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat + With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, + Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. + Then what is man? And what man seeing this, + And having human feelings, does not blush + And hang his head, to think himself a man? + I would not have a slave to till my ground, + To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, + And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth + That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. + No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's + Just estimation prized above all price, + I had much rather be myself the slave + And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. + We have no slaves at home: then why abroad? + And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave + That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. + Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs + Receive our air, that moment they are free; + They touch our country, and their shackles fall. + That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud + And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, + And let it circulate through every vein + Of all your empire; that where Britain's power + Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. + + + [LOVE OF ENGLAND] + + England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, + My country! and, while yet a nook is left + Where English minds and manners may be found, + Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime + + Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed + With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, + I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies + And fields without a flower, for warmer France + With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves + Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. + To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime + Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire + Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; + But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake + Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart + As any thunderer there. And I can feel + Thy follies too, and with a just disdain + Frown at effeminates, whose very looks + Reflect dishonour on the land I love. + How, in the name of soldiership and sense, + Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth + And tender as a girl, all-essenced o'er + With odours, and as profligate as sweet, + Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, + And love when they should fight,--when such as these + Presume to lay their hand upon the ark + Of her magnificent and awful cause? + Time was when it was praise and boast enough + In every clime, and travel where we might, + That we were born her children; praise enough + To fill the ambition of a private man, + That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, + And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. + Farewell those honours, and farewell with them + The hope of such hereafter! They have fallen + Each in his field of glory, one in arms, + And one in council--Wolfe upon the lap + Of smiling Victory that moment won, + And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame! + They made us many soldiers. Chatham still + Consulting England's happiness at home, + Secured it by an unforgiving frown + If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, + Put so much of his heart into his act, + That his example had a magnet's force, + And all were swift to follow whom all loved. + + Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! + Or all that we have left is empty talk + Of old achievements, and despair of new. + + + [COWPER, THE RELIGIOUS RECLUSE] + + I was a stricken deer that left the herd + Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed + My panting side was charged, when I withdrew + To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. + There was I found by One who had Himself + Been hurt by th' archers. In His side He bore, + And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars. + With gentle force soliciting the darts, + He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live. + Since then, with few associates, in remote + And silent woods I wander, far from those + My former partners of the peopled scene, + With few associates, and not wishing more. + Here much I ruminate, as much I may, + With other views of men and manners now + Than once, and others of a life to come. + I see that all are wanderers, gone astray + Each in his own delusions; they are lost + In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed + And never won; dream after dream ensues, + And still they dream that they shall still succeed, + And still are disappointed: rings the world + With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind. + And add two-thirds of the remaining half, + And find the total of their hopes and fears + Dreams, empty dreams. + + + [THE ARRIVAL OF THE POST] + + Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge, + That with its wearisome but needful length + Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon + Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright, + He comes, the herald of a noisy world, + With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, + News from all nations lumbering at his back, + True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, + + Yet careless what he brings, his one concern + Is to conduct it to the destined inn, + And, having dropped th' expected bag, pass on. + He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, + Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief + Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, + To him indifferent whether grief or joy. + Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, + Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet + With tears that trickled down the writers cheeks + Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, + Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains + Or nymphs responsive, equally affect + His horse and him, unconscious of them all. + But oh th' important budget, ushered in + With such heart-shaking music, who can say + What are its tidings? Have our troops awaked, + Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, + Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave? + Is India free, and does she wear her plumed + And jewelled turban with a smile of peace, + Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, + The popular harangue, the tart reply, + The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, + And the loud laugh--I long to know them all; + I burn to set th' imprisoned wranglers free, + And give them voice and utterance once again. + + Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, + Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round; + And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn + Throws up a steamy column, and the cups + That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, + So let us welcome peaceful evening in. + + + [THE BASTILE] + + Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more + To France than all her losses and defeats + Old or of later date, by sea or land, + Her house of bondage worse than that of old + Which God avenged on Pharaoh--the Bastile! + Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, + Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, + That monarchs have supplied from age to age + With music such as suits their sovereign ears-- + The sighs and groans of miserable men, + There's not an English heart that would not leap + To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know + That even our enemies, so oft employed + In forging chains for us, themselves were free: + For he that values liberty, confines + His zeal for her predominance within + No narrow bounds; her cause engages him + Wherever pleaded; 'tis the cause of man. + There dwell the most forlorn of human kind, + Immured though unaccused, condemned untried. + Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. + There, like the visionary emblem seen + By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, + And filleted about with hoops of brass, + Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. + To count the hour-bell and expect no change; + And ever as the sullen sound is heard, + Still to reflect that though a joyless note + To him whose moments all have one dull pace, + Ten thousand rovers in the world at large + Account it music--that it summons some + To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; + The wearied hireling finds it a release + From labour; and the lover, who has chid + Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke + Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight: + To fly for refuge from distracting thought + To such amusements as ingenious woe + Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools-- + To read engraven on the muddy walls, + In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, + A sad memorial, and subjoin his own; + To turn purveyor to an overgorged + And bloated spider, till the pampered pest + Is made familiar, watches his approach, + Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend; + To wear out time in numbering to and fro + The studs that thick emboss his iron door, + Then downward and then upward, then aslant + And then alternate, with a sickly hope + By dint of change to give his tasteless task + Some relish, till, the sum exactly found + In all directions, he begins again:-- + Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around + With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel + And beg for exile or the pangs of death? + That man should thus encroach on fellow-man, + Abridge him of his just and native rights, + Eradicate him, tear him from his hold + Upon th' endearments of domestic life + And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, + And doom him for perhaps an heedless word + To barrenness and solitude and tears, + Moves indignation; makes the name of king + (Of king whom such prerogative can please) + As dreadful as the Manichean god, + Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. + + + [MEDITATION IN WINTER] + + The night was winter in his roughest mood, + The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, + Upon the southern side of the slant hills, + And where the woods fence off the northern blast, + The season smiles, resigning all its rage, + And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue + Without a cloud, and white without a speck + The dazzling splendour of the scene below. + Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, + And through the trees I view the embattled tower + Whence all the music. I again perceive + The soothing influence of the wafted strains, + And settle in soft musings as I tread + The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, + Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. + The roof, though moveable through all its length + As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, + And intercepting in their silent fall + The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. + + No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. + The redbreast warbles still, but is content + With slender notes, and more than half suppressed: + Pleased with, his solitude, and flitting light + From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes + From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, + That tinkle in the withered leaves below. + Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, + Charms more than silence. Meditation here + May think down hours to moments. Here the heart + May give a useful lesson to the head, + And learning wiser grow without his books. + Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, + Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells + In heads replete with thoughts of other men, + Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. + Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, + The mere materials with which wisdom builds, + 'Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, + Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. + Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; + Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. + Books are not seldom talismans and spells, + By which the magic art of shrewder wits + Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. + Some to the fascination of a name + Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style + Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds + Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. + While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear + The insupportable fatigue of thought, + And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice, + The total grist unsifted, husks and all. + But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course + Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, + And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs, + And lanes in which the primrose ere her time + Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, + Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth, + Not shy as in the world, and to be won + By slow solicitation, seize at once + The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. + + + [KINDNESS TO ANIMALS] + + I would not enter on my list of friends, + Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, + Yet wanting sensibility, the man + Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. + An inadvertent, step may crush the snail + That crawls at evening in the public path; + But he that has humanity, forewarned, + Will tread aside and let the reptile live. + The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, + And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, + A visitor unwelcome, into scenes + Sacred to neatness and repose--th' alcove, + The chamber, or refectory,--may die: + A necessary act incurs no blame. + Not so when, held within their proper bounds + And guiltless of offence, they range the air, + Or take their pastime in the spacious field: + There they are privileged; and he that hunts + Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, + Disturbs th' economy of Nature's realm, + Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. + + + ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE + + O that those lips had language! Life has passed + With me but roughly since I heard thee last. + Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, + The same that oft in childhood solaced me; + Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, + 'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!' + The meek intelligence of those dear eyes + (Blest be the art that can immortalize, + The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim + To quench it) here shines on me still the same. + + Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, + O welcome guest, though unexpected here! + Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, + Affectionate, a mother lost so long, + I will obey, not willingly alone, + But gladly, as the precept were her own: + And, while that face renews my filial grief, + Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, + Shall steep me in Elysian revery, + A momentary dream that thou art she. + + My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, + Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? + Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, + Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? + Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; + Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- + Ah, that maternal smile! it answers 'Yes,' + I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, + I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, + And, turning from my nursery window, drew + A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! + But was it such? It was: where thou art gone + Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. + May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, + The parting word shall pass my lips no more! + Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, + Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. + What ardently I wished I long believed, + And, disappointed still, was still deceived, + By expectation every day beguiled, + Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. + Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, + Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, + I learnt at last submission to my lot, + But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. + + Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more: + Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; + And where the gardener Robin, day by day, + Drew me to school along the public way, + Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped + In scarlet, mantle warm, and velvet-capped, + 'Tis now become a history little known + That once we called the pastoral house our own. + Short-lived possession! But the record fair + That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, + Still outlives many a storm that has effaced + A thousand other themes less deeply traced. + Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, + That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; + Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, + The biscuit or confectionary plum; + The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed + By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; + All this, and, more endearing still than all, + Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, + Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks + That humour interposed too often makes; + All this, still legible on memory's page, + And still to be so to my latest age, + Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay + Such honours to thee as my numbers may, + Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, + Not scorned in heaven though little noticed here. + + Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours + When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, + The violet, the pink, the jessamine, + I pricked them into paper with a pin + (And thou wast happier than myself the while, + Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), + Could those few pleasant days again appear, + Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? + I would not trust my heart--the dear delight + Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. + But no--what here we call our life is such, + So little to be loved, and thou so much, + That I should ill requite thee to constrain + Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. + + Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, + The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed, + Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, + Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, + There sits quiescent on the floods, that show + Her beauteous form reflected clear below, + While airs impregnated with incense play + Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, + So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore + 'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,' + And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide + Of life long since has anchored by thy side. + + But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, + Always from port withheld, always distressed, + Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, + Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, + And day by day some current's thwarting force + Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. + Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he, + That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. + My boast is not that I deduce my birth + From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; + But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- + The son of parents passed into the skies! + + And now, farewell. Time unrevoked has run + His wonted course, yet what I wished is done: + By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, + I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again, + To have renewed the joys that once were mine, + Without the sin of violating thine; + And while the wings of Fancy still are free, + And I can view this mimic show of thee, + Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- + Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. + + + TO MARY + + The twentieth year is well-nigh past, + Since first our sky was overcast; + Ah, would that this might be the last! + My Mary! + + Thy spirits have a fainter flow, + 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 playedst 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 uttered 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 pressed, press gently mine, + My Mary! + + Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, + That now at every step thou movest + Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, + My Mary! + + And still to love, though pressed with ill, + In wintry age to feel no chill, + With me is to be lovely still, + My Mary! + + But ah! by constant heed I know, + 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! + + + THE CASTAWAY + + Obscurest night involved the sky, + The Atlantic billows roared, + When such a destined wretch as I, + Washed headlong from on board, + Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, + His floating home forever left. + + No-braver chief could Albion boast + Than he with whom he went, + Nor ever ship left Albion's coast + With warmer wishes sent. + He loved them both, but both in vain, + Nor him beheld, nor her again, + + Not long beneath the whelming brine, + Expert to swim, he lay; + Nor soon he felt his strength decline, + Or courage die away; + But waged with death a lasting strife, + Supported by despair of life. + + He shouted: nor his friends had failed + To check the vessel's course, + But so the furious blast prevailed, + That, pitiless perforce, + They left their outcast mate behind, + And scudded still before the wind. + + Some succour yet they could afford; + And such as storms allow, + The cask, the coop, the floated cord, + Delayed not to bestow. + But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, + Whate'er they gave, should visit more. + + Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he + Their haste himself condemn, + Aware that flight, in such a sea, + Alone could rescue them; + Yet bitter felt it still to die + Deserted, and his friends so nigh. + + He long survives, who lives an hour + In ocean, self-upheld; + And so long he, with unspent power, + His destiny repelled; + And ever, as the minutes flew, + Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!' + + At length, his transient respite past, + His comrades, who before + Had heard his voice in every blast, + Could catch the sound no more: + For then, by toil subdued, he drank + The stifling wave, and then he sank. + + No poet wept him; but the page + Of narrative sincere, + That tells his name, his worth, his age, + Is wet with Anson's tear: + And tears by bards or heroes shed + Alike immortalize the dead. + + I therefore purpose not, or dream, + Descanting on his fate, + To give the melancholy theme + A more enduring date: + But misery still delights to trace + Its semblance in another's case. + + No voice divine the storm allayed, + No light propitious shone, + When, snatched from all effectual aid, + We perished, each alone: + But I beneath a rougher sea, + And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. + + + + + WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES + + + EVENING + + Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend, + Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, + The lonely battlement, the farthest hill + And wood, I think of those who have no friend; + Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led, + From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, + Retiring, wander to the ringdove's haunts + Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed + Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye + Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind + Might rest beyond the murmurs of mankind, + Nor hear the hourly moans of misery! + Alas for man! that Hope's fair views the while + Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! + + + DOVER CLIFFS + + On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood + Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet + Hear not the surge that has for ages beat, + How many a lonely wanderer has stood! + And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, + And o'er the distant billows the still eve + Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave + To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; + Of social scenes, from which he wept to part! + Oh! if, like me, he knew how fruitless all + The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, + Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, + And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide-- + The world his country, and his God his guide. + + + + + ROBERT BURNS + + + MARY MORISON + + O Mary, at thy window be; + It is the wished, the trysted hour! + Those smiles and glances let me see + That make the miser's treasure poor! + How blythely wad I bide the stoure, + 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 sighed, and said amang them a', + 'Ye are na 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 wilt na gie, + At least be pity to me shown! + A thought ungentle canna be + The thought o' Mary Morison. + + + THE HOLY FAIR + + Upon a simmer Sunday morn, + When Nature's face is fair, + I walkèd forth to view the corn, + An' snuff the caller air. + The rising sun, owre Galston muirs, + Wi' glorious light was glintin; + The hares were hirplin down the furs, + The lav'rocks they were chantin + Fu' sweet that day. + + As lightsomely I glowered abroad, + To see a scene sae gay, + Three hizzies, early at the road, + Cam skelpin up the way. + Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, + But ane wi' lyart lining; + The third, that gaed a wee a-back, + Was in the fashion shining + Fu' gay that day. + + The twa appeared like sisters twin, + In feature, form, an' claes; + Their visage withered, lang an'thin, + An' sour as onie slaes: + The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, + As light as onie lambie, + An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, + As soon as e'er she saw me, + Fu' kind that day. + + Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass, + I think ye seem to ken me; + I'm sure I've seen that bonie face, + But yet I canna name ye.' + Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, + An'taks me by the han's, + 'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck + Of a' the Ten Comman's + A screed some day. + + 'My name is Fun--your cronie dear, + The nearest friend ye hae; + An'this is Superstition here, + An'that's Hypocrisy. + I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, + To spend an hour in daffin: + Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, + We will get famous laughin + At them this day.' + + Quoth I, 'Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't: + I'll get my Sunday's sark on, + An' meet you on the holy spot; + Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!' + Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, + An' soon I made me ready; + For roads were clad frae side to side + Wi' monie a wearie body, + In droves that day. + + Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, + Gaed hoddin by their cotters; + There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, + Are springin owre the gutters. + The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, + In silks an' scarlets glitter; + Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, + An' farls baked wi' butter, + Fu' crump that day. + + When by the plate we set our nose, + Weel heapèd up wi' ha'pence, + A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, + An' we maun draw our tippence. + Then in we go to see the show: + On every side they're gath'rin, + Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, + An' some are busy bleth'rin + Right loud that day. + + Here stands a shed to fend the showers, + An' screen our countra gentry, + There Racer Jess, and twa-three whores, + Are blinkin' at the entry. + Here sits a raw of tittlin' jads, + Wi' heavin breasts an' bare neck; + An'there a batch o' wabster lads. + Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, + For fun this day. + + Here some are thinkin on their sins, + An' some upo' their claes; + Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, + Anither sighs and prays; + On this hand sits a chosen swatch, + Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces; + On that a set o' chaps, at watch, + Thrang winkln on the lasses + To chairs that day. + + O happy is that man an' blest + (Nae wonder that it pride him!) + Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, + Conies clinkin down beside him! + Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back, + He sweetly does compose him; + Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, + An's loof upon her bosom, + Unkend that day. + + Now a' the congregation o'er + Is silent expectation; + For Moodie speels the holy door + Wi' tidings o' damnation. + Should Hornie, as in ancient days, + 'Mang sons o' God present him, + The vera sight o' Moodie's face + To 's ain het hame had sent him + Wi' fright that day. + + Hear how he clears the points o' faith + Wi' rattlin an wi' thumpin! + Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, + He's stampin an' he's jumpin! + His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, + His eldritch squeel an' gestures, + O how they fire the heart devout-- + Like cantharidian plaisters, + On sic a day! + + But hark! the tent has changed its voice; + There's peace an' rest nae langer; + For a' the real judges rise, + They canna sit for anger: + Smith opens out his cauld harangues + On practice and on morals; + An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, + To gie the jars an' barrels + A lift that day. + + What signifies his barren shine + Of moral pow'rs an' reason? + His English style an' gesture fine + Are a' clean out o' season. + Like Socrates or Antonine, + Or some auld pagan heathen, + The moral man he does define, + But ne'er a word o' faith in + That's right that day. + + In guid time comes an antidote + Against sic poisoned nostrum; + For Peebles, frae the water-fit, + Ascends the holy rostrum: + See, up he's got the word o' God, + An' meek an' mim has viewed it, + While Common Sense has taen the road, + An' aff, an' up the Cowgate + Fast, fast that day. + + Wee Miller niest the guard relieves, + An' orthodoxy raibles, + Tho' in his heart he weel believes + An'thinks it auld wives' fables; + But faith! the birkie wants a manse, + So cannilie he hums them, + Altho' his carnal wit an' sense + Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him + At times that day, + + Now butt an' ben the change-house fills + Wi' yill-caup commentators; + Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, + An'there the pint-stowp clatters; + While thick an'thrang, an' loud an' lang, + Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture, + They raise a din that in the end + Is like to breed a rupture + O' wrath that day. + + Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair + Than either school or college; + It kindles wit, it waukens lear, + It pangs us fou o' knowledge. + Be 't whisky-gill or penny-wheep, + Or onie stronger potion, + It never fails, on drinkin deep, + To kittle up our notion, + By night or day. + + The lads an' lasses, blythely bent + To mind baith saul an' body, + Sit round the table weel content, + An' steer about the toddy. + On this ane's dress an'that ane's leuk + They're makin observations; + While some are cozie i' the neuk, + An' formin assignations + To meet some day. + + But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, + Till a' the hills are rairin, + And echoes back return the shouts; + Black Russell is na spairin: + His piercin words, like Highlan' swords, + Divide the joints an' marrow; + His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, + Our verra 'sauls does harrow' + Wi' fright that day! + + A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit, + Filled fou o' lowin brunstane, + Whase ragin flame an' scorchin heat + Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! + The half-asleep start up wi' fear, + An'think they hear it roarin, + When presently it does appear + 'Twas but some neebor snorin, + Asleep that day. + + 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell + How monie stories passed, + An' how they crouded to the yill, + When they were a' dismissed; + How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, + Amang the furms an' benches, + An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, + Was dealt about in lunches + An' dawds that day. + + In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, + An' sits down by the fire, + Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; + The lasses they are shyer; + The auld guidmen about the grace + Frae side to side they bother, + Till some ane by his bonnet lays + And gi'es them 't, like a tether, + Fu' lang that day. + + Waesueks for him that gets nae lass, + Or lasses that hae naething! + Sma' need has he to say a grace, + Or melvie his braw claithing! + O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel + How bonie lads ye wanted, + An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel + Let lasses be affronted + On sic a day! + + Now Clinkumbell, w' rattlin tow, + Begins to jow an' croon; + Some swagger hame the best they dow, + Some wait the afternoon, + At slaps the billies halt a blink, + Till lasses strip their shoon; + Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, + They're a' in famous tune + For crack that day. + + How monie hearts this day converts + O' sinners and o' lasses! + Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaen + As saft as onie flesh is. + There's some are fou o' love divine, + There's some are fou o' brandy; + An' monie jobs that day begin, + May end in houghmagandie + Some ither day. + + + TO A LOUSE + + ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH + + Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? + Your impudence protects you sairly; + I canna say but ye strunt rarely + Ower gauze and lace, + Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely + On sic a place, + + Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, + Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner, + How daur ye set your fit upon her, + Sae fine a lady! + Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner + On some poor body. + + Swith! in some beggar's hauffet squattle; + There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattle + Wi' ither kindred jumping cattle, + In shoals and nations, + Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle + Your thick plantations. + + Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight, + Below the fatt'rils, snug an'tight; + Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right + Till ye've got on it, + The vera tapmost, tow'ring height + O' Miss's bonnet. + + My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, + As plump an' grey as onie grozet; + O for some rank, mercurial rozet + Or fell red smeddum! + I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't + Wad dress your droddum! + + I wad na been surprised to spy + You on an auld wife's flainen toy, + Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, + On's wyliecoat; + But Miss's fine Lunardi--fie! + How daur ye do't! + + O Jenny, dinna toss your head, + An' set your beauties a' abread! + Ye little ken what cursèd speed + The blastie's makin! + Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread, + Are notice takin! + + O wad some Power the giftie gie us + To see oursels as ithers see us! + It wad frae monie a blunder free us, + An' foolish notion; + What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, + An' ev'n devotion! + + + FROM EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK + + I am nae poet, in a sense, + But just a rhymer like by chance, + An' hae to learning nae pretence; + Yet what the matter? + Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, + I jingle at her. + + Your critic-folk may cock their nose, + And say, 'How can you e'er propose, + You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, + To mak a sang?' + But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes, + Ye're maybe wrang. + + What's a' your jargon o' your schools, + Your Latin names for horns an' stools? + If honest Nature made you fools, + What sairs your grammers? + Ye'd better taen up spades and shools + Or knappin-hammers. + + A set o' dull, conceited hashes + Confuse their brains in college classes; + They gang in stirks, and come out asses, + Plain truth to speak; + An' syne they think to climb Parnassus + By dint o' Greek! + + Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, + That's a' the learning I desire; + Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire + At pleugh or cart, + My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, + May touch the heart. + + + THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT + + My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! + No mercenary bard his homage pays; + With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, + My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise: + To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, + The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; + The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, + What Aiken in a cottage would have been; + Ah, though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! + + November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; + The shortening winter-day is near a close; + The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; + The blackening trains o' craws to their repose: + The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes-- + This night his weekly moil is at an end,-- + Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, + Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, + And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. + + At length his lonely cot appears in view, + Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; + Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through + To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. + His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, + His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, + The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, + Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, + And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. + + Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, + At service out amang the farmers roun'; + Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin. + A cannie errand to a neebor town. + Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, + In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, + Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, + Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, + To help her parents dear if they in hardship be. + + With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, + And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; + The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; + Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. + The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; + Anticipation forward points the view. + The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, + Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; + The father mixes a' wi' admonition due: + + Their master's and their mistress's command + The younkers a' are warnèd to obey, + And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, + And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: + 'And O be sure to fear the Lord alway, + And mind your duty duly, morn and night; + Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, + Implore His counsel and assisting might: + They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' + + But hark! a rap comes gently to the door. + Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, + Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, + To do some errands and convoy her hame. + The wily mother sees the conscious flame + Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; + With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name, + While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; + Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. + + With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben: + A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; + Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen; + The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. + The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, + But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; + The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy + What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave, + Weel-pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. + + Oh happy love, where love like this is found! + Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! + I've pacèd much this weary, mortal round, + And sage experience bids me this declare: + 'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, + One cordial in this melancholy vale, + 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair + In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, + Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.' + + Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, + A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! + That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, + Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? + Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! + Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? + Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, + Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? + Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? + + But now the supper crowns their simple hoard: + The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: + The soupe their only hawkie does afford, + That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood. + The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, + To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuek, fell; + And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; + The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell + How 'twas a towmond auld sin' lint was i' the bell. + + The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face + They round the ingle form a circle wide; + The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, + The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride; + His bonnet reverently is laid aside, + His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; + Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, + He wales a portion with judicious care, + And 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air. + + They chant their artless notes in simple guise; + They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: + Perhaps 'Dundee's' wild-warbling measures rise, + Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the name; + Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heavenward flame, + The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. + Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; + The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; + Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. + + The priest-like father reads the sacred page; + How Abram was the friend of God on high; + Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage + With Amalek's ungracious progeny; + Or how the royal bard did groaning lie + Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; + Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; + Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; + Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. + + Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme: + How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; + How He Who bore in Heaven the second name + Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; + How His first followers and servants sped; + The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; + How he, who lone in Patmos banishèd, + Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, + And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. + + Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, + The saint, the father, and the husband prays; + Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' + That thus they all shall meet in future days, + There ever bask in uncreated rays, + No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, + Together hymning their Creator's praise, + In such society, yet still more dear, + While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. + + Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, + In all the pomp of method and of art, + When men display to congregations wide + Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart! + The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, + The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; + But haply, in some cottage far apart, + May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, + And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. + + Then homeward all take off their several way; + The youngling cottagers retire to rest; + The parent-pair their secret homage pay, + And proffer up to Heaven the warm request + And He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, + And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, + Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, + For them and for their little ones provide, + But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. + + From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, + That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: + Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, + 'An honest man's the noblest work of God.' + And certes in fair virtue's heavenly road, + The cottage leaves the palace far behind: + What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, + Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, + Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! + + O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! + For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! + Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil + Be blest with health and peace and sweet content! + And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent + From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! + Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, + A virtuous populace may rise the while, + And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. + + O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tide + That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, + Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, + Or nobly die, the second glorious part! + (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, + His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) + Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert, + But still the patriot and the patriot-bard + In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! + + + TO A MOUSE + + ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, + NOVEMBER, 1785 + + Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, + O what a panic's in thy breastie! + Thou need na start awa sae hasty, + Wi' bickering brattle! + I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, + Wi' murdering pattle! + + I'm truly sorry man's dominion + Has broken Nature's social union, + An' justifies that ill opinion + Which makes thee startle + At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, + An' fellow-mortal! + + I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; + What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! + A daimen icker in a thrave + 'S a sma' request; + I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, + An' never miss 't! + + Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! + Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! + An' naething now to big a new ane, + O' foggage green! + An' bleak December's win's ensuin, + Baith snell an' keen! + + Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, + An' weary winter comin fast, + An' cozie here, beneath the blast, + Thou thought to dwell-- + Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed + Out thro' thy cell. + + That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble + Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! + Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, + But house or hald, + To thole the winter's sleety dribble, + An' cranreuch cauld! + + But mousie, thou art no thy lane + In proving foresight may be vain: + The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men + Gang aft agley, + An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain + For promised joy! + + Still, thou art bleat compared wi' me! + The present only toucheth thee: + But och! I backward cast my e'e, + On prospects drear! + An' forward, tho' I canna see, + I guess an' fear! + + + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY + + ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 + + Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r, + Thou's met me in an evil hour, + For I maun crush amang the stoure + Thy slender stem; + To spare thee now is past my pow'r, + Thou bonie gem. + + Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, + The bonie lark, companion meet, + Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, + Wi' spreckled breast, + When upward springing, blythe, to greet + The purpling east. + + Cauld blew the bitter-biting north + Upon thy early, humble birth; + Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth + Amid the storm, + Scarce reared above the parent-earth + Thy tender form. + + The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, + High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; + But thou, beneath the random bield + O' clod or stane, + Adorns the histie stibble-field, + Unseen, alane. + + There, in thy scanty mantle clad, + Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, + Thou lifts thy unassuming head + In humble guise; + But now the share uptears thy bed, + And low thou lies! + + Such is the fate of artless maid, + Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! + By love's simplicity betray'd, + And guileless trust, + Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid, + Low i' the dust. + + Such is the fate of simple bard, + On life's rough ocean luckless starred! + Unskilful he to note the card + Of prudent lore, + Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, + And whelm him o'er! + + Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, + Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, + By human pride or cunning driv'n + To mis'ry's brink; + Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, + He, ruined, sink! + + Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, + That fate is thine--no distant date; + Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, + Full on thy bloom, + Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight + Shall be thy doom! + + + EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND + + I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend + A something to have sent you, + Tho' it should serve nae ither end + Than just a kind memento. + But how the subject-theme may gang, + Let time and chance determine; + Perhaps it may turn out a sang, + Perhaps turn out a sermon. + + Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; + And, Andrew dear, believe me, + Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, + And muckle they may grieve ye: + For care and trouble set your thought, + Ev'n when your end's attainèd; + And a' your views may come to nought, + Where ev'ry nerve is strainèd. + + I'll no say men are villains a'; + The real, harden'd wicked, + Wha hae nae check but human law, + Are to a few restricket; + But, och! mankind are unco weak, + An' little to be trusted; + If self the wavering balance shake, + It's rarely right adjusted! + + Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, + Their fate we shouldna censure, + For still th' important end of life + They equally may answer; + A man may hae an honest heart, + Tho' poortith hourly stare him; + A man may tak a neebor's part, + Yet hae nae cash to spare him. + + Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, + When wi a bosom crony; + But still keep something to yoursel + Ye scarcely tell to ony. + Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can + Frae critical dissection; + But keek thro' ev'ry other man, + Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. + + The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, + Luxuriantly indulge it; + But never tempt th' illicit rove, + Tho' naething should divulge it; + I ware the quantum o' the sin, + The hazard of concealing; + But, och! it hardens a' within, + And petrifies the feeling! + + To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, + Assiduous wait upon her; + And gather gear by ev'ry wile + That's justified by honour; + Not for to hide it in a hedge, + Nor for a train attendant; + But for the glorious privilege + Of being independent. + + The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, + To haud the wretch in order; + But where ye feel your honour grip, + Let that aye be your border; + Its slightest touches, instant pause;-- + Debar a' side-pretences; + And resolutely keep its laws, + Uncaring consequences. + + The great Creator to revere, + Must sure become the creature; + But still the preaching cant forbear, + And ev'n the rigid feature; + Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, + Be complaisance extended; + An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange + For Deity offended! + + When ranting round in pleasure's ring, + Religion may be blinded; + Or, if she gie a random sting, + It may be little minded; + But when on life we're tempest-driv'n-- + A conscience but a canker, + A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n + Is sure a noble anchor! + + Adieu, dear amiable Youth! + Your heart can ne'er be wanting! + May prudence, fortitude, and truth, + Erect your brow undaunting! + In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' + Still daily to grow wiser; + And may you better reck the rede, + Than ever did th' adviser! + + + A BARD'S EPITAPH + + Is there a whim-inspirèd fool, + Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, + Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool? + Let him draw near; + And owre this grassy heap sing dool, + And drap a tear. + + Is there a bard of rustic song, + Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, + That weekly this area throng?-- + Oh, pass not by! + But with a frater-feeling strong + Here heave a sigh. + + Is there a man whose judgment clear + Can others teach the course to steer, + Yet runs himself life's mad career + Wild as the wave?-- + Here pause--and thro' the starting tear + Survey this grave. + + The poor inhabitant below + Was quick to learn and wise to know, + And keenly felt the friendly glow + And softer flame; + But thoughtless follies laid him low, + And stain'd his name! + + Reader, attend! whether thy soul + Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, + Or darkling grubs this earthly hole + In low pursuit; + Know, prudent, cautious self-control + Is wisdom's root. + + + ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS + + O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, + Sae pious and sae holy, + Ye've nought to do but mark and tell + Your neebour's fauts and folly! + Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, + Supplied wi' store o' water, + The heapet happer's ebbing still, + And still the clap plays clatter,-- + + Hear me, ye venerable core, + As counsel for poor mortals + That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door + For glaikit Folly's portals; + I for their thoughtless, careless sakes + Would here propone defences-- + Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, + Their failings and mischances. + + Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, + And shudder at the niffer; + But cast a moment's fair regard, + What maks the mighty differ? + Discount what scant occasion gave, + That purity ye pride in, + And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) + Your better art o' hidin. + + Think, when your castigated pulse + Gies now and then a wallop, + What ragings must his veins convulse + That still eternal gallop: + Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, + Right on ye scud your sea-way; + But in the teeth o' baith to sail, + It maks an unco leeway. + + See Social Life and Glee sit down, + All joyous and unthinking, + Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown + Debauchery and Drinking: + O would they stay to calculate + Th' eternal consequences, + Or--your more dreaded hell to state-- + Damnation of expenses! + + Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, + Tied up in godly laces, + Before ye gie poor Frailty names, + Suppose a change o' cases: + A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, + A treach'rous inclination-- + But, let me whisper i' your lug, + Ye're aiblins nae temptation. + + Then gently scan your brother man, + Still gentler sister woman; + Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, + To step aside is human: + One point must still be greatly dark, + The moving _why_ they do it; + And just as lamely can ye mark + How far perhaps they rue it. + + Who made the heart, 'tis He alone + Decidedly can try us; + He knows each chord, its various tone, + Each spring, its various bias: + Then at the balance, let's be mute, + We never can adjust it; + What's done we partly may compute, + But know not what's resisted. + + + JOHN ANDEKSON, MY JO + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + When we were first acquent, + Your locks were like the raven, + Your bonie brow was brent: + But now your brow is beld, John, + Your locks are like the snaw; + But blessings on your frosty pow, + John Anderson, my jo! + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + We clamb the hill thegither; + And monie a cantie day, John, + We've had wi' ane anither: + Now we maun totter down, John, + And hand in hand we'll go, + And sleep thegither at the foot, + John Anderson, my jo! + + + THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS + + The lovely lass of Inverness, + Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; + For e'en to 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 mony a heart thou hast made sair + That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!' + + + A RED, RED ROSE + + O, my luv is like a red, red rose, + That's newly sprung in June: + O, my luv is like the melodie + That's sweetly played in tune. + + As fair art thou, my bonie 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; + And 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 awhile! + And I will come again, my luve, + Tho' it were ten thousand mile! + + + AULD LANG SYNE + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to mind? + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And auld lang syne? + + _Chorus:_ + + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne! + + And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, + And surely I'll be mine; + And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet + For auld lang syne! + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pou'd the gowans fine; + But we've wander'd monie a weary fit + Sin' auld lang syne. + + We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, + Frae morning sun till dine; + But seas between us braid hae roar'd + Sin' auld lang syne. + + And there'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! + + + SWEET AFTON + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes! + Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise! + My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream! + + Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, + Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, + Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, + I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair! + + How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, + Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills! + There daily I wander as noon rises high, + My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. + + How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, + Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! + There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, + The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. + + Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, + And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! + How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, + As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave! + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes! + Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! + My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream! + + + THE HAPPY TRIO + + O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, + And Bob and Allan cam to see; + Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, + Ye wad na found in Christendie. + + _Chorus_: + + We are na fou, we're nae that fou, + But just a drappie in our e'e; + The cock may craw, the day may daw, + And ay we'll taste the barley bree! + + Here are we met, three merry boys, + Three merry boys, I trow, are we; + And mony a night we've merry been, + And mony mae we hope to be! + + It is the moon, I ken her horn, + That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; + She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, + But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee! + + Wha first shall rise to gang awa, + A cuckold, coward loun is he! + Wha first beside his chair shall fa', + He is the King amang us three! + + + TO MARY IN HEAVEN + + Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, + That lov'st to greet the early morn, + Again thou usher'st in the day + My Mary from my soul was torn, + O Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + That sacred hour can I forget, + Can I forget the hallowed grove, + Where by the winding Ayr we met + To live one day of parting love? + Eternity cannot efface + Those records dear of transports past, + Thy image at our last embrace-- + Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! + + Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, + O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; + The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar + Twined amorous round the raptured scene: + The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, + The birds sang love on every spray, + Till too, too soon the glowing west + Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day. + + Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, + And fondly broods with miser care! + Time but th' impression stronger makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear. + My Mary, dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + + TAM O' SHANTER: A TALE + + Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. + --GAWIN DOUGLAS. + + When chapman billies leave the street, + And drouthy neebors neebors meet, + As market-days are wearing late, + An' folk begin to tak the gate, + While we sit bousing at the nappy, + An' getting fou and unco happy, + We think na on the lang Scots miles, + The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, + That lie between us and our hame, + Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, + Gathering her brows like gathering storm, + Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. + + This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, + As he frae Ayr ae night did canter + (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses + For honest men and bonie lasses). + + O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise + As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! + She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, + A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum, + That frae November till October + Ae market-day thou was nae sober; + That ilka melder wi' the miller + Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; + That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on + The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; + That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, + Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. + She prophesied that, late or soon, + Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, + Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk + By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk. + + Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet + To think how monie counsels sweet, + How monie lengthened, sage advices, + The husband frae the wife despises! + + But to our tale. Ae market-night + Tam had got planted unco right, + Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, + Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; + And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, + His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie: + Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; + They had been fou for weeks thegither. + The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, + And ay the ale was growing better; + The landlady and Tam grew gracious, + Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious; + The souter tauld his queerest stories, + The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; + The storm without might rair and rustle, + Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. + + Care, mad to see a man sae happy, + E'en drowned himself amang the nappy. + As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, + The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure: + Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, + O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! + + But pleasures are like poppies spread-- + You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; + Or like the snow falls in the river, + A moment white--then melts forever; + Or like the borealis race, + That flit ere you can point their place; + Or like the rainbow's lovely form, + Evanishing amid the storm. + Nae man can tether time or tide: + The hour approaches Tam maun ride; + That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, + That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in, + And sic a night he taks the road in + As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. + + The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last: + The rattling showers rose on the blast; + The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; + Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: + That night, a child might understand, + The Deil had business on his hand. + + Weel-mounted on his gray mare Meg, + A better never lifted leg, + Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, + Despising wind and rain and fire; + Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, + Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, + While glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, + Lest bogles catch him unawares: + Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, + Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. + + By this time he was cross the ford, + Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; + And past the birks and meikle stane, + Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; + And thro' the whins and by the cairn, + Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; + And near the thorn, aboon the well, + Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. + Before him Doon pours all his floods; + The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; + The lightnings flash from pole to pole; + Near and more near the thunders roll; + When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, + Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze: + Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, + And loud resounded mirth and dancing. + + Inspiring bold John Barleycorn, + What dangers thou canst make us scorn! + Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; + Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil! + The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, + Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. + But Maggie stood, right sair astonished, + Till, by the heel and hand admonished, + She ventured forward on the light; + And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! + + Warlocks and witches in a dance; + Nae cotillion, brent new frae France, + But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, + Put life and mettle in their heels. + A winnock-bunker in the east, + There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast; + A towsie tyke, black, grim, and large, + To gie them music was his charge: + He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, + Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. + Coffins stood round, like open presses, + That shawed the dead in their last dresses, + And, by some devilish cantraip sleight, + Each in its cauld hand held a light: + By which heroic Tam was able + To note, upon the haly table, + A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns; + Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; + A thief, new-cutted frae a rape-- + Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; + Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; + Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; + A garter which a babe had strangled; + A knife a father's throat had mangled, + Whom, his ain son o' life bereft-- + The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; + Wi' mair of horrible and awfu', + Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. + + As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, + The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: + The piper loud and louder blew, + The dancers quick and quicker flew; + They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, + Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, + And coost her duddies to the wark, + And linket at it in her sark! + + Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, + A' plump and strapping in their teens! + Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, + Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! + Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, + That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, + I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, + For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! + + But withered beldams, auld and droll, + Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, + Louping and flinging on a crummock, + I wonder didna turn thy stomach! + + But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie: + There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, + That night enlisted in the core, + Lang after kend on Carrick shore + (For monie a beast to dead she shot, + An' perished monie a bonie boat, + And shook baith meikle corn and bear, + And kept the country-side in fear). + Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, + That while a lassie she had worn, + In longitude tho' sorely scanty, + It was her best, and she was vauntie.-- + Ah, little kend thy reverend grannie + That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, + Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), + Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! + + But here my Muse her wing maun cour; + Sic flights are far beyond her power: + To sing how Nannie lap and flang + (A souple jad she was and strang), + And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, + And thought his very een enriched. + Even Satan glowered and fidged fu' fain, + And hotched and blew wi' might and main; + Till first ae caper, syne anither, + Tam tint his reason a' thegither, + And roars out, 'Weel done, Cutty-sark!' + And in an instant all was dark; + And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, + When out the hellish legion sallied. + + As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, + When plundering herds assail their byke; + As open pussie's mortal foes, + When, pop! she starts before their nose; + As eager runs the market-crowd, + When 'Catch the thief' resounds aloud; + So Maggie runs, the witches follow, + Wi' monie an eldritch skriech and hollo. + + Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! + In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! + In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! + Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! + Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, + And win the key-stane of the brig; + There at them thou thy tail may toss-- + A running stream they dare na cross! + But ere the key-stane she could make, + The fient a tail she had to shake! + For Nannie, far before the rest, + Hard upon noble Maggie prest, + And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; + But little wist she Maggie's mettle! + Ae spring brought off her master hale, + But left behind her ain grey tail: + The carlin claught her by the rump, + And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. + + Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, + Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: + Whene'er to drink you are inclined, + Or cutty sarks run in your mind, + Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear; + Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. + + + AE FOND KISS + + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! + Ae farewell, and then forever! + 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 forever. + 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 farewell, alas, forever! + Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; + Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. + + + DUNCAN GRAY + + Duncan Gray cam here to woo + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!), + On blythe Yule Night when we were fou + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Maggie coost her head fu' high, + Looked asklent and unco skeigh, + Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!); + Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Duncan sighed baith out and in, + Grat his een baith bleer't an' blin', + Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Time and chance are but a tide + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Slighted love is sair to bide + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + 'Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he, + 'For a haughty hizzie die? + She may gae to--France for me!'-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + How it comes let doctors tell + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Meg grew sick as he grew hale + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!); + Something in her bosom wrings, + For relief a sigh she brings; + And O her een, they spak sic things!-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Duncan was a lad o' grace + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Maggie's was a piteous case + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Duncan could na be her death, + Swelling pity smoored his wrath; + Now they're crouse and canty baith-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + + 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 Summer first unfald her robes, + And there the langest tarry! + For there I took the last fareweel + O' my sweet Highland Mary. + + How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, + How rich the hawthorn's blossom, + As, underneath their fragrant shade, + I clasped 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 locked embrace, + Our parting was fu' tender; + And, pledging aft to meet again, + We tore oursels asunder. + But O 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 kissed sae fondly! + And closed for ay 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! + + + SCOTS, WHA HAE + + Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, + Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, + Welcome to your gory bed, + Or to victorie! + + Now's the day, and now's the hour! + See the front o' battle lour! + See approach proud Edward's power-- + Chains and slaverie! + + Wha will be a traitor knave? + Wha can fill a coward's grave? + Wha sae base as be a slave? + Let him turn and flee! + + Wha for Scotland's king and law + Freedom's sword will strongly draw, + Freeman stand or freeman fa', + Let him follow me! + + By Oppression's woes and pains! + By your sons in servile chains! + We will drain our dearest veins, + But they shall be free! + + Lay the proud usurpers low! + Tyrants fall in every foe! + Liberty's in every blow! + Let us do or die! + + + IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY + + [A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT] + + Is there for honest poverty + That hings his head, an' a' that? + The coward slave, we pass him by,-- + We dare be poor for a' that! + For a' that, an' a' that, + Our toils obscure, an' a' that: + The rank is but the guinea's stamp; + The man's the gowd for a' that. + + What though on hamely fare we dine, + Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that? + Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,-- + A man's a man for a' that, + For a' that, an' a' that, + Their tinsel show, an' a' that: + The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, + Is king o' men for a' that. + + Ye see yon birkie ca'd 'a lord,' + Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; + Tho' hundreds worship at his word, + He's but a cuif for a' that, + For a' that, an' a' that, + His ribband, star, an' a' that: + The man o' independent mind, + He looks an' laughs at a' that. + + A prince can mak a belted knight, + A marquis, duke, an' a' that! + But an honest man's aboon his might; + Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! + For a' that, an' a' that, + Their dignities, an' a' that: + The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth + Are higher rank than a' that. + + Then let us pray that come it may + (As come it will for a' that), + That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, + Shall bear the gree, an' a' that: + For a' that, an' a' that, + It's comin yet for a' that, + That man to man, the world o'er, + Shall brithers be for a' that. + + + LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER + + Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, + And sair wi' his love he did deave me: + I said there was naething I hated like men; + The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, + The deuce gae wi'm to believe me! + + He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een, + And vowed for my love he was dyin: + I said he might die when he liket for Jean; + The Lord forgie me for lyin, for lyin, + The Lord forgie me for lyin! + + A weel-stoeket mailen, himsel for the laird, + And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: + I never loot on that I kenned it or cared; + But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, + But thought I might hae waur offers. + + But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less-- + The Deil tak his taste to gae near her!-- + He up the Gate Slack to my black cousin Bess: + Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her, could bear her! + Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her! + + But a' the niest week as I petted wi' care, + I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, + And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? + I glowered as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, + I glowered as I'd seen a warlock. + + But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, + Lest neebours might say I was saucy: + My wooer he capered as he'd been in drink, + And vowed I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, + And vowed I was his dear lassie! + + I spiered for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, + Gin she had recovered her hearin, + And how her new shoon fit her auld shachled feet-- + But, heavens, how he fell a swearin, a swearin! + But, heavens, how he fell a swearin! + + He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, + Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; + So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow! + + + O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST + + O, wert thou in the cauld blast, + On yonder lea, on yonder lea, + My plaidie to the angry airt, + I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; + + Or did misfortune's bitter storms + Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, + Thy bield should be my bosom, + To share it a', to share it a'. + + Or were I in the wildest waste, + Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, + The desert were a paradise + If thou wert there, if thou wert there; + Or were I monarch of the globe, + Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, + The brightest jewel in my crown + Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. + + + + + ERASMUS DARWIN + + + FROM THE BOTANIC GARDEN + + [PROCUL ESTE, PROFANI] + + Stay your rude steps! whose throbbing breasts infold + The legion-fiends of glory or of gold! + Stay! whose false lips seductive simpers part, + While cunning nestles in the harlot-heart!-- + For you no Dryads dress the roseate bower, + For you no Nymphs their sparkling vases pour; + Unmarked by you, light Graces swim the green, + And hovering Cupids aim their shafts, unseen. + + But thou! whose mind the well-attempered ray + Of taste and virtue lights with purer day; + Whose finer sense each soft vibration owns + With sweet responsive sympathy of tones; + (So the fair flower expands its lucid form + To meet the sun, and shuts it to the storm); + For thee my borders nurse the fragrant wreath, + My fountains murmur, and my zephyrs breathe; + + Slow slides the painted snail, the gilded fly + Smooths his fine down, to charm thy curious eye; + On twinkling fins my pearly nations play, + Or win with sinuous train their trackless way; + My plumy pairs, in gay embroidery dressed, + Form with ingenious bill the pensile nest, + To love's sweet notes attune the listening dell, + And Echo sounds her soft symphonious shell. + + And if with thee some hapless maid should stray, + Disastrous love companion of her way, + Oh, lead her timid steps to yonder glade, + Whose arching cliffs depending alders shade; + There, as meek evening wakes her temperate breeze, + And moonbeams glimmer through the trembling trees, + The rills that gurgle round shall soothe her ear, + The weeping rocks shall number tear for tear; + There as sad Philomel, alike forlorn, + Sings to the night from her accustomed thorn; + While at sweet intervals each falling note + Sighs in the gale, and whispers round the grot; + The sister-woe shall calm her aching breast, + And softer slumbers steal her cares to rest. + + [THE SENSITIVE PLANT] + + Weak with nice sense, the chaste Mimosa stands, + From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands; + Oft as light clouds o'erpass the summer-glade, + Alarmed she trembles at the moving shade; + And feels, alive through all her tender form, + The whispered murmurs of the gathering storm; + Shuts her sweet eyelids to approaching night, + And hails with freshened charms the rising light. + Veiled, with gay decency and modest pride, + Slow to the mosque she moves, an eastern bride, + There her soft vows unceasing love record, + Queen of the bright seraglio of her lord. + + + + + WILLIAM BLAKE + + + TO WINTER + + 'O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: + The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark + Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, + Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.' + + He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep + Rides heavy; his storms are unchained, sheathèd + In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, + For he hath reared his sceptre o'er the world. + + Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings + To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: + He withers all in silence, and in his hand + Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. + + He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner + Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st + With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster + Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla. + + + SONG + + Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year + Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car; + Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, + And rising glories beam around my head. + + My feet are winged, while o'er the dewy lawn, + I meet my maiden risen like the morn: + O bless those holy feet, like angels' feet; + O bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light. + + Like as an angel glittering in the sky + In times of innocence and holy joy; + The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song + To hear the music of an angel's tongue. + + So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; + So when we walk, nothing impure comes near; + Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat; + Each village seems the haunt of holy feet. + + But that sweet village where my black-eyed maid + Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade, + Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire + Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire. + + + 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 enjoyed in you! + The languid strings do scarcely move! + The sound is forced, the notes are few! + + + INTRODUCTION TO SONGS 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 sang 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 vanished from my sight, + And I plucked a hollow reed, + + And I made a rural pen, + And I stained the water clear, + And I wrote my happy songs + Every child may joy to hear. + + + THE LAMB + + Little Lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee? + Gave thee life and bid thee feed + By the stream and o'er the mead; + Gave thee clothing of delight, + Softest clothing, woolly, bright; + Gave thee such a tender voice, + Making all the vales rejoice? + Little Lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee? + + Little Lamb, I'll tell thee; + Little Lamb, I'll tell thee: + He is callèd by thy name, + For He calls himself a Lamb. + He is meek, and He is mild; + He became a little child. + I a child, and thou a lamb, + We are callèd by His name. + Little Lamb, God bless thee! + Little Lamb, God bless thee! + + + 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 kissèd me, + And, pointing to the east, began to say: + + 'Look on 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 + Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove. + + 'For when our souls have learned 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 kissèd 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. + + + A CRADLE SONG + + Sweet dreams, form a shade + O'er my lovely infant's head; + Sweet dreams of pleasant streams + By happy, silent, moony beams. + + Sweet sleep, with soft down + Weave thy brows an infant crown. + Sweet sleep, Angel mild, + Hover o'er my happy child. + + Sweet smiles, in the night + Hover over my delight; + Sweet smiles, mother's smiles, + All the livelong night beguiles. + + Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, + Chase not slumber from thy eyes. + Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, + All the dovelike moans beguiles. + + Sleep, sleep, happy child, + All creation slept and smiled; + Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, + While o'er thee thy mother weep. + + Sweet babe, in thy face + Holy image I can trace. + Sweet babe, once like thee, + Thy Maker lay and wept for me, + + Wept for me, for thee, for all, + When He was an infant small. + Thou His image ever see, + Heavenly face that smiles on thee, + + Smiles on thee, on me, on all; + Who became an infant small. + Infant smiles are His own smiles; + Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. + + + HOLY THURSDAY + + 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, + The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green, + Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, + Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow. + + O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! + Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own. + The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, + Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. + + Now like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song, + Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among, + Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor; + Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. + + + THE DIVINE IMAGE + + To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + All pray in their distress; + And to these virtues of delight + Return their thankfulness. + + For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + Is God, our Father dear, + And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + Is man, His child and care. + + For Mercy has a human heart, + Pity a human face, + And Love, the human form divine, + And Peace, the human dress. + + Then every man, of every clime, + That prays in his distress, + Prays to the human form divine, + Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. + + And all must love the human form, + In heathen, Turk, or Jew; + Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell + There God is dwelling too. + + + ON ANOTHER'S SORROW + + Can I see another's woe, + And not be in sorrow too? + Can I see another's grief, + And not seek for kind relief? + + Can I see a falling tear, + And not feel my sorrow's share? + Can a father see his child + Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? + + Can a mother sit and hear + An infant groan, an infant fear? + No, no! never can it be! + Never, never can it be! + + And can He who smiles on all + Hear the wren with sorrows small, + Hear the small bird's grief and care, + Hear the woes that infants bear, + + And not sit beside the nest, + Pouring pity in their breast; + And not sit the cradle near, + Weeping tear on infant's tear; + + And not sit both night and day, + Wiping all our tears away? + O, no! never can it be! + Never, never can it be! + + He doth give His joy to all; + He becomes an infant small; + He becomes a man of woe; + He doth feel the sorrow too. + + Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, + And thy Maker is not by; + Think not thou canst weep a tear, + And thy Maker is not near. + + O! He gives to us His joy + That our grief He may destroy; + Till our grief is fled and gone + He doth sit by us and moan. + + + THE BOOK OF THEL + + _Thel's Motto + Does the Eagle know what is in the pit: + Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? + Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod, + Or Love in a golden bowl?_ + + I + + The daughters of [the] Seraphim led round their sunny flocks-- + All but the youngest: she in paleness sought the secret air, + To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day: + Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard, + And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew:-- + + 'O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water? + Why fade these children of the spring, born but to smile and fall? + Ah! Thel is like a watery bow, and like a parting cloud; + Like a reflection in a glass; like shadows in the water; + Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant's face; + Like the dove's voice; like transient day; like music in the air. + Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head, + And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice + Of Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time.' + + The Lily of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass, + Answerèd the lovely maid and said: 'I am a wat'ry weed, + And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales; + So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. + Yet I am visited from heaven, and He that smiles on all + Walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads His hand, + Saying, "Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lily flower, + Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks; + For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna, + Till summer's heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs, + To flourish in eternal vales." Then why should Thel complain? + Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?' + + She ceased, and smiled in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine. + + Thel answered: 'O thou little Virgin of the peaceful valley, + Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'er-tired; + Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells thy milky garments, + He crops thy flowers while thou sittest smiling in his face, + Wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all contagious taints. + Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume, + Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs, + Revives the milkèd cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed. + But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun: + I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?' + + 'Queen of the vales,' the Lily answered, 'ask the tender Cloud, + And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky, + And why it scatters its bright beauty through the humid air. + Descend, O little Cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel.' + + The Cloud descended, and the Lily bowèd her modest head, + And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass. + + II + + 'O little Cloud,' the Virgin said, I charge thee tell to me + Why thou complainest not, when in one hour thou fade away; + Then we shall seek thee, but not find. Ah! Thel is like to thee: + I pass away; yet I complain, and no one hears my voice.' + + The Cloud then showed his golden head, and his bright form emerged, + Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel. + 'O Virgin, know'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs + Where Luvah doth renew his horses? Look'st thou on my youth, + And fearest thou, because I vanish and am seen no more, + Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away, + It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy: + Unseen descending, weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers, + And court the fair-eyed dew, to take me to her shining tent: + The weeping virgin, trembling, kneels before the risen sun, + Till we arise, linked in a golden band and never part, + But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers.' + + 'Dost thou, O little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee, + For I walk through the vales of Har, and smell the sweetest flowers, + But I feed not the little flowers; I hear the warbling birds, + But I feed not the warbling birds; they fly and seek their food: + But Thel delights in these no more, because I fade away; + And all shall say, "Without a use this shining woman lived, + Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?"' + + The Cloud reclined upon his airy throne, and answered thus:-- + + 'Then if thou art the food of worms, O Virgin of the skies, + How great thy use, how great thy blessing! Everything that lives + Lives not alone nor for itself. Fear not, and I will call + The weak Worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice. + Come forth, Worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive Queen.' + + The helpless Worm arose, and sat upon the Lily's leaf, + And the bright Cloud sailed on, to find his partner in the vale. + + III + + Then Thel astonished viewed the Worm upon its dewy bed. + + 'Art thou a Worm? Image of weakness, art thou but a Worm? + I see thee like an infant wrappèd in the Lily's leaf. + Ah! weep not, little voice, thou canst not speak, but thou canst weep. + Is this a Worm? I see thee lay helpless and naked, weeping, + And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother's smiles.' + The Clod of Clay heard the Worm's voice, and raised her pitying head; + She bowed over the weeping infant, and her life exhaled + In milky fondness: then on Thel she fixed her humble eyes. + + 'O Beauty of the vales of Har! we live not for ourselves. + Thou seest me, the meanest thing, and so I am indeed. + My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark; + But He that loves the lowly pours His oil upon my head, + And kisses me, and binds His nuptial bands around my breast, + And says: "Thou mother of my children, I have lovèd thee, + And I have given thee a crown that none can take away." + But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know; + + I ponder, and I cannot ponder; yet I live and love.' + The daughter of beauty wiped her pitying tears with her white veil, + And said: 'Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep. + That God would love a worm I knew, and punish the evil foot + That wilful bruised its helpless form; but that He cherished it + With milk and oil, I never knew, and therefore did I weep; + And I complained in the mild air, because I fade away, + And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot.' + + 'Queen of the vales,' the matron Clay answered, 'I heard thy sighs, + And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have called them down. + Wilt thou, O queen, enter my house? 'Tis given thee to enter, + And to return: fear nothing; enter with thy virgin feet.' + + IV + + The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar; + Thel entered in, and saw the secrets of the land unknown. + She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous root + Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists: + A land of sorrows and of tears where never smile was seen. + + She wandered in the land of clouds through valleys dark, listening + Dolours and lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy grave + She stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground, + Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down, + And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit. + + 'Why cannot the ear be closèd to its own destruction? + Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile? + Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn, + Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie, + Or an eye of gifts and graces showering fruits and coinèd gold? + + Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind? + Why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? + Why a nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and affright? + Why a tender curb upon the youthful, burning boy? + Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?' + + The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek + Fled back unhindered till she came into the vales of Har. + + + From THE FRENCH REVOLUTION + + [DEMOCRACY AND PEACE] + + Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in his + hand; + A cold orb of disdain revolved round him, and coverèd his soul with + snows eternal. + Great Henry's soul shudderèd, a whirlwind and fire tore furious from + his angry bosom; + He indignant departed on horses of Heaven. Then the Abbé de Sieyès + raised his feet + On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm, + the Abbé followed + The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father that bows to + his son, + Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of + the people bowèd + Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewèd. + + 'Hear, O heavens of France! the voice of the people, arising from + valley and hill, + O'erclouded with power. Hear the voice of valleys, the voice of meek + cities, + Mourning oppressèd on village and field, till the village and field is + a waste. + For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of + trumpets consume + The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to the + deadly slaughter. + + When the heavens were sealed with a stone, and the terrible sun closed + in an orb, and the moon + Rent from the nations, and each star appointed for watchers of night, + The millions of spirits immortal were bound in the ruins of sulphur + heaven + To wander enslaved; black, depressed in dark ignorance, kept in awe with + the whip + To worship terrors, bred from the blood of revenge and breath of desire + In bestial forms, or more terrible men; till the dawn of our peaceful + morning, + Till dawn, till morning, till the breaking of clouds, and swelling of + winds, and the universal voice; + Till man raise his darkened limbs out of the caves of night. His eyes + and his heart + Expand--Where is Space? where, O sun, is thy dwelling? where thy tent, + O faint slumbrous Moon? + Then the valleys of France shall cry to the soldier: "Throw down thy + sword and musket, + And run and embrace the meek peasant." Her nobles shall hear and shall + weep, and put off + The red robe of terror, the crown of oppression, the shoes of contempt, + and unbuckle + The girdle of war from the desolate earth. Then the Priest in his + thunderous cloud + Shall weep, bending to earth, embracing the valleys, and putting his + hand to the plough, + Shall say, "No more I curse thee; but now I will bless thee: no more in + deadly black + Devour thy labour; nor lift up a cloud in thy heavens, O laborious + plough; + That the wild raging millions, that wander in forests, and howl in + law-blasted wastes, + Strength maddened with slavery, honesty bound in the dens of + superstition, + May sing in the village, and shout in the harvest, and woo in pleasant + gardens + Their once savage loves, now beaming with knowledge, with gentle awe + adornèd; + And the saw, and the hammer, the chisel, the pencil, the pen, and the + instruments + Of heavenly song sound in the wilds once forbidden, to teach the + laborious ploughman + And shepherd, delivered from clouds of war, from pestilence, from + night-fear, from murder, + From falling, from stifling, from hunger, from cold, from slander, + discontent, and sloth, + That walk in beasts and birds of night, driven back by the sandy desert, + Like pestilent fogs round cities of men; and the happy earth sing in its + course, + The mild peaceable nations be openèd to heaven, and men walk with their + fathers in bliss." + Then hear the first voice of the morning: "Depart, O clouds of night, + and no more + Return; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors depart, nor around + our peaceable city + Breathe fires; but ten miles from Paris let all be peace, nor a soldier + be seen!"' + + + From A SONG OF LIBERTY + + The Eternal Female groaned! It was heard over all the earth. + + Albion's coast is sick, silent. The American meadows faint! + + Shadows of Prophecy shiver along by the lakes and the + rivers, and mutter across the ocean. France, rend down, + thy dungeon! + + * * * * * + + Look up! look up! O citizen of London, enlarge thy + countenance! O Jew, leave counting gold! return to thy + oil and wine. O African! black African! Go, wingèd + thought, widen his forehead! + + * * * * * + + With thunder and fire, leading his starry hosts through + the waste wilderness, he promulgates his ten commands, + glancing his beamy eyelids over the deep in dark dismay. + + Where the son of fire in his eastern cloud, while the + morning plumes her golden breast, + + Spurning the clouds written with curses, stamps the + stony law to dust, loosing the eternal horses from the dens + of night, crying: _Empire is no more! and now the lion + and wolf shall cease_. + + CHORUS + + Let the Priests of the Raven of dawn no longer, in + deadly black, with hoarse note curse the sons of joy! Nor + his accepted brethren--whom, tyrant, he calls free--lay + the bound or build the roof! Nor pale Religion's lechery + call that virginity that wishes but acts not! + + For everything that lives is holy! + + + THE FLY + + Little Fly, + Thy summer's play + My thoughtless hand + Has brushed away. + + Am not I + A fly like thee? + Or art not thou + A man like me? + + For I dance, + And drink, and sing, + Till some blind hand + Shall brush my wing. + + If thought is life + And strength and breath, + And the want + Of thought is death; + + Then am I + A happy fly, + If I live + Or if I die. + + + 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 watered 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? + + + HOLY THURSDAY + + Is this a holy thing to see + In a rich and fruitful land, + Babes reduced to misery, + Fed with cold and usurous hand? + + Is that trembling cry a song? + Can it be a song of joy? + And so many children poor? + It is a land of poverty! + + And their sun does never shine, + And their fields are bleak and bare, + And their ways are filled with thorns: + It is eternal winter there. + + For where'er the sun does shine, + And where'er the rain does fall, + Babe can never hunger there, + Nor poverty the mind appal. + + + THE GARDEN OF LOVE + + I went to the Garden of Love, + And saw what I never had seen: + A chapel was built in the midst, + Where I used to play on the green. + + And the gates of this chapel were shut, + And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; + So I turned to the Garden of Love, + That so many sweet flowers bore; + + And I saw it was fillèd with graves, + And tombstones where flowers should be; + And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, + And binding with briars my joys and desires. + + + A LITTLE BOY LOST + + 'Nought loves another as itself, + Nor venerates another so, + Nor is it possible to Thought + A greater than itself to know: + + 'And, Father, how can I love you + Or any of my brothers more? + I love you like the little bird + That picks up crumbs around the door.' + + The Priest sat by and heard the child, + In trembling zeal he seized his hair: + He led him by his little coat, + And all admired the priestly care. + + And standing on the altar high, + 'Lo! what a fiend is here!' said he, + 'One who sets reason up for judge + Of our most holy Mystery.' + + The weeping child could not be heard, + The weeping parents wept in vain; + They stripped him to his little shirt, + And bound him in an iron chain; + + And burned him in a holy place, + Where many had been burned before: + The weeping parents wept in vain. + Are such things done on Albion's shore? + + + THE SCHOOLBOY + + I love to rise in a summer morn + When the birds sing on every tree; + The distant huntsman winds his horn, + And the skylark sings with me. + O! what sweet company. + + But to go to school in a summer morn, + O! it drives all joy away; + Under a cruel eye outworn, + The little ones spend the day + In sighing and dismay. + + Ah! then at times I drooping sit, + And spend many an anxious hour, + Nor in my book can I take delight, + Nor sit in learning's bower, + Worn through with the dreary shower. + + How can the bird that is born for joy + Sit in a cage and sing? + How can a child, when fears annoy, + But droop his tender wing, + And forget, his youthful spring? + + O! father and mother, if buds are nipped + And blossoms blown away, + And if the tender plants are stripped + Of their joy in the springing day, + By sorrow--and care's dismay, + + How shall the summer arise in joy, + Or the summer fruits appear? + Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, + Or bless the mellowing year, + When the blasts of winter appear? + + + LONDON + + I wander through each chartered street, + Near where the chartered Thames does flow, + And mark in every face I meet + Marks of weakness, marks of woe. + + In every cry of every man, + In every infant's cry of fear, + In every voice, in every ban, + The mind-forged manacles I hear. + + How the chimney-sweeper's cry + Every blackening church appals; + And the hapless soldier's sigh + Runs in blood down palace walls + + But most through midnight streets I hear + How the youthful harlot's curse + Blasts the new-born infant's tear, + And blights with plagues the marriage hearse. + + + From AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE + + _To see a World in a grain of sand, + And a Heaven in a wild flower, + Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, + And Eternity in an hour_. + + A robin redbreast in a cage + Puts all Heaven in a rage. + A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons + Shudders hell through all its regions. + A dog starved at his master's gate + Predicts the ruin of the state. + A horse misused upon the road + Calls to Heaven for human blood. + Each outcry of the hunted hare + A fibre from the brain does tear. + A skylark wounded in the wing, + A cherubim does cease to sing. + The game-cock clipped and armed for fight + Does the rising sun affright. + Every wolf's and lion's howl + Raises from hell a human soul. + The wild deer, wandering here and there, + Keeps the human soul from care. + The lamb misused breeds public strife, + And yet forgives the butcher's knife. + The bat that flits at close of eve + Has left the brain that won't believe. + The owl that calls upon the night + Speaks the unbeliever's fright. + He who shall hurt the little wren + Shall never be beloved by men. + He who the ox to wrath has moved + Shall never be by woman loved. + The wanton boy that kills the fly + Shall feel the spider's enmity. + He who torments the chafer's sprite + Weaves a bower in endless night. + The caterpillar on the leaf + Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. + Kill not the moth nor butterfly, + For the Last Judgment draweth nigh. + He who shall train the horse to war + Shall never pass the polar bar. + The beggar's dog and widow's cat, + Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat. + + * * * * * + + The babe that weeps the rod beneath + Writes revenge in realms of death. + The beggar's rags fluttering in air, + Does to rags the heavens tear. + The soldier, armed with sword and gun, + Palsied strikes the summer's sun. + The poor man's farthing is worth more + Than all the gold on Afric's shore. + One mite wrung from the labourer's hands + Shall buy and sell the miser's lands; + Or, if protected from on high, + Does that whole nation sell and buy. + He who mocks the infant's faith + Shall be mocked in age and death. + He who shall teach the child to doubt + The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. + He who respects the infant's faith + Triumphs over hell and death. + + + FROM MILTON + + And did those feet in ancient time + Walk upon England's mountains green? + And was the holy Lamb of God + On England's pleasant pastures seen? + + And did the countenance divine + Shine forth upon our clouded hills? + And was Jerusalem builded here + Among these dark Satanic mills? + + Bring me my bow of burning gold! + Bring me my arrows of desire! + Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! + Bring me my chariot of fire! + + I will not cease from mental fight, + Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, + Till we have built Jerusalem + In England's green and pleasant land. + + [REASON AND IMAGINATION] + + The negation is the Spectre, the reasoning power in man: + This is a false body, an incrustation over my immortal + Spirit, a selfhood which must be put off and annihilated alway. + To cleanse the face of my spirit by self-examination, + To bathe in the waters of life, to wash off the not human, + I come in self-annihilation and the grandeur of inspiration; + To cast off rational demonstration by faith in the Saviour, + To cast off the rotten rags of memory by inspiration, + To cast off Bacon, Locke, and Newton from Albion's covering, + To take off his filthy garments and clothe him with imagination; + To cast aside from poetry all that is not inspiration, + That it no longer shall dare to mock with the aspersion of madness + Cast on the inspirèd by the tame high finisher of paltry blots + Indefinite or paltry rhymes, or paltry harmonies, + Who creeps into state government like a caterpillar to destroy; + To cast off the idiot questioner, who is always questioning, + But never capable of answering; who sits with a sly grin + Silent plotting when to question, like a thief in a cave; + Who publishes doubt and calls it knowledge; whose science is despair, + Whose pretence to knowledge is envy, whose whole science is + To destroy the wisdom of ages, to gratify ravenous envy + That rages round him like a wolf, day and night, without rest. + He smiles with condescension; he talks of benevolence and virtue, + And those who act with, benevolence and virtue they murder time on time. + These are the destroyers of Jerusalem! these are the murderers + Of Jesus! who deny the faith and mock at eternal life, + Who pretend to poetry that they may destroy imagination + By imitation of nature's images drawn from remembrance. + These are the sexual garments, the abomination of desolation, + Hiding the human lineaments, as with an ark and curtains + Which Jesus rent, and now shall wholly purge away with fire, + Till generation is swallowed up in regeneration. + + + FROM JERUSALEM + + [TO THE DEISTS] + + I saw a Monk of Charlemaine + Arise before my sight: + I talked with the Grey Monk as we stood + In beams of infernal light. + + Gibbon arose with a lash of steel, + And Voltaire with a racking wheel; + The schools, in clouds of learning rolled, + Arose with war in iron and gold. + + 'Thou lazy Monk!' they sound afar, + 'In vain condemning glorious war; + And in your cell you shall ever dwell: + Rise, War, and bind him in his cell!' + + The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side, + His hands and feet were wounded wide, + His body bent, his arms and knees + Like to the roots of ancient trees. + + When Satan first the black bow bent + And the moral law from the Gospel rent, + He forged the law into a sword, + And spilled the blood of mercy's Lord. + + Titus! Constantine! Charlemaine! + O Voltaire! Rousseau! Gibbon! Vain + Your Grecian mocks and Roman sword + Against this image of his Lord; + + For a tear is an intellectual thing; + And a sigh is the sword of an angel king; + And the bitter groan of a martyr's woe + Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow. + + * * * * * + + + + + GEORGE CANNING + + + From THE PROGRESS OF MAN + + [MATRIMONY IN OTAHEITE] + + There laughs the sky, there zephyrs frolic train, + And light-winged loves, and blameless pleasures reign: + There, when two souls congenial ties unite, + No hireling bonzes chant the mystic rite; + Free every thought, each action unconfined, + And light those fetters which no rivets bind. + There in each grove, each sloping bank along, + And flowers and shrubs, and odorous herbs among, + Each shepherd clasped, with undisguised delight, + His yielding fair one--in the captain's sight; + Each yielding fair, as chance or fancy led, + Preferred new lovers to her sylvan bed. + Learn hence each nymph, whose free aspiring mind + Europe's cold laws, and colder customs bind; + O! learn what Nature's genial laws decree! + What Otaheite is, let Britain be! + + * * * * * + + Of whist or cribbage mark th' amusing game; + The partners changing, but the sport the same: + Else would the gamester's anxious ardour cool, + Dull every deal, and stagnant every pool. + --Yet must one man, with one unceasing wife, + Play the long rubber of connubial life. + Yes! human laws, and laws esteemed divine, + The generous passion straighten and confine; + And, as a stream, when art constrains its course, + Pours its fierce torrent with augmented force, + So passion, narrowed to one channel small, + Unlike the former,--does not flow at all. + For Love then only flaps his purple wings + When uncontrolled by priestcraft or by kings. + + + FROM THE NEW MORALITY + + [ANTI-PATRIOTISM AND SENTIMENTALITY] + + With unsparing hand, + Oh, lash these vile impostures from the land! + + First, stern Philanthropy,--not she who dries + The orphan's tears, and wipes the widow's eyes; + Not she who, sainted Charity her guide, + Of British bounty pours the annual tide,-- + But French Philanthropy,--whose boundless mind + Glows with the general love of all mankind; + Philanthropy, beneath whose baneful sway + Each patriot passion sinks, and dies away. + Taught in her school t' imbibe thy mawkish strain, + Condorcet! filtered through the dregs of Paine, + Each pert adept disowns a Briton's part, + And plucks the name of England from his heart. + What! shall a name, a word, a sound, control + Th' aspiring thought, and cramp th' expansive soul? + Shall one half-peopled island's rocky round + A love that glows for all creation bound? + And social charities contract the plan + Framed for thy freedom, universal man? + No--through th' extended globe his feelings run + As broad and general as th' unbounded sun! + No narrow bigot he: his reasoned view + Thy interests, England, ranks with thine, Peru! + France at our doors, he seeks no danger nigh, + But heaves for Turkey's woes th' impartial sigh; + A steady patriot of the world alone, + The friend of every country but his own. + Next comes a gentler virtue.--Ah, beware + Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare. + Visit her not too roughly; the warm sigh + Breathes on her lips; the tear-drop gems her eye. + Sweet Sensibility, who dwells inshrined + In the fine foldings of the feeling mind; + With delicate Mimosa's sense endued, + Who shrinks, instinctive, from a hand too rude; + Or, like the anagillis, prescient flower, + Shuts her soft petals at th' approaching shower. + + Sweet child of sickly fancy! her of yore + From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore; + And while 'midst lakes and mountains wild he ran, + Full of himself, and shunned the haunts of man, + Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine steep + To lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep; + Taught her to cherish still in either eye, + Of tender tears a plentiful supply, + And pour them in the brooks that babbled by: + Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong, + False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong; + For the crushed beetle first, the widowed dove, + And all the warbled sorrows of the grove, + Next for poor suffering guilt,--and last of all, + For parents, friends, a king and country's fall. + + Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief, + With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief, + Droop in soft sorrow o'er a faded flower, + O'er a dead jackass pour the pearly shower: + But hear, unmoved, of Loire's ensanguined flood + Choked up with slain; of Lyons drenched in blood; + Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame, + Foul crimes, but sicklied o'er with freedom's name,-- + Altars and thrones subverted, social life + Trampled to earth, the husband from the wife, + Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn; + Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn + In friendless exile; of the wise and good + Staining the daily scaffold with their blood. + Of savage cruelties that scare the mind, + The rage of madness with hell's lusts combined, + Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast, + They hear--and hope, that all is for the best! + + + + + CAROLINA, LADY NAIRNE + + + 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 oh! we grudged her sair + To the land o' the leal. + But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, + And joy's a-comin' fast, John, + The joy that's aye to last + In the land o' the leal. + + Sae dear that joy was bought, John, + Sae free the battle fought, John, + That sinfu' man e'er brought + To the land o' the leal. + Oh! dry your glistening e'e, John, + My soul langs to be free, John, + And angels beckon me + To the land o' the leal. + + Oh! hand 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. + + + +GLOSSARY: + + +A', all. +Abeigh, off. +Aboon, above. +Abarde, went on. +Abread, abroad. +Acquent, acquainted. +Ae, one. +Aff, off. +Aften, often. +Agley, askew. +Aiblins, maybe. +Ain, own. +Airt, direction, quarter. +Aith, oath. +Alane, alone. +Alang, along. +Albeytie, albeit. +Alestake, alehouse sign. +Alleyne, alone. +Almer, beggar. +Amaist, almost. +Amang, aming, among. +An, if. +Ance, once. +Ane, one. +Arist, arose. +Ashrewed, accursed. +Asklent, askance. +Asteer, astir. +Astonied, stunned. +Atte, at. +Attene, at one. +Auld, old. +Aumere, mantle. +Autremete, robe. +Ava, at all. +Awa, away. +Aynewarde, backward. + +Bairn, child. +Baith, both. +Bake, biscuit. +Bandsters, binder of sheaves. +Bane, bone. +Bante, cursed. +Barefit, Barefeet. +Bauk, cross-beam. +Bauldly, boldly. +Bear, barley. +Bederoll, string of beads. +Beet, fan, kindle. +Beld, bald. +Bell, flower. +Belyve, by and by. +Ben, inner roon, parlour, inside. +Bicker, bowl. +Bickering, hurrying. +Bield, shelter. +Big, build. +Bigonet, linen cap. +Bittle, fellow. +Birk, birch. +Birkie, conceited fellow. +Bizz, buzz. +Black-bonnet, elder. +Blake, bleak. +Blastit, damned. +Blaw, blow, draught. +Bleer't, bleared. +Bleeze, blaze. +Blellum, babbler. +Blethering, gabbling. +Blin, blind. +Blink, glance, moment. +Bloshes, blushes. +Bluid, blood. +Boddynge, budding. +Bogollis, hobgoblins. +Bogle, bogie. +Bonie, pretty. +Bonilie, prettily. +Bonnet, cap. +Bore, chink. +Botte, but. +Bra, fine. +Brae, hillside. +Braid, broad. +Braid-claith, broadcloth. +Brak, broke. +Braste, burst. +Brattle, scamper, clatter. +Braw, brawlie, fine. +Bree, liquor. +Breeks, breeches. +Brectful, brimful. +Brent, straight. +Brig, bridge. +Brither, brother. +Brogues, breeches. +Brownyis, brownies. +Browster, brewer. +Brunstane, brimstone. +Bught, pen, inclosure. +Buke, book. +Burdies, girls. +Burn, brook. +Busk, dress, make ready. +Bustine, fustion. +But, butt, outer room, kitchen without. +Byke, hive. + +Ca', call, drive. +Cadgy, cheerful, gay. +Cairn, heap of stones. +Caldrife, cool, spiritless. +Cale, cold. +Caller, cool. +Canna, cannot. +Cannie, careful, crafty. +Cannilie, craftily. +Cantie, canty, cheerful, jolly. +Cantraip, magic, witchcraft. +Capernoity, ill-natured. +Carlin, old woman. +Cates, dainties. +Cauld, cold. +Caup, cup. +Celness, coldness. +Cess, excise, tax. +Chafe, chafing. +Change-house, tavern. +Chapman, peddler. +Chapournelie, hat. +Chelandri, goldfinch. +Cheres, cheers. +Cheves, moves. +Chirm, chirp. +Church-giebe-house, grave. +Claes, clothes. +Claithing, clothing. +Clamb, climbed. +Claught, catch up. +Clinkin, smartly. +Clinkumbell, the bell-ringer. +Clymmynge, noisy. +Cockernony, woman's hair gathered up with a band. +Cofte, bought. +Cog, basin. +Cood, cud. +Coost, cast. +Corbie, raven. +Core, company. +Cotter, tenant of a cottage. +Coulier, ploughshare. +Cour, stoop. +Couth, couthy, sociable, affable. +Crack, chat, instant. +Craig, rock. +Cranreuch, hoar-frost. +Craw, crow. +Creeshic, greasy. +Croon, loll, murmur. +Crouche, crucifix. +Croun, crown. +Crouse, proud, lively. +Crowdie, porridge, breakfast. +Crowlin, crawling. +Crummock, crooked staff. +Crump, crisp. +Cryne, hair. +Curchie, curtsy. +Cutty, short. + + +Daffing, frolicking. +Daft, foolish. +Dail, board, plank. +Daimen, rare, occasional. +Daur, dare, +Daw, dawn, +Dawd, lump. +Deave, deafen. +Dee die. +Defeat, defeated. +Defte, neat. +Deil, devil. +Dente, fasten. +Dheere, there. +Die, dye. +Differ, difference. +Dine, noon. +Dirl, vibrate, ring. +Dit, shut. +Domes, volumes. +Donsie, reckless. +Dool, pain, grief. +Dorture, slumber. +Douce, grave, prudent. +Douff, dull, sad. +Dow, can. +Dowie, drooping, gloomy. +Drappie, small drop. +Drenche, drink. +Drented, drenched. +Dringing, droning. +Droddum, breach. +Drouthy, thirsty. +Drowsyhed, drowsiness. +Drumlie, muddy. +Dub, puddle. +Duddie, ragged. +Duddies, rags. +Dwyning, failing, pining. +Dyke, wall. +Dynne, noise. + +E'e, eye. +Een, eyes. +Eerie, uncanny, timorous. +Efte, often. +Eftsoons, forthwith. +Eldritch, unearthly. +Embollen, swollen. +Enlefed, leafed out. +Ermelin, Ermine. +Ettle, aim. +Eydent, diligent. + +F'a, befall, fall. +Fairin', a gift from a fair. +Fairn-year, last year. +Faitour, vagabond. +Fand, found. +Farl, meal cake. +Fash, bother. +Fatt'rils, falderals, finery. +Faut, fault. +Feck, bulk. +Fell, deadly, pungent. +Fend, keep off. +Ferlie, ferly, wonder. +Fetive, festive. +Fidge, fidget. +Fient, fiend, devil. +Fiere, chum. +Fit, foot. +Flainen, flannen, flannel. +Flang, kicked. +Fleech, wheedle. +Flet, remonstrated. +Flitchering, fluttering. +Fling, waving. +Flott, fly. +Flourettes, flowers. +Foggage, coarse grass. +Forswat, sunburned. +Forwindm dried up. +Fou, very, drunk, full. +Fourth, fouth, abundance, plenty. +Frae, from. +Fructyle, fruitful. +Fu', full, very. +Furm, long seat. +Fyke, fuss. +Fyle, soil. + +Gab, mouth. +Gabbing, talking. +Gae, go. +Gaed, gaid, went. +Gallard, frightened. +Gane, gone. +Gang, go. +Gar, make. +Gart, made. +Gash, shrewd, self-complacent. +Gat, got. +Gate, way. +Gaun, gawn, going. +Gawsie, buxom, jolly. +Gear, things, goods. +Geck, mock. +Ghaist, ghost. +Ghastness, ghastliness. +Gibbet-airn, gibbet-iron. +Gie, gi'e, give. +Gie's, give us, give me. +Giftie, gift. +Gill, glass of whisky. +Gin, if, by. +Glaikil, foolish. +Glint, flash. +Glommed, gloomy. +Gloure, glory. +Gowan, wild daisy.' +Gowd, gold. +Gowk, fool. +Grane, groan. +Grat, wept. +Gre, grow. +Gree, prize. +'Gree, agree. +Greet, weep. +Grein, long for. +Grozet, gooseberry. +Gude, guid, good. +Gudeman, Guidman, husband. +Guidwife, married woman, mistress of the house. +Guidwillie, full of good will. +Gusty, savory. +Guylteynge, gilding. + +Ha', hall. +Hae, have. +Haffets, temples, sidelocks. +Hafftins, half. +Hafftins-wise, about half. +Hairst, harvest-time. +Hald, holding, possession. +Halesome, wholesome. +Hallan, partition. +Hallie, holy. +Halline, gladness. +Haly, holy. +Hamely, homely. +Hap-step-an'-loup, hop, step and jump. +Harn, coarse linen, + +Hartsome, hearty, +Hash, stupid, fellow, dolt. +Haud, hold, keep. +Hawkie, cow. +Hawslock, throat-lock, choicest wool. +Heapet, heaped. +Heie, they. +Het, hot. +Hie, high, highly. +Hight, was called. +Hiltring, hiding. +Hing, hang. +Hinny, honey, sweet. +Hirple, hop. +Histie, bare, dry. +Hizzie, girl, jade. +Hoddin, jogging. +Hoddin grey, undyed woolen. +Holme, evergreen oak. +Hornie, the Devil. +Hotch, jerk. +Houghmagandie, fornication, disgrace. +Houlet, owl. +Hound, incite to pursuit. +Hum, humbug. +Hurdies, buttocks. + +Icker, ear of grain. +Ilka, each, every. +Ingle, fireside. + +Jad, jade. +jape, surplice. +Jauds, jades. +Jaw, strike, dash. +Jo, sweetheart. +Joicie, juicy. +Jow, swing. + +Kebbuck, cheese. +Kebbuck-heel, last bit of cheese. +Keek, peep. +Kelpie, water-spirit. +Ken, know. +Kend, known. +Kennin, trifle. +Kest, cast. +Kiaugh, fret. +Kickshaws, delicacies. +Killit, tucked up. +Kirk, church. +Kiste, coffin. +Kittle, tickle. +Knapping-hammer, hammer for breaking stone. +Kye, kine, cattle. +Kynde, nature, species, womankind. + +Lade, load. +Laird, lord, land-owner. +Laith, loath. +Laithfu' sheepish, bashful. +Landscip, landscape. +Lane, lone. +Lang, long. +Lap, leaped. +Lave, rest. +Lav'rock, lark. +Lear, learning. +Leel, loyal. +Lee-lang, live-long. +Leeze me on, commend me to. +Leglen, leglin, milk-pail. +Lemes, gleams. +Leugh, laughed. +Leuk, look. +Levynne, lightning. +Lift, sky. +Lilt, sing merrily. +Limitour, begging friar. +Linkan, tripping. +Linket, tripped. +Linn, waterfall. +Lint, flax. +Loan, loaning, lane, path. +Loo'ed, loved. +Loof, palm. +Loot, let. +Loun, clown, rascal. +Loup, leap. +Loverds, lords. +Lowe, flame. +Lowin, flaming. +Lowings, flashes. +Lowp, leap. +Lug, ear. +Lunardi, balloon, bonnet. +Luv, love. +Lyart, gray, gray-haired. + +Mailen, farm. +Mair, more. +Mantels, mantles. +Mar, more. +Maun, must. +Maut, malt. +Mees, meadows. +Meikle, big. +Melder, grinding of grain. +Melvie, soil with meal. +Mim, prim. +Mirk, dark. +Misca'd, miscalled. +Mist, poor. +Mittie, mighty. +Moe, more. +Mole, soft. +Moneynge, moaning. +Monie, mony, many. +Mou, mouth. +Muckle, much, great. +Muir, heath. + +Na, nae, no, not. +Naething, nothing. +Naig, nag. +Nappy, ale. +Ne, no. +Neebor, neighbour. +Neidher, neither. +Neist, next. +Nesh, tender. +Nete, night, naught. +Neuk, nook, corner. +Niffer, exchange. +No, not. + +Onie, ony, any. +Ouphant, elfin. +Owr, owre, ower, over. + +Paidle, paddle, wade. +Pall, appal. +Pang, cram. +Parritch, porridge. +Pattle, plough-staff. +Peed, pied. +Pencte, painted. +Penny-wheep, small beer. +Peres, pears. +Perishe, destroy. +Pet, be in a pet. +Pheeres, mates. +Pint-stowp, two-Quart measure, flagon. +Plaidie, shawl used as cloak. +Plaister, plaster. +Pleugh, plough. +Pou, pull, pluck. +Poorith, poverty. +Pow, pate. +Prankt, gayly adorned. +Press, cupboard. +Propine, propone, present. +Pund, pound. +Pussie, hare. +Pyke, peaked. + +Quean, lass. +Quorum, company. + +Raible, rattle off. +Rair, roar. +Rant, song, lay. +Rape, rope. +Raw, row. +Reaming, foaming. +Reck, observe. +Rede, counsel. +Red up, cleared up. +Reek, smoke. +Reike, (smoky), Edinburgh. +Restricket, restricted. +Reveled, ravelled, trouble-some. +Reynynge, running. +Reytes, water-flags, iris. +Rig, ridge. +Rigwoodie, lean, tough. +Rin, run. +Rodde, roddie, ruddy. +Rodded, grew red. +Rode, skin. +Roset, rozet, rosin. +Rowan, rolling. +Rudde, ruddy. +Runkled, wrinkled. + +Sabbing, sobbing. +Sae, so. +Saftly, softly. +Sair, serve, sore, sorely. +Sang, song. +Sark, shirt, chemise. +Saul, soul. +Saunt, saint. +Saut, salt. +Scantlins, scarcely. +Scoured, ran. +Screed, rip, rent. +Sede, seed. +Semescope, jacket. +Sets, patterns. +Seventeen-hunder, very fine (linen). +Shachled, feeble, shapeless. +Shaw, show. +Shiel, shelter. +Shool, shovel. +Shoon, shoes. +Shouther, shoulder. +Sic, such. +Siller, silver, money. +Sin', since. +Skeigh, skittish. +Skellum, good-for-nothing. +Skelp, run quickly. +Skiffing, moving along lightly. +Skirl, squeal, scream. +Skriech, screech. +Slaes, sloes. +Slap, gap in a fence. +Slea, slay. +Sleekit, sleek. +Slid, smooth. +Smeddum, powder. +Smethe, smoke. +Smoor, smother. +Smothe, vapor. +Snaw, snow. +Snell, bitter. +Snooded, bound up with a fillet. +Snool, cringe. +Solan, gannet. +Soote, sweet. +Souter, cobbler. +Spak, spoke. +Spean, wean. +Speel, climb. +Spier, ask, inquire. +Spraing, stripe. +Sprattle, scramble. +Spreckled, speckled. +Spryte, spirit. +Squattle, squat. +Stacher, stagger, totter. +Stane, stone. +Steer, stir. +Steyned, stained. +Stibble, stubble. +Still, ever. +Stirk, young steer. +Stole, robe. +Stonen, stony. +Stote, stout. +Stoure, dust, struggle. +Stown, stolen. +Strang, strong. +Strath, river-valley. +Strathspeys, dances for two persons. +Straughte, stretched. +Strunt, strut. +Sugh, sough, moan. +Sumph', blockhead. +Swanges, swings. +Swankie, strapping youth. +Swatch, sample. +Swats, foaming new ale. +Swith, shoo! begone! +Swote, sweet. +Swythyn, quickly. +Syne, since, then. + +Taen, taken. +Tapmost, topmost. +Tauld, told. +Tent, watch. +Tere, muscle. +Thae, those. +Thieveless, useless. +Thilk, that same. +Thir, these. +Thole, endure. +Thrang, throng, thronging, busy. +Thrave, twenty-four sheaves. +Thraw, twist. +Thrawart, perverse. +Tint, lost. +Tippeny, twopenny (ale). +Tither, the other. +Tittlin', whispering. +Tochelod, dowered? dipped? +Tod, fox. +Tout, toot, blast. +Tow, rope. +Townmond, twelvemonth. +Towsie, shaggy. +Toy, cap. +Transmugrify'd, changed, metamorphosed. +Tryste, appointment, fair. +Twa, tway, two. +Tyke, cur, dog. + +Unco, uncommon, very. +Uncos, news, wonders. +Unfald, unfold. +Ungentle, mean. +Unhailie, unhappy. +Unkend, unknown, disregarded. +Usquabae, whiskey. + +Vauntie, proud. +Vera, verra, very. +Vest, robe. +View, appearance. +Virginè, the Virgin (in the zodiac). + +Wabster, weaver. +Wad, would. +Wae, woe, sad. +Waff, stray, wandering. +Wale, choice. +Wark, work. +Warld, world. +Warlock, wizard. +Wa's, walls. +Water-fit, river's mouth. +Waught, draught. +Wauking, waking. +Wawlie, goodly. +Wear up, gather in. +Wede, passed, faded. +Weede, attire. +Weel, well. +Weel-hained, carefully saved. +Ween, believe. +Weet, wet. +Weir, war. +Wha, who. +Wham, whom. +Whang, large piece, slice. +Whare, where. +Whase, whose. +Whestling, whistling. +Whig-mig-morum, talking politics. +Whinging, whining. +Whunstane, hard rock, millstone. +Whyles, sometimes. +Winna, will not. +Winnock-bunker, window-seat. +Woddie, woody. +Wonner, wonder. +Woo, wool. +Wood, mad +Wordy, worthy. +Wrack, wreck. +Wraith, spectre. +Wrang, wrong. +Wyle, lure, entice. + +Yanne, than. +Yatte, that. +Yolent, blended. +Yer, your. +Yestreen, last night. +Yill, ale. +Ymolten, molted. +Yunutile, useless. +Younkers, youngsters. +Yites, its. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Poets of the Eighteenth Century +by Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10161 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2496aa2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #10161 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10161) diff --git a/old/10161-8.txt b/old/10161-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b99d60 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10161-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17233 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of English Poets of the Eighteenth Century +by Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: English Poets of the Eighteenth Century + +Author: Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum + +Release Date: November 21, 2003 [EBook #10161] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH POETS *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Jayam Subramanian and PG +Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +ENGLISH POETS + +OF THE + +EIGHTEENTH CENTURY + + + + +SELECTED AND EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION + + +BY + + +ERNEST BERNBAUM + +PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AT THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS + + + + +1918 + + + + + +PREFACE + +The text of this collection of poetry is authentic and not bowdlerized. +The general reader will, I hope, be gratified to find that its pages +display no pedantic or scholastic traits. His pleasure in the poetry +itself will not be distracted by a marginal numbering of the lines; by +index-figures and footnotes; or by antiquated peculiarities of spelling, +capitalization, and elision. Except where literal conventions are +essential to the poet's purpose,--as in _The Castle of Indolence, The +Schoolmistress_, or Chatterton's poems,--I have followed modern usage. +Dialect words are explained in the glossary; and the student who may wish +to consult the context of any passage will find the necessary references +in the unusually full table of contents. Whenever the title of a poem +gives too vague a notion of its substance, or whenever its substance is +miscellaneous, I have supplied [bracketed] captions for the extracts; +except for these, there is nothing on the pages of the text besides the +poets' own words. + +Originality is not the proper characteristic of an anthologist, and in +the choice of extracts I have rarely indulged my personal likings when +they conflicted with time-honored preferences; yet this anthology,--the +first published in a projected series of four or five volumes comprising +the English poets from Elizabethan to Victorian times,--has certain minor +features that may be deemed objectionably novel. Much the greater portion +of the volume has of course, as usual, been given to those poems (by +Pope, Thomson, Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, Crabbe, Cowper, and Burns) which +have been loved or admired from their day to our own. But I have ventured +to admit also a few which, though forgotten to-day, either were popular +in the eighteenth century or possess marked historical significance. In +other words, I present not solely what the twentieth century considers +enduringly great in the poetry of the eighteenth, but also a +little--proportionately very little--of what the eighteenth century +itself (perhaps mistakenly) considered interesting. This secondary +purpose accounts for my inclusion of passages from such neglected authors +as Mandeville, Brooke, Day, and Darwin. The passages of this sort are too +infrequent to annoy him who reads for aesthetic pleasure only; and to the +student they will illustrate movements in the spirit of the age which +would otherwise be unrepresented, and which, as the historical +introduction points out, are an integral part of its thought and feeling. +The inclusion of passages from "Ossian," though almost unprecedented, +requires, I think, no defense against the literal-minded protest that +they are written in "prose." + +Students of poetical history will find it illuminating to read the +passages in chronological order (irrespective of authorship); and in +order to facilitate this method I have given in the table of contents the +date of each poem. + +E. B. + + + +CONTENTS + +JOHN POMFRET + THE CHOICE (1700) + +DANIEL DEFOE + THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN (1701), + ll. 119-132, 189-228, 312-321 + A HYMN TO THE PILLORY (1703), + STANZAS 1, 3, 5-6, 28-30 + +JOSEPH ADDISON + THE CAMPAIGN (1704), + ll. 259-292 + DIVINE ODE (1712) + +MATTHEW PRIOR + TO A CHILD OF QUALITY (1704) + TO A LADY (1704) + THE DYING HADRIAN TO HIS SOUL (1704) + A BETTER ANSWER (1718) + +BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE + THE GRUMBLING HIVE (1705, 1714), + ll. 1-6, 26-52, 149-156, 171-186, + 198-239, 327-336, 377-408 + +ISAAC WATTS + THE HAZARD OF LOVING THE CREATURES (1706) + THE DAY OF JUDGMENT (1709) + O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST (1719) + A CRADLE HYMN (1719) + +ALEXANDER POPE + AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM (1711), + ll. 1-18, 46-51, 68-91, 118-180, + 215-423, 560-577, 612-642 + THE RAPE OF THE LOCK (1714), + CANTOS II AND III + TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD, BOOK VI (1717), + ll. 562-637 + AN ESSAY ON MAN (1733-34), + EPISTLE I; 11, 1-18; IV, 93-204, 361-398 + MORAL ESSAYS, EPISTLE II (1735), + ll. 1-16, 87-180, 199-210, 231-280 + EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT (1735), + ll. 1-68, 115-214, 261-304, 334-367, 389-419 + FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED (1737), + ll. 23-138, 161-296, 338-347 + EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES (1738), DIALOGUE II, ll. 208-223 + THE DUNCIAD (1728-43), BOOK i, ll. 28-84, 107-134; iv. 627-656 + +LADY WINCHILSEA + TO THE NIGHTINGALE (1713) + A NOCTURNAL REVERIE (1713) + +JOHN GAY + RURAL SPORTS (1713), ll. 91-106 + THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK: THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL (1714), + ll. 5-14, 49-60, 83-136 + TRIVIA (1716), BOOK II, ll. 25-64 + SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN (1720) + MY OWN EPITAPH (1720) + +SAMUEL CROXALL + THE VISION (1715), ll. 41-56 + +THOMAS TICKELL + ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON (1721), ll. 9-46, 67-82 + +THOMAS PARNELL + A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH (1721), ll. 1-70 + A HYMN OF CONTENTMENT (1721) + +ALLAN RAMSAY + THE GENTLE SHEPHERD: PATIE AND ROGER (1721), + ll. 1-52, 59-68, 135-202 + +AMBROSE PHILIPS + TO MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER MOTHER'S ARMS (1725) + +JOHN DYER + GRONGAR HILL (1726) + +GEORGE BERKELEY + VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND + LEARNING IN AMERICA (WR. c. 1726; PUBL. 1752) + +JAMES THOMSON + THE SEASONS (1726-30) + WINTER, ll. 223-358 + SUMMER, ll. 1630-1645 + SPRING, ll. 1-113, 846-876 + AUTUMN, ll. 950-1003 + A HYMN + RULE, BRITANNIA (1740) + THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE (1748), STANZAS 1-11, 20, 57-59 + +EDWARD YOUNG + LOVE OF FAME: SATIRES V-VI (1727-28), + SATIRE V, ll. 227-246, 469-484; VI, 393-462 + NIGHT-THOUGHTS (1742-45), NIGHT I, ll. 68-90; + III, 325-342; IV, 201-233; VII, 253-323 + +ANONYMOUS + THE HAPPY SAVAGE (1732) + +SOAME JENYNS + AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE (1734), ll. 148-165, 170-183, 189-199 + +PHILIP DODDRIDGE + SURSUM (1735?) + +WILLIAM SOMERVILLE + THE CHASE (1735), BOOK II, ll. 119-171 + +HENRY BROOKE + UNIVERSAL BEAUTY (1735), BOOK III, ll. 1-8, 325-364; + V, 282-297, 330-339, 361-384 + PROLOGUE TO GUSTAVUS VASA (1739) + CONRADE, A FRAGMENT (WR. 1743?, PUBL. 1778), ll. 1-26 + +MATTHEW GREEN + THE SPLEEN (1737), ll. 89-110, 624-642 + +WILLIAM SHENSTONE + THE SCHOOLMISTRESS (1737), STANZAS 6, 8, 18-20, 23, 28 + WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY (1764) + +JONATHAN SWIFT + THE BEASTS' CONFESSION (1738), ll. 1-128, 197-220 + VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT (1739), + ll. 39-66, 299-338, 455-482 + +CHARLES WESLEY + FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY (1739) + FOR EASTER-DAY (1739) + IN TEMPTATION: JESU, LOVER OF MY SOUL (1740) + +WRESTLING JACOB (1742) + ROBERT BLAIR + THE GRAVE (1743), ll. 28-44, 56-84, 750-767 + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + ON RIDICULE (1743), ll. 27-52, 153-171, 225-226, 233-236, 287-301 + THE ENTHUSIAST (1754) + +MARK AKENSIDE + THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION (1744), BOOK I, ll. 34-43, 113-124; + III, 515-535, 568-633 + +JOSEPH WARTON + THE ENTHUSIAST; OR, THE LOVER OF NATURE (1744), + ll. 1-20, 26-38, 87-103, 167-244 + +JOHN GILBERT COOPER + THE POWER OF HARMONY (1745), BOOK II, ll. 35-51, 125-140, 330-343 + +WILLIAM COLLINS + ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 (1746) + ODE TO EVENING (1746) + ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER (1746) + THE PASSIONS (1746) + ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS + (WR. 1749, PUBL. 1788) + +THOMAS WARTON + THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY (1747), ll. 28-69, 153-165, 196-210 + THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR (1777), ll. 31-74 + SONNET WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON (1777) + SONNET WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE (1777) + SONNET TO THE RIVER LODON (1777) + +THOMAS GRAY + AN ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE (1747) + HYMN TO ADVERSITY (1748) + ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD (1751) + THE PROGRESS OF POESY (1757) + THE BARD (1757) + THE FATAL SISTERS (1768) + ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE (1775) + +SAMUEL JOHNSON + THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES (1749), ll. 99-118, + 133-160, 189-220, 289-308, 341-366 + +RICHARD JAGO + THE GOLDFINCHES (1753), STANZAS 3-10 + +JOHN DALTON + A DESCRIPTIVE POEM (1755), ll. 222-227, 238-257, 265-272, 279-290 + +JANE ELLIOT + THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST (WR. 1756) + +CHARLES CHURCHILL + THE ROSCIAD (1761), ll. 963-986 + THE GHOST (1762), BOOK II, ll. 653-676 + +JAMES MACPHERSON + + "TRANSLATIONS" FROM OSSIAN + FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM (1762), BOOK VI, §§ 10-14 + THE SONGS OF SELMA (1762), §§ 4-8, 20-21 + +CHRISTOPHER SMART + A SONG TO DAVID (1763), ll. 451-516 + +OLIVER GOLDSMITH + THE TRAVELLER (1764), ll. 51-64, 239-280, 423-438 + THE DESERTED VILLAGE (1770) + RETALIATION (1774), ll. 29-42, 61-78, 93-124, 137-146 + +JAMES BEATTIE + THE MINSTREL, BOOK I (1771), STANZAS 4-5, 16, 22, 32-33, 52-55 + +LADY ANNE LINDSAY + AULD ROBIN GRAY (WR. 1771) + +JEAN ADAMS + THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE (c. 1771) + +ROBERT FERGUSSON + THE DAFT DAYS (1772) + +ANONYMOUS + ABSENCE (c. 1773?) + +JOHN LANGHORNE + THE COUNTRY JUSTICE, PART I (1774), ll. 132-165 + +AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY + ROCK OF AGES (1775) + +JOHN SKINNER + TULLOCHGORUM (1776) + +THOMAS CHATTERTON + SONGS FROM AELLA (1777) + THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES ATTE THE LYGHTE + O, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE + AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE + +THOMAS DAY + THIS DESOLATION OF AMERICA (1777), ll. 29-53, 279-299, + 328-335, 440-458, 489-501 + +GEORGE CRABBE + THE LIBRARY (1781), ll. 1-12, 99-110, 127-134, + AND A COMMONLY OMITTED PASSAGE FOLLOWING l. 594 + THE VILLAGE (1783), BOOK I, ll. 1-78, 109-317; II, 63-100 + +JOHN NEWTON + A VISION OF LIFE IN DEATH (1779?) + +WILLIAM COWPER + TABLE TALK (1782), ll. 716-739 + CONVERSATION (1782), ll. 119-162 + TO A YOUNG LADY (1782) + THE SHRUBBERY (1782) + THE TASK (1785), BOOK I, ll. 141-180; II, 1-47, 206-254; + III, 108-l33; IV, 1-41; V, 379-445; VI, 56-117, 560-580 + ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE (1798) + TO MARY (WR. c. 1795, PUBL. 1803) + THE CASTAWAY (WR. c. 1799, PUBL. 1803) + +WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES + EVENING (1789) + DOVER CLIFFS (1789) + +ROBERT BURNS + MARY MORISON (WR. 1784?, PUBL. 1800) + THE HOLY FAIR (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786) + TO A LOUSE (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786) + EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786), STANZAS 9-13 + THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT (WR. 1785-86, PUBL. 1786) + TO A MOUSE (1786) + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY (1786) + EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND (1786) + A BARD'S EPITAPH (1786) + ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID (1787) + JOHN ANDERSON, MY Jo (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1790) + THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + A RED, RED ROSE (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + AULD LANG SYNE (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + SWEET AFTON (WR. c. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + THE HAPPY TRIO (WR. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + TO MARY IN HEAVEN (WR. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + TAM O' SHANTER (WR. 1790, PUBL. 1791) + AE FOND KISS (WR. 1791, PUBL. 1792) + DUNCAN GRAY (WR. 1792, PUBL. 1798) + HIGHLAND MARY (WR. 1792, PUBL. 1799) + SCOTS, WHA HAE (WR. 1793, PUBL. 1794) + IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY (WR. 1794, PUBL. 1795) + LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER (WR. c. 1795, PUBL. 1799) + O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST (WR. 1796, PUBL. 1800) + +ERASMUS DARWIN + THE BOTANIC GARDEN (1789-92), PART I, CANTO I, ll. 1-38; + PART II, CANTO I, ll. 299-310 + +WILLIAM BLAKE + TO WINTER (1783) + SONG: FRESH FROM THE DEWY HILL (1783) + TO THE MUSES (1783) + INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OF INNOCENCE (1789) + THE LAMB (1789) + THE LITTLE BLACK BOY (1789) + A CRADLE SONG (1789) + HOLY THURSDAY (1789) + THE DIVINE IMAGE (1789) + ON ANOTHER'S SORROW (1789) + THE BOOK OF THEL (1789) + THE FRENCH REVOLUTION (PRINTED 1791), ll, 198-240 + A SONG OP LIBERTY (c. 1792), §§ 1-3, 12, 18-20, AND CHORUS + THE FLY (1794) + THE TIGER (1794) + HOLY THURSDAY (1794) + THE GARDEN OF LOVE (1794) + A LITTLE BOY LOST (1794) + THE SCHOOL-BOY (1794) + LONDON (1794) + AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE (WR. c. 1801-03), LL. 1-44, 73-90 + VERSES FROM "MILTON" (ENGRAVED c. 1804) + AND DID THOSE FEET IN ANCIENT TIME + REASON AND IMAGINATION + VERSES FROM "JERUSALEM" (ENGRAVED c. 1804-11) + TO THE DEISTS + +GEORGE CANNING + THE PROGRESS OF MAN (1798), CANTO XXIII, ll. 7-16, 17-30 + THE NEW MORALITY (1798), ll. 87-157 + +CAROLINA, LADY NAIRNE + THE LAND O' THE LEAL (WR. 1798) + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +I. ORTHODOXY AND CLASSICISM QUIESCENT (1700-1725) The clearest portrayal +of the prominent features of an age may sometimes be seen in poems which +reveal what men desire to be rather than what they are; and which express +sentiments typical, even commonplace, rather than individual. John +Pomfret's _Choice_ (1700) is commonplace indeed; it was never deemed +great, but it was remarkably popular. "No composition in our language," +opined Dr. Johnson, "has been oftener perused,"--an opinion quite +incredible until one perceives how intimately the poem harmonizes with +the prevalent mood of its contemporary readers. It was written by a +clergyman (a circumstance not insignificant); its form is the heroic +couplet; its content is a wish, for a peaceful and civilized mode of +existence. And what; is believed to satisfy that longing? A life of +leisure; the necessaries of comfort plentifully provided, but used +temperately; a country-house upon a hillside, not too distant from the +city; a little garden bordered by a rivulet; a quiet-study furnished with +the classical Roman poets; the society of a few friends, men who know the +world as well as books, who are loyal to their nation and their church, +and whose; conversation is intellectually vigorous but always polite; the +occasional companionship of a woman of virtue, wit, and poise of manner; +and, above all, the avoidance of public or private contentions. Culture +and peace--and the greater of these is peace! The sentiment characterizes +the first quarter of the eighteenth century. + +The poets of that period had received an abundant heritage from the +Elizabethans, the Cavaliers, Dryden, and Milton. It was a poetry of +passionate love, chivalric honor, indignant satire, and sublime faith. +Much of it they admired, but their admiration was tempered with +fear. They heard therein the tones of violent generations,--of men whose +intensity, though yielding extraordinary beauty and grandeur, yielded +also obscurity and extravagance; men whom the love of women too often +impelled to utter fantastic hyperbole, and the love of honor to glorify +preposterous adventures; quarrelsome men, who assailed their opponents +with rancorous personalities; doctrinaires, who employed their fiery +energy of mind in the creation of rigid systems of religion and +government; uncompromising men, who devoted to the support of those +systems their fortunes and lives, drenched the land in the blood of a +civil war, executed a king, presently restored his dynasty, and finally +exiled it again, thus maintaining during half a century a general +insecurity of life and property which checked the finer growths of +civilization. Their successors trusted that the compromise of 1688 had +reduced political and sectarian affairs to a state of calm equilibrium; +and they desired to cultivate the fruits of serenity by fostering in all +things the spirit of moderation. In poetry, as in life, they tended more +and more to discountenance manifestations of vehemence. Even the poetry +of Dryden, with its reflections of the stormy days through which he had +struggled, seemed to them, though gloriously leading the way toward +perfection, to fall short of equability of temper and smoothness of form. +To work like Defoe's _True-Born Englishman_ (1701) and _Hymn to the +Pillory_ (1703), combative in spirit and free in style, they gave only +guarded and temporary approval. + +Inevitably the change of mood entailed losses. Sir Henry Wotton's +_Character of a Happy Life_ (c. 1614) treats the same theme as Pomfret's +_Choice_; but Pomfret's contemporaries were rarely if ever visited by +such gleams as shine in Wotton's lines describing the happy man as one + + who never understood + How deepest wounds are given by praise, + +and as one + + Who God doth late and early pray + More of his grace than gifts to lend. + +Such touches of penetrative wisdom and piety, like many other precious +qualities, are of an age that had passed. In the poetry of 1700-1725, +religion forgoes mysticism and exaltation; the intellectual life, daring +and subtlety; the imagination, exuberance and splendor. Enthusiasm for +moral ideals declines into steadfast approval of ethical principles. Yet +these were changes in tone and manner rather than in fundamental views. +The poets of the period were conservatives. They were shocked by the +radicalism of Mandeville, the Nietzsche of his day, who derided the +generally accepted moralities as shallow delusions, and who by means of a +clever fable supported a materialistic theory which implied that in the +struggle for existence nothing but egotism could succeed: + + Fools only strive + To make a great and honest hive. + +Obloquy buried him; he was a sensational exception to the rule. As a +body, the poets of his time retained the orthodox traditions concerning +God, Man, and Nature. + +Their theology is evidenced by Addison, Watts, and Parnell. It is a +Christianity that has not ceased to be stern and majestic. In Addison's +_Divine Ode_, the planets of the firmament proclaim a Creator whose power +knows no bounds. In the hymns of Isaac Watts, God is as of old a jealous +God, obedience to whose eternal will may require the painful sacrifice +of temporal earthly affections, even the sacrifice of our love for our +fellow-creatures; a just God, who by the law of his own nature cannot +save unrepentant sin from eternal retribution; yet an adored God, whose +providence protects the faithful amid stormy vicissitudes,-- + + Under the shadow of whose throne + The saints have dwelt secure. + +Spirits as gentle and kindly as Parnell insist that the only approach +to happiness lies through a religious discipline of the feelings, and +protest that death is not to be feared but welcomed--as the passage from +a troublous existence to everlasting peace. In most of the poetry of +the time, religion, if at all noticeable, is a mere undercurrent; but +whenever it rises to the surface, it reflects the ancient creed. + +Traditional too is the general conception of human character. Man is +still thought of as a complex of lofty and mean qualities, widely +variable in their proportion yet in no instance quite dissevered. To +interpret--not God or Nature--but this self-contradictory being, in both +his higher and his lower manifestations and possibilities, remains the +chief vocation of the poets. They have not ceased the endeavor to lend +dignity to life by portraying its nobler features. Addison, in _The +Campaign_, glorifies the national hero whose brilliant victories thwarted +the great monarch of France on his seemingly invincible career toward +the hegemony of Europe, the warrior Marlborough, serene of soul amid the +horror and confusion of battle. Tickell, in his noble elegy on Addison, +not only, while voicing his own grief, illustrates the beauty of +devoted friendship, but also, when eulogizing his subject, holds up to +admiration, as a type to be revered, the wise moralist, cultured and +versatile man of letters, and adept in the art of virtuous life. Pope, +in the most ambitious literary effort of the day, his translation of the +_Iliad_, labors to enrich the treasury of English poetry with an epic +that sheds radiance upon the ideals and manners of an heroic age. In such +attempts to exalt the grander phases of human existence, the poets were, +however, owing to their fear of enthusiasm, never quite successful. It is +significant that though most critics consider Pope's Homer no better than +a mediocre performance, none denies that his _Rape of the Lock_ is, in +its kind, perfection. + +Here, as in the _vers de société_ of Matthew Prior and Ambrose Philips, +the age was illuminating with the graces of poetry something it really +understood and delighted in,--the life of leisure and fashion; and here, +accordingly, is its most original and masterly work. _The Rape of the +Lock_ is the product of a society which had the good sense and good +breeding to try to laugh away incipient quarrels, and which greeted with +airy banter the indiscreet act of an enamoured young gallant,--the kind +of act which vulgarity meets with angry lampoons or rude violence. The +poem is an idyll quite as much as a satire. The follies of fashionable +life are treated with nothing severer than light raillery; and its +actually distasteful features,--its lapses into stupidity, its vacuous +restlessness, its ennui,--are cunningly suppressed. But all that made it +seem the height of human felicity is preserved, and enhanced in charm. +"Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames," one glides to Hampton Court +amid youth and gayety and melting music; and for the nonce this realm of +"airs, flounces, and furbelows," of merry chit-chat, and of pleasurable +excitement, seems as important as it is to those exquisite creatures of +fancy that hover about the heroine, assiduous guardians of her "graceful +ease and sweetness void of pride." Of that admired world likewise are the +lovers that Matthew Prior creates, who woo neither with stormy passion +nor with mawkish whining, but in a courtly manner; lovers who deem +an epigram a finer tribute than a sigh. So the tender fondness of a +middle-aged man for an infant is elevated above the commonplace by +assuming the tone of playful gallantry. + +The ignobler aspects of life,--nutriment of the comic sense,--were not +ignored. The new school of poets, however deficient in the higher vision, +were keen observers of actuality; and among them the satiric spirit, +though not militant as in the days of Dryden, was still active. The value +which they attached to social culture is again shown in the persistence +of the sentiment that as man grew in civility he became less ridiculous. +The peccadilloes of the upper classes they treated with comparatively +gentle humor, and aimed their strokes of satire chiefly against the +lower. Rarely did they idealize humble folk: Gay's _Sweet William's +Farewett to Black-Eyed Susan_ is in this respect exceptional. Their +typical attitude is seen in his _Shepherd's Week_, with its ludicrous +picture of rustic superstition and naive amorousness; and in Allan +Ramsay's _Gentle Shepherd_, where the pastoral, once remote from life, +assumes the manners and dialect of the countryside in order to arouse +laughter. + +The obvious fact that these poets centered their attention upon +Man, particularly in his social life, and that their most memorable +productions are upon that theme, led posterity to complain that they +wholly lacked interest in Nature, were incapable of delineating it, and +did not feel its sacred influence. The last point in the indictment,--and +the last only,--is quite true. No one who understood and believed, as +they did, the doctrines of orthodoxy could consistently ascribe divinity +to Nature. To them Nature exhibited the power of God, but not his will; +and the soul of Man gained its clearest moral light directly from a +_super_natural source. This did not, however, imply that Nature was +negligible. The celebrated essays of Addison on the pleasures of the +imagination (_Spectator_, Nos. 411-414) base those pleasures upon the +grandeur of Nature; upon its variety and freshness, as of "groves, +fields, and meadows in the opening of the Spring"; and upon its beauty of +form and color. The works of Nature, declares Addison, surpass those of +art, and accordingly "we always find the poet in love with a country +life." Such was the theory; the practice was not out of accord therewith. +Passages appreciative of the lovelier aspects of Nature, and not, despite +the current preference for general rather than specific terms, inaccurate +as descriptions, were written between 1700 and 1726 by Addison himself, +Pope, Lady Winchilsea, Gay, Parnell, Dyer, and many others. Nature +worshippers they were not. Nature lovers they can be justly styled,--if +such love may discriminate between the beautiful and the ugly aspects +of the natural. It is characteristic that Berkeley, in his _Prospect of +Planting Arts and Learning in America_, does not indulge the fancy that +the wilderness is of itself uplifting; it requires, he assumes, the aid +of human culture and wisdom,--"the rise of empire and of arts,"--to +develop its potentialities. + +A generation which placidly adhered to the orthodox sentiments of its +predecessors was of course not moved to revolutionize poetical theories +or forms. Its theories are authoritatively stated in Pope's _Essay on +Criticism_; they embrace principles of good sense and mature taste which +are easier to condemn than to confute or supersede. In poetical diction +the age cultivated clearness, propriety, and dignity: it rejected words +so minutely particular as to suggest pedantry or specialization; and +it refused to sacrifice simple appropriateness to inaccurate vigor of +utterance or meaningless beauty of sound. Its favorite measure, the +decasyllabic couplet, moulded by Jonson, Sandys, Waller, Denham, and +Dryden, it accepted reverently, as an heirloom not to be essentially +altered but to be polished until it shone more brightly than ever. Pope +perfected this form, making it at once more artistic and more natural. He +discountenanced on the one hand run-on lines, alexandrines, hiatus, and +sequence of monosyllables; on the other, the resort to expletives and the +mechanical placing of caesura. If his verse does not move with the "long +resounding pace" of Dryden at his best, it has a movement better suited +to the drawing-room: it is what Oliver Wendell Holmes terms + + The straight-backed measure with the stately stride. + +Thus in form as in substance the poetry of the period voiced the mood, +not of carefree youth, nor yet of vehement early manhood, but of still +vigorous middle age,--a phase of existence perhaps less ingratiating than +others, but one which has its rightful hour in the life of the race as of +the individual. The sincere and artistic expression of its feelings will +be denied poetical validity only by those whose capacity for appreciating +the varieties of poetry is limited by their lack of experience or by +narrowness of sympathetic imagination. + + +II. ORTHODOXY AND CLASSICISM ASSAILED (1726-1750) + +During the second quarter of the century, Pope and his group remained +dominant in the realm of poetry; but their mood was no longer pacific. +Their work showed a growing seriousness and acerbity. Partly the change +was owing to disappointment: life had not become so highly cultured, +literature had not prospered so much, nor displayed so broad a diffusion +of intelligence and taste, as had been expected. Pope's _Dunciad, Epistle +to Dr. Arbuthnot_, and ironic satire on the state of literature under +"Augustus" (George II, the "snuffy old drone from the German hive"), +brilliantly express this indignation with the intellectual and literary +shortcomings of the times. + +A cause of the change of mood which was to be of more lasting consequence +than the failure of the age to put the traditional ideal more generally +into practice, was the appearance of a distinctly new ideal,--one which +undermined the very foundations of the old. This new spirit may be termed +sentimentalism. In prose literature it had already been stirring for +about twenty-five years, changing the tone of comedy, entering into some +of the periodical essays, and assuming a philosophic character in the +works of Lord Shaftesbury. Its chief doctrines, rhapsodically promulgated +by this amiable and original enthusiast, were that the universe and all +its creatures constitute a perfect harmony; and that Man, owing to his +innate moral and aesthetic sense, needs no supernatural revelation of +religious or ethical truth, because if he will discard the prejudices +of tradition, he will instinctively, when face to face with Nature, +recognize the Spirit which dwells therein,--and, correspondingly, when +in the presence of a good deed he will recognize its morality. In other +words. God and Nature are one; and Man is instinctively good, his +cardinal virtue being the love of humanity, his true religion the love of +Nature. Be therefore of good cheer: evil merely appears to exist, sin is +a figment of false psychology; lead mankind to return to the natural, and +they will find happiness. + +The poetical possibilities of sentimentalism were not grasped by any +noteworthy poet before Thomson. _The Seasons_ was an innovation, and +its novelty lay not so much in the choice of the subject as in the +interpretation. Didactic as well as descriptive, it was designed not +merely to present realistic pictures but to arouse certain explicitly +stated thoughts and feelings. Thomson had absorbed some of Shaftesbury's +ideas. Such sketches as that of the hardships which country folk suffer +in winter, contrasted with the thoughtless gayety of city revelers, +and inculcating the lesson of sympathy, are precisely in the vein that +sentimentalism encouraged. So, too, the tendency of Shaftesbury to deify +Nature appears in several ardent passages. The choice of blank verse +as the medium of this liberal and expansive train of thought was +appropriate. It should not be supposed, however, that Thomson accepted +sentimentalism in its entirety or fully understood its ultimate bearings. +The author of _Rule, Britannia_ praised many things,--like commerce +and industry and imperial power,--that are not favored by the thorough +sentimentalist. Often he was inconsistent: his _Hymn to Nature_ is +in part a pantheistic rhapsody, in part a monotheistic Hebrew psalm. +Essentially an indolent though receptive mind, he made no effort to trace +the new ideas to their consequences; he vaguely considered them not +irreconcilable with the old. + +A keener mind fell into the same error. Pope, in the _Essay on Man_, +tried to harmonize the orthodox conception of human character with +sentimental optimism. As a collection of those memorable half-truths +called aphorisms, the poem is admirable; as an attempt to unite new +half-truths with old into a consistent scheme of life, it is fallacious. +No creature composed of such warring elements as Pope describes in the +superb antitheses that open Epistle II, can ever become in this world as +good and at the same time as happy as Epistle IV vainly asserts. Pope, +charged with heresy, did not repeat this endeavor to console mankind; he +returned to his proper element, satire. But his effort to unite the +new philosophy with the old psychology is striking evidence of the +attractiveness and growing vogue of Shaftesbury's theories. + +It was minor poets who first expressed sentimental ideas without +inconsistency. As early as 1732, anonymous lines in the _Gentleman's +Magazine_ advanced what must have seemed the outrageously paradoxical +thought that the savage in the wilderness was happier than civilized +man. Two years later Soame Jenyns openly assailed in verse the orthodox +doctrines of sin and retribution. These had long been assailed in prose; +and under the influence of the attacks, within the pale of the Church +itself, some ministers had suppressed or modified the sterner aspects of +the creed,--a movement which Young's satires had ridiculed in the person +of a lady of fashion who gladly entertained the notion that the Deity +was too well-bred to call a lady to account for her offenses. Jenyns +versified this effeminization of Christianity, charged orthodoxy with +attributing cruelty to God, and asserted that faith in divine and human +kindness would banish all wrong and discord from the world. In 1735 a far +more important poet of sentimentalism arose in Henry Brooke, an +undeservedly neglected pioneer, who, likewise drawing his inspiration +from Shaftesbury, developed its theories with unusual consistency and +fullness. His _Universal Beauty_ voiced his sense of the divine immanence +in every part of the cosmos, and emphasized the doctrine that animals, +because they unhesitatingly follow the promptings of Nature, are more +lovely, happy, and moral than Man, who should learn from them the +individual and social virtues, abandon artificial civilization, and +follow instinct. Brooke, in the prologue of his _Gustavus Vasa_, shows +that he foresaw the political bearings of this theory; it is, in his +opinion, peculiarly a people "guiltless of courts, untainted, and unread" +that, illumined by Nature, understands and upholds freedom: but this was +a thought too advanced to be general at this time even among Brooke's +fellow-sentimentalists. + +Though sentimental literature bore the seeds of revolution, its earliest +effect upon its devotees was to create, through flattery of human +character, a feeling of good-natured complacency. Against this optimism +the traditional school reacted in two ways,--derisive and hortatory. +Pope, Young, and Swift satirized with masterful skill the inherent +weaknesses and follies of mankind, the vigor of their strokes drawing +from the sentimentalist Whitehead the feeble but significant protest, +_On Ridicule_, deprecating satire as discouraging to benevolence. On the +other hand, Wesley's hymns fervently summoned to repentance and piety; +while Young's _Night Thoughts_, yielding to the new influence only in its +form (blank verse), reasserted the hollowness of earthly existence, +the justice of God's stern will, and the need of faith in heavenly +immortality as the only adequate satisfaction of the spiritual elements +in Man. The literary powers of Pope, Swift, and Young were far superior +to those of the opposed school, which might have been overborne had not a +second generation of sentimentalists arisen to voice its claims in a more +poetical manner. + +These newcomers,--Akenside, J.G. Cooper, the Wartons, and Collins,--all +of them very young, appeared between 1744 and 1747; and each rendered +distinct service to their common cause. The least original of the group, +John Gilbert Cooper, versified in _The Power of Harmony_ Shaftesbury's +cosmogony. More independently, Mark Akenside developed out of the same +doctrine of universal harmony the theory of aesthetics that was to guide +the school,--the theory that the true poet is created not by culture and +discipline at all, but owes to the impress of Nature--that beauty which +is goodness--his imagination, his taste, and his moral vision. Though +comparatively ardent and free in manner, Akenside pursued the customary, +didactic method. Less abstract, more nearly an utterance of personal +feeling, was Joseph Warton's _Enthusiast, or the Lover of Nature_, +historically a remarkable poem, which, through its expression of the +author's tastes and preferences, indicated briefly some of the most +important touchstones of the sentimentalism (_videlicet_, "romanticism") +of the future. Warton found odious such things as artificial gardens, +commercial interests, social and legal conventions, and a formal +Addisonian style; he yearned for mountainous wilds, unspoiled savages, +solitudes where the voice of Wisdom was heard above the storms, and +poetry that was "wildly warbled." His younger brother Thomas, who wrote +_The Pleasures of Melancholy_, and sonnets showing an interest in +non-classical antiquities, likewise felt the need of new literary gods to +sanction the practices of their school: Pope and Dryden were accordingly +dethroned; Spenser, Shakespeare, and the young Milton, all of whom were +believed to warble wildly, were invoked. + +William Collins was the most gifted of this band of enthusiasts. His +general views were theirs: poetry is in his mind associated with wonder +and ecstacy; and it finds its true themes, as the _Ode on Popular +Superstitions_ shows, in the weird legends, the pathetic mischances, and +the blameless manners of a simple-minded folk remote from cities. Unlike +his fellows, Collins had moments of great lyric power, and gave posterity +a few treasured poems. His further distinction is that he desired really +to create that poetical world about which Akenside theorized and for +which the Wartons yearned. Unhappily, however, he too often peopled it +with allegorical figures who move in a hazy atmosphere; and his melody is +then more apparent than his meaning. + +The hopeful spirit of these enthusiasts found little encouragement in the +poems with which the period closed,--Gray's _Ode on Eton_ and _Hymn to +Adversity_, and Johnson's _Vanity of Human Wishes_. + + Some bold adventurers disdain + The limits of their little reign, + +wrote Gray, adding with the wisdom of disillusion, + + Gay hopes are theirs, by fancy fed, + Less pleasing when possessed. + +He was speaking of schoolboys whose ignorance is bliss; but the general +tenor of his mind allows us to surmise that he also smiled pityingly upon +some of the aspirations of the youthful sentimentalists. Dr. Johnson's +hostility to them was, of course, outspoken. He laughed uproariously at +their ecstatic manner, and ridiculed the cant of sensibility; and in +solemn mood he struck in _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ another blow at the +heresy of optimism. In style the contrast between these poems and those +of the Wartons and Collins is marked. Heirs of the Augustans, Johnson and +Gray have perfect control over their respective diction and metres: here +are no obscurities or false notes; Johnson sustains with superb +dignity the tone of moral grandeur; Gray is ever felicitous. Up to the +mid-century then, despite assailants, the classical school held its +supremacy; for its literary art was incomparably more skillful than that +of its enemies. + + +III. THE PROGRESS OF SENTIMENTALISM + +(1751-1775) + +During the 1750's sentimental poetry did not fulfill the expectations +which the outburst of 1744 had seemed to promise. It sank to lower +levels, and its productions are noteworthy only as signs of the times and +presages of the future. Richard Jago wrote some bald verses intended to +foster opposition to hunting, and love for the lower animals,--according +to the sentimental view really the "little brothers" of Man. John +Dalton's crude _Descriptive Poem_ apostrophized what was regarded as the +"savage grandeur" of the Lake country; it is interesting only because it +mentions Keswick, Borrowdale, Lodore, and Skiddaw, half a century +later to become sacred ground. The practical dilemma of the +sentimentalist,--drawn toward solitude by his worship of Nature, and +toward society by his love for Man,--was described by Whitehead in _The +Enthusiast_, the humanitarian impulse being finally given the preference. +Though the last of these pieces is not contemptible in style, none +of these writers had sufficient ardor to compel attention; and if +sentimentalism had not been steadily disseminated through other literary +forms, especially the novel, it might well have been regarded as a lost +cause. + +The great poet of this decade was Gray, whose _Elegy Written in a Country +Churchyard_, by many held the noblest English lyric, appeared in 1751. +His classical ideal of style, according to which poetry should have, +in his words, "extreme conciseness of expression," yet be "pure, +perspicuous, and musical," was realized both in the _Elegy_ and in the +otherwise very different _Pindaric Odes_. The ethical and religious +implications of the _Elegy_, its piety, its sense of the frailties as +well as the merits of mankind, are conservative. Nor is there in the +_Pindaric Odes_ any violation of classical principles. Gray never +deviates into a pantheistic faith, a belief in human perfection, a +conception of poetry as instinctive imagination unrestrained, or any +other essential tenet of sentimentalism. Yet the influence of the new +spirit upon him may be discerned. It modified his choice of subjects, and +slightly colored their interpretation, without causing him to abandon the +classical attitude. The _Elegy_ treats with reverence what the Augustans +had neglected,--the tragic dignity of obscure lives; _The Progress of +Poesy_ emphasizes qualities (emotion and sublimity) which the _Essay on +Criticism_ had not stressed; and _The Bard_ presents a wildly picturesque +figure of ancient days. Gray felt that classicism might quicken its +spirit and widen its interests without surrendering its principles, that +a classical poem might be a popular poem; and the admiration of posterity +supports his belief. + +An astounding and epochal event was the publication (1760 ff.) of +the poems attributed to Ossian. Their "editor and translator," James +Macpherson, author of a forgotten sentimental epic, alleged that Ossian +was a Gaelic poet of the third century A.D., who sang the loves and wars +of the heroes of his people, brave warriors fighting the imperial legions +of Rome; and that his poems had been orally transmitted until now, +fifteen centuries later, they had been taken down from the lips of Scotch +peasants. It was a fabrication as ingenious as brazen. As a matter of +fact, Macpherson had found only an insignificant portion of his extensive +work in popular ballads; and what little he had found he had expanded and +changed out of all semblance to genuine ancient legend. Both the +guiding motive of his prose-poem (it is his as truly as _King Lear_ +is Shakespeare's), and the furore of welcome which greeted it, may be +understood by recalling the position of the sentimental school on the eve +of its appearance. The sentimentalists were maintaining that civilization +had corrupted tastes, morals, and poetry, that it had perverted Man from +his instinctive goodness, and that only by a return to communion with +Nature could humanity and poetry be redeemed. But all this was based +merely on philosophic theory, and could find no confirmation in history +or literature: history knew of no innocent savages; and even as +unsophisticated literature as Homer was then supposed to be, disclosed no +heroes perfect in the sentimental virtues. + +_Ossian_ appeared; and the truth of sentimentalism seemed historically +established. For here was poetry of the loftiest tone, composed in the +unlearned Dark Ages, and answering the highest expectations concerning +poetry inspired by Nature only. (Was not a distinguished Professor of +Rhetoric saying, "Ossian's poetry, more perhaps than that of any other +writer, deserves to be styled the poetry of the heart"?) And here was +the record of a nature-people whose conduct stood revealed as flawless. +"Fingal," Macpherson himself accommodatingly pointed out, "exercised +every manly virtue in Caledonia while Heliogabalus disgraced human nature +in Rome." More than fifty years afterwards Byron compared Homer's Hector, +greatly to his disadvantage, with Ossian's Fingal: the latter's conduct +was, in his admirer's words, "uniformly illustrious and great, without +one mean or inhuman action to tarnish the splendor of his fame." The +benevolent magnanimity of the heroes, the sweet sensibility of the +heroines, their harmony with Nature's moods (traits which Macpherson had +supplied from his own imagination), were the very traits that won +the enthusiasm of the public. The poem in its turn stimulated the +sentimentalism which had produced it; and henceforth the new school +contended on even terms with the old. + +One of the effects of the progress of sentimentalism was the decline of +satire. Peculiarly the weapon of the classical school, it had fallen into +unskillful hands: Churchill, though keen and bold, lacked the grace of +Pope and the power of Johnson. Goldsmith might have proved a worthier +successor; but though his genius for style was large, his capacity for +sustained indignation was limited. Even his _Retaliation_ is humorous in +spirit rather than satiric. He was a being of conflicting impulses; and +in his case at least, the style is not precisely the man. His temperament +was emotional and affectionate; by nature he was a sentimentalist. But +his inclinations were restrained, partly by the personal influence of Dr. +Johnson, partly by his own admiration for the artistic traditions of +the classicists. He despised looseness of style, considered blank verse +unfinished, and cultivated what seemed to him the more polished elegance +of the heroic couplet. The vacillation of his views appears in the +difference between the sentiments of _The Traveller_ and those of _The +Deserted Village_. The former is a survey of the nations of Europe, the +object being to discover a people wholly admirable. Merit is found in +Italians, Swiss, French, Dutch, and English,--but never perfection; even +the free and happy Swiss are disgusting in the vulgar sensuality of their +pleasures; happiness is nowhere. One is not surprised to learn that Dr. +Johnson contributed at least a few lines to a poem with so orthodox a +message. + +In _The Deserted Village_, on the other hand, Goldsmith employed the +classical graces to point a moral which from the classical point of view +was false. His sympathetic feelings had now been captivated by the notion +of rural innocence. The traits of character which he attributed to the +village inhabitants,--notably to the immortal preacher who, entertaining +the vagrants, + + Quite forgot their vices in their woe,-- + +are those exalted in the literature of sentimentalism, as, for example, +in his contemporary, Langhorne's _Country Justice_. _The Deserted +Village_ was in point of fact an imaginative idyll,--the supreme idyll of +English poetry; but Goldsmith insisted that it was a realistic record +of actual conditions. Yet he could never have observed such an English +village, either in its depopulated and decayed state (as Macaulay has +remarked), or in its rosy prosperity and unsullied virtue; his economic +history and theory were misleading. Like Macpherson, but through +self-delusion rather than intent, he was engaged in an effort to deceive +by giving sentimental doctrines a basis of apparent actuality. But the +world has forgotten or forgiven his pious fraud in its gratitude for the +loveliness of his art. + + +IV. THE TRIUMPH OF SENTIMENTALISM (1776-1800) + +Goldsmith's application of sentimental ideas to contemporary affairs +foreshadowed what was to be one of the marked tendencies of the movement +in the last quarter of the century. Thus in 1777 Thomas Day interpreted +the American Revolution as a conflict between the pitiless tyranny of a +corrupt civilization and the appealing virtues of a people who had found +in sequestered forests and prairies the abiding place of Freedom and the +only remaining opportunity "to save the ruins of the human name." At the +same time the justification of sentimentalism on historical grounds was +strengthened by the young antiquarian and poet, Thomas Chatterton. Like +Macpherson, he answers to Pope's description of archaizing authors,-- + + Ancients in words, mere moderns in their sense. + +He fabricated, in what he thought to be Middle English, a body of songs +and interludes, which he attributed to a monk named Thomas Rowleie, +and which showed that, in the supposedly unsophisticated simplicity of +medieval times, charity to Man and love for Nature had flourished as +beautifully as lyric utterance. Even more lamentable than Chatterton's +early death is the fact that his fanciful and musical genius was shrouded +in so grotesque a style. + +In 1781 appeared a new poet of real distinction, George Crabbe, now the +hope of the conservatives. Edmund Burke, who early in his great career +had assailed the radicals in his ironic _Vindication of Natural Society_, +and who to the end of his life contended against them in the arena of +politics, on reading some of Crabbe's manuscripts, rescued this cultured +and ingenuous man from obscurity and distress; and Dr. Johnson presently +aided him in his literary labors. In _The Library_ Crabbe expressed the +reverence of a scholarly soul for the garnered wisdom of the past, and +satirized some of the popular writings of the day, including sentimental +fiction. He would not have denied the world those consolations which flow +from the literature that mirrors our hopes and dreams; but his honest +spirit revolted when such literature professed to be true to life. +His acquaintance with actual conditions in humble circles, and with +hardships, was as personal as Goldsmith's; but he was not the kind of +poet who soothes the miseries of mankind by ignoring them. In _The +Village_ he arose with all the vigor and intensity of insulted common +sense to refute the dreamers who offered a rose-colored picture of +country life as a genuine portrayal of truth and nature. So evident +was his mastery of his subject, his clearness of perception, and his +earnestness of feeling, that he attracted immediate attention; and he +might well have led a new advance under the ancient standards. But +silence fell upon Crabbe for many years; and this proved, to be the last +occasion in the poetical history of the century that a powerful voice was +raised in behalf of the old cause. + +The poet who became the favorite of moderate sentimentalists, in what +were called "genteel" circles, was William Cowper. He presented little +or nothing that could affright the gentle emotions, and much that +pleasurably stimulated them. He enriched the poetry of the domestic +affections, and had a vein of sadness which occasionally, as in _To +Mary_, deepened into the most touching pathos. In _The Task_, a +discursive familiar essay in smooth-flowing blank verse, he dwelt fondly +upon those satisfactions which his life of uneventful retirement offered; +intimated that truth and wisdom were less surely found by poring upon +books than by meditating among beloved rural scenes; and, turning his sad +gaze toward the distant world of action, deplored that mankind strained +"the natural bond of brotherhood" by tolerating cruel imprisonments, +slavery, and warfare. Such humanitarian views, when they seek the aid of +religious ethics, ought normally to find support in that sentimentalized +Christianity which professes the entire goodness of the human heart; +but the discordant element in Cowper's mind was his inclination towards +Calvinism, which goes to the opposite extreme by insisting on total +depravity. Personally he believed that he had committed the unpardonable +sin (against the Holy Spirit),--a dreadful thought which underlies +his tragic poem, _The Castaway_; and probably unwholesome, though +well-intentioned, was the influence upon him of his spiritual adviser, +John Newton, whose gloomy theology may be seen in the hymn, _The Vision +of Life in Death_. Cowper's sense of the reality of evil not only +distracted his mind to madness, but also prevented him from carrying his +sentimental principles to their logical goal. What the hour demanded were +poets who, discountenancing any mistrust of the natural emotions, should +give them free rein. They were found at last in Burns and in Blake. + +The sentimentalists had long yearned for the advent of the ideal poet. +Macpherson had presented him,--but as of an era far remote; latterly +Beattie, in _The Minstrel_, had set forth his growth under the +inspiration of Nature,--but in a purely imaginary tale. Suddenly Burns +appeared: and the ideal seemed incarnated in the living present. The +Scottish bard was introduced to the world by his first admirers as "a +heaven-taught ploughman, of humble unlettered station," whose "simple +strains, artless and unadorned, seem to flow without effort from the +native feelings of the heart"; and as "a signal instance of true and +uncultivated genius." The real Burns, though indeed a genius of song, was +far better read than the expectant world wished to believe, particularly +in those whom he called his "bosom favorites," the sentimentalists +Mackenzie and Sterne; and his sense of rhythm and melody had been trained +by his emulation of earlier Scotch lyricists, whose lilting cadences flow +towards him as highland rills to the gathering torrent. Sung to the notes +of his native tunes, and infused with the local color of Scotch life, the +sentimental themes assumed the freshness of novelty. Giving a new ardor +to revolutionary tendencies,--Burns revolted against the orthodoxy of the +"Auld Lichts," depicting its representatives as ludicrously hypocritical. +He protested against distinctions founded on birth or rank, as in _A +Man's a Man for A' That_; and, on the other hand, he idealized the homely +feelings and manners of the "virtuous populace" in his immortal _Cotter's +Saturday Night_. He scorned academic learning, and protested that true +inspiration was rather to be found in "ae spark o' Nature's fire,"--or at +the nearest tavern: + + Leese me on drink! It gies us mair + Than either school or college. + +Like Sterne, who boasted that his pen governed him, Burns praised and +affected the impromptu: + + But how the subject theme may gang, + Let time or chance determine; + Perhaps it may turn out a sang, + Perhaps turn out a sermon. + +His Muse was to be the mood of the moment. Herein he brought to +fulfillment the sentimental desire for the liberation of the emotions; +but his work, taken as a whole, can scarcely be said to vindicate the +faith that the emotions, once freed, would manifest instinctive purity. +At his almost unrivalled best, he can sing in the sweetest strains the +raptures or pathos of innocent youthful love, as in _Sweet Afton_ or _To +Mary in Heaven_; but straightway sinking from that elevation of feeling +to the depths of vulgarity or grossness, he will chant with equal zest +and skill the indulgence of the animal appetites.[1] He hails the joys of +life, but without discriminating between the higher and the lower. Yet +these exuberant animal spirits which, unrestrained by conscience +or taste, drove him too often into scurrility, gave his work that +passion--warm, throbbing, and personal--which had been painfully wanting +in earlier poets of sensibility. It was his emotional intensity as well +as his lyric genius that made him the most popular poet of his time. + +In Burns, sentimentalism was largely temperamental, unreflective, and +concrete. In William Blake, the singularity of whose work long retarded +its due appreciation, sentimentalism was likewise temperamental; but, +unconfined to actuality, became far broader in scope, more spiritual, +and more consistently philosophic. Indeed, Blake was the ultimate +sentimentalist of the century. A visionary and symbolist, he passed +beyond Shaftesbury in his thought, and beyond any poet of the school +in his endeavor to create a new and appropriate style. His contemporary, +Erasmus Darwin, author of _The Botanic Garden_, was trying to give +sentimentalism a novel interpretation by describing the life of plants +in terms of human life; but, Darwin being destitute of artistic sense, +the result was grotesque. Blake, by training and vocation an engraver, +was primarily an artist; but, partly under Swedenborgian influences, he +had grasped the innermost character of sentimentalism, perceived all its +implications, and carried them fearlessly to their utmost bounds. To him +every atom of the cosmos was literally spiritual and holy; the divine +and the human, the soul and the flesh, were absolutely one; God and Man +were only two aspects of pervasive "mercy, pity, peace, and love." +Nothing else had genuine reality. The child, its vision being as yet +unclouded by false teachings, saw the universe thus truly; and Blake, +therefore, in _Songs of Innocence_, gave glimpses of the world as the +child sees it,--a guileless existence amid the peace that passes all +understanding. He hymned the sanctity of animal life: even the tiger, +conventionally an incarnation of cruelty, was a glorious creature of +divine mould; to slay or cage a beast was, the _Auguries of Innocence_ +protested, to incur anathema. The _Book of Thel_ allegorically showed +the mutual interdependence of all creation, and reprehended the maiden +shyness that shrinks from merging its life in the sacrificial union +which sustains the whole. + +To Blake the great enemy of truth was the cold logical reason, a +truncated part of Man's spirit, which was incapable of attaining wisdom, +and which had fabricated those false notions that governed the practical +world and constrained the natural feelings. Instances of the unhappiness +caused by such constraint, he gave in _Songs of Experience_, where _The +Garden of Love_ describes the blighting curse which church law had laid +upon free love. To overthrow intellectualism and discipline, Man must +liberate his most precious faculty, the imagination, which alone can +reveal the spiritual character of the universe and the beauty that life +will wear when the feelings cease to be unnaturally confined. Temporarily +Blake rejoiced when the French Revolution seemed to usher in the +millennium of freedom and peace; and his interpretation of its earlier +incidents in his poem on that theme[2] illustrates in style and spirit +the highly original nature of his mind. More than any predecessor he +understood how the peculiarly poetical possibilities of sentimentalism +might be elicited, namely by emphasizing its mystical quality. Thus +under his guidance mysticism, which in the early seventeenth century had +sublimated the religious poetry of the orthodox, returned to sublimate +the poetry of the radicals; and with that achievement the sentimental +movement reached its climax. + +Burns died in 1796; Blake, lost in a realm of symbolism, became +unintelligible; and temporarily sentimentalism suffered a reaction. The +French Revolution, with its Reign of Terror, and the rise of a military +autocrat, though supported, even after Great Britain had taken up arms +against Napoleon, by some "friends of humanity" who placed universal +brotherhood above patriotism, seemed to the general public to demonstrate +that the sentimental theories and hopes were untrue to life and led to +results directly contrary to those predicted. Once again, in Canning's +caustic satires of _The Anti-Jacobin_, conservatism raised its voice. But +by this time sentimentalism was too fully developed and widely spread to +be more than checked. Under the new leadership of Wordsworth, Coleridge, +and Southey, the movement, chastened and modified by experience, resumed +its progress; and the fame of its new leaders presently dimmed the memory +of those pioneers who in the eighteenth century had undermined the +foundations of orthodoxy, slowly upbuilt a new world of thought, +gradually fashioned a poetic style more suited to their sentiments than +the classical, and thus helped to plunge the modern world into that +struggle which, in life and in literature, rages about us still. + +ERNEST BERNBAUM + +[Footnote 1: In this edition, the poems of Burns, unlike those of the +other poets, are printed not in the order of their publication but as +nearly as ascertainable in that of their composition.] + +[Footnote 2: _The French Revolution_ was suppressed at the time, and +has been recovered only in our own day by Dr. John Sampson, who first +published it in the admirable Clarendon Press edition of Blake.] + + + + +ENGLISH POETS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY + + + + +JOHN POMFRET + + +THE CHOICE + + _If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, + That I might choose my method how to live; + And all those hours propitious fate should lend, + In blissful ease and satisfaction spend._ + +I. THE GENTLEMAN'S RETIREMENT + + Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, + Built uniform, not little, nor too great: + Better, if on a rising ground it stood; + Fields on this side, on that a neighbouring wood. + It should within no other things contain, + But what are useful, necessary, plain: + Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, + The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. + A little garden, grateful to the eye; + And a cool rivulet run murmuring by, + On whose delicious banks a stately row + Of shady limes, or sycamores, should grow. + At th' end of which a silent study placed, + Should with the noblest authors there be graced: + Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines + Immortal wit, and solid learning, shines; + Sharp Juvenal and amorous Ovid too, + Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew: + He that with judgment reads the charming lines, + In which strong art with stronger nature joins, + Must grant his fancy does the best excel; + His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well: + With all those moderns, men of steady sense, + Esteemed for learning, and for eloquence. + In some of these, as fancy should advise, + I'd always take my morning exercise: + For sure no minutes bring us more content, + Than those in pleasing useful studies spent. + +II. HIS FORTUNE AND CHARITY + + I'd have a clear and competent estate, + That I might live genteelly, but not great: + As much as I could moderately spend; + A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend. + Nor should the sons of poverty repine + At fortune's frown, for they should taste of mine; + And all that objects of true pity were, + Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; + For what our Maker has too largely given, + Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven. + A frugal plenty should my table spread. + With healthy, not luxurious, dishes fed; + Enough to satisfy, and something more, + To feed the stranger, and the neighb'ring poor. + Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food + Creates diseases, and inflames the blood. + But what's sufficient to make nature strong, + And the bright lamp of life continue long, + I'd freely take, and as I did possess, + The bounteous Author of my plenty bless. + +III. HIS HOSPITALITY AND TEMPERANCE + + I'd have a little cellar, cool and neat, + With humming ale and virgin wine replete. + Wine whets the wit, improves its native force, + And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse; + By making all our spirits debonair, + Throws off the lees and sediment of care. + But as the greatest blessing Heaven lends + May be debauched, and serve ignoble ends; + So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice + Does many mischievous effects produce. + My house should no such rude disorders know, + As from high drinking consequently flow; + Nor would I use what was so kindly given, + To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven. + If any neighbour came, he should be free, + Used with respect, and not uneasy be, + In my retreat, or to himself or me. + What freedom, prudence, and right reason give, + All men may, with impunity, receive: + But the least swerving from their rules too much, + And what's forbidden us, 'tis death to touch. + +IV. HIS COMPANY + + That life may be more comfortable yet, + And all my joys refined, sincere, and great; + I'd choose two friends, whose company would be + A great advance to my felicity: + Well-born, of humours suited to my own, + Discreet, that men as well as books have known; + Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free + From loose behaviour or formality; + Airy and prudent, merry but not light; + Quick in discerning; and in judging, right; + They should be secret, faithful to their trust, + In reasoning cool, strong, temperate, and just; + Obliging, open, without huffing, brave; + Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave; + Close in dispute, but not tenacious; tried + By solemn reason, and let that decide; + Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate; + Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state; + Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spite, + Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight; + Loyal and pious, friends to Caesar; true + As dying martyrs to their Makers too. + In their society I could not miss + A permanent, sincere, substantial bliss. + +V. HIS LADY AND CONVERSE + + Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd choose + (For who would so much satisfaction lose + As witty nymphs in conversation give?) + Near some obliging modest fair to live: + For there's that sweetness in a female mind, + Which in a man's we cannot [hope to] find; + That, by a secret but a powerful art, + Winds up the spring of life, and does impart + Fresh, vital heat to the transported heart. + + I'd have her reason all her passions sway; + Easy in company, in private gay; + Coy to a fop, to the deserving free; + Still constant to herself, and just to me. + She should a soul have for great actions fit; + Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit; + Courage to look bold danger in the face, + Not fear, but only to be proud or base; + Quick to advise, by an emergence pressed, + To give good counsel, or to take the best. + + I'd have th' expressions of her thoughts be such, + She might not seem reserved, nor talk too much: + That shows a want of judgment and of sense; + More than enough is but impertinence. + Her conduct regular, her mirth refined; + Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind; + Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride; + In all the methods of deceit untried; + So faithful to her friend, and good to all, + No censure might upon her actions fall: + Then would e'en envy be compelled to say + She goes the least of womankind astray. + + To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire; + Her conversation would new joys inspire; + Give life an edge so keen, no surly care + Would venture to assault my soul, or dare + Near my retreat to hide one secret snare. + But so divine, so noble a repast + I'd seldom, and with moderation, taste: + For highest cordials all their virtue lose, + By a too frequent and too bold an use; + And what would cheer the spirits in distress, + Ruins our health when taken to excess. + +VI. HIS PEACEABLE LIFE + + I'd be concerned in no litigious jar; + Beloved by all, not vainly popular. + Whate'er assistance I had power to bring + T' oblige my company, or to serve my king, + Whene'er they called, I'd readily afford, + My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword. + Lawsuits I'd shun, with as much studious care, + As I would dens where hungry lions are; + And rather put up injuries, than be + A plague to him who'd be a plague to me. + I value quiet at a price too great + To give for my revenge so dear a rate: + For what do we by all our bustle gain, + But counterfeit delight for real pain? + +VII. HIS HAPPY DEATH + + If Heaven a date of many years would give, + Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live. + And as I near approach[ed] the verge of life, + Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) + Should take upon him all my worldly care + While I did for a better state prepare. + Then I'd not be with any trouble vexed, + Nor have the evening of my days perplexed; + But by a silent and a peaceful death, + Without a sigh, resign my aged breath. + And, when committed to the dust, I'd have + Few tears, but friendly, dropped into my grave; + Then would my exit so propitious be, + All men would wish to live and die like me. + + + + + DANIEL DEFOE + + + FROM THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN + + The Romans first with Julius Caesar came, + Including all the nations of that name, + Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards, and, by computation, + Auxiliaries or slaves of every nation. + With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sueno came; + In search of plunder, not in search of fame. + Scots, Picts, and Irish from th' Hibernian shore, + And conquering William brought the Normans o'er. + All these their barbarous offspring left behind, + The dregs of armies, they of all mankind; + Blended with Britons, who before, were here. + Of whom the Welsh ha' blessed the character. + From this amphibious ill-born mob began + That vain, ill-natured thing, an Englishman. + + * * * * * + + And lest by length of time it be pretended + The climate may this modern breed ha' mended, + Wise Providence, to keep us where we are, + Mixes us daily with exceeding care. + We have been Europe's sink, the Jakes where she + Voids all her offal outcast progeny. + From our fifth Henry's time, the strolling bands + Of banished fugitives from neighbouring lands + Have here a certain sanctuary found: + Th' eternal refuge of the vagabond, + Where, in but half a common age of time, + Borrowing new blood and mariners from the clime, + Proudly they learn all mankind to contemn; + And all their race are true-born Englishmen. + Dutch, Walloons, Flemings, Irishmen, and Scots, + Vaudois, and Valtelins, and Huguenots, + In good Queen Bess's charitable reign, + Supplied us with three hundred thousand men. + Religion--God, we thank thee!--sent them hither, + Priests, Protestants, the Devil and all together: + + Of all professions and of every trade, + All that were persecuted or afraid; + Whether for debt or other crimes they fled, + David at Hachilah was still their head. + The offspring of this miscellaneous crowd, + Had not their new plantations long enjoyed, + But they grew Englishmen, and raised their votes + At foreign shoals for interloping Scots. + The royal branch from Pictland did succeed, + With troops of Scots and Scabs from North-by-Tweed. + The seven first years of his pacific reign + Made him and half his nation Englishmen. + Scots from the northern frozen banks of Tay, + With packs and plods came whigging all away; + Thick as the locusts which in Egypt swarmed, + With pride and hungry hopes completely armed; + With native truth, diseases, and no money, + Plundered our Canaan of the milk and honey. + Here they grew quickly lords and gentlemen,-- + And all their race are true-born Englishmen. + + * * * * * + + The wonder which remains is at our pride, + To value that which all wise men deride. + For Englishmen to boast of generation + Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation. + A true-born Englishman's a contradiction, + In speech an irony, in fact a fiction; + A banter made to be a test of fools, + Which those that use it justly ridicules; + A metaphor invented to express + A man akin to all the universe. + + + + FROM A HYMN TO THE PILLORY + + Hail hieroglyphic state-machine, + Contrived to punish fancy in! + Men that are men in thee can feel no pain, + And all thy insignificants disdain. + Contempt, that false new word for shame, + Is, without crime, an empty name, + A shadow to amuse mankind, + But never frights the wise or well-fixed mind: + Virtue despises human scorn, + And scandals innocence adorn. + + * * * * * + + Sometimes, the air of scandal to maintain, + Villains look from thy lofty loops in vain; + But who can judge of crimes by punishment + Where parties rule and L[ord]s subservient? + Justice with, change of interest learns to bow, + And what was merit once is murder now: + Actions receive their tincture from the times, + And as they change, are virtues made or crimes. + Thou art the state-trap of the law, + But neither can keep knaves nor honest men in awe; + These are too hardened in offence, + And those upheld by innocence. + + * * * * * + + Thou art no shame to truth and honesty, + Nor is the character of such defaced by thee + Who suffer by oppressive injury. + Shame, like the exhalations of the sun, + Falls back where first the motion was begun; + And he who for no crime shall on thy brows appear + Bears less reproach than they who placed him there. + + But if contempt is on thy face entailed, + Disgrace itself shall be ashamed; + Scandal shall blush that it has not prevailed + To blast the man it has defamed. + Let all that merit equal punishment + Stand there with him, and we are all content. + + * * * * * + + Thou bugbear of the law, stand up and speak, + Thy long misconstrued silence break; + Tell us who 'tis upon thy ridge stands there, + So full of fault and yet so void of fear; + And from the paper in his hat, + Let all mankind be told for what. + Tell them it was because he was too bold, + And told those truths which should not ha' been told, + + Extol the justice of the land, + Who punish what they will not understand. + Tell them he stands exalted there + For speaking what we would not hear; + And yet he might have been secure + Had he said less or would he ha' said more. + Tell them that this is his reward + And worse is yet for him prepared, + Because his foolish virtue was so nice + As not to sell his friends, according to his friends' advice. + + And thus he's an example made, + To make men of their honesty afraid, + That for the time to come they may + More willingly their friends betray; + Tell them the m[en] who placed him here + Are sc[anda]ls to the times; + But at a loss to find his guilt, + They can't commit his crimes. + + + + + JOSEPH ADDISON + + + FROM THE CAMPAIGN + + Behold in awful march and dread array + The long-extended squadrons shape their way! + Death, in approaching terrible, imparts + An anxious horror to the bravest hearts; + Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, + And thirst of glory quells the love of life. + No vulgar fears can British minds control: + Heat of revenge and noble pride of soul + O'er look the foe, advantaged by his post, + Lessen his numbers, and contract his host; + Though fens and floods possessed the middle space, + That unprovoked they would have feared to pass, + Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands + When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands. + + But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find + To sing the furious troops in battle joined! + Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound + The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, + The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, + And all the thunder of the battle rise! + 'Twas then great Malborough's mighty soul was proved, + That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, + Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, + Examined all the dreadful scenes of death surveyed, + To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, + Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, + And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. + So when an angel by divine command + With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, + Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed, + Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, + And, pleases th' Almighty's orders to perform, + Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. + + + [DIVINE ODE] + + I + + 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. + + II + + 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. + + III + + 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: + Forever singing as they shine, + 'The hand that made us is divine.' + + + + + MATTHEW PRIOR + + + TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD THE AUTHOR 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 fires, and look + The power they have to be obeyed. + + 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 silk-worms 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 lines 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 ordained (would fate but mend it!) + That I shall be past making love + When she begins to comprehend it. + + + TO A LADY + + SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND LEAVING ME IN THE + ARGUMENT + + Spare, generous victor, spare the slave + Who did unequal war pursue, + That more than triumph he might have + In being overcome by you. + + In the dispute whate'er I said, + My heart was by my tongue belied, + And in my looks you might have read + How much I argued on your side. + + You, far from danger as from fear, + Might have sustained an open fight: + For seldom your opinions err; + Your eyes are always in the right. + + Why, fair one, would you not rely + On reason's force with beauty's joined? + Could I their prevalence deny, + I must at once be deaf and blind. + + Alas! not hoping to subdue, + I only to the fight aspired; + To keep the beauteous foe in view + Was all the glory I desired. + + But she, howe'er of victory sure, + Contemns the wreath too long delayed, + And, armed with more immediate power, + Calls cruel silence to her aid. + + Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: + She drops her arms, to gain the field; + Secures her conquest by her flight, + And triumphs when she seems to yield. + + So when the Parthian turned his steed + And from the hostile camp withdrew, + With cruel skill the backward reed + He sent, and as he fled he slew. + + + [THE DYING HADRIAN TO HIS SOUL] + + Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing, + Must we no longer live together? + And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, + To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither? + Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly, + Lies all neglected, all forgot: + And pensive, wavering, melancholy, + Thou dread'st and hop'st, thou know'st not what. + + + A BETTER ANSWER + + Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! + Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled! + Prithee quit this caprice, and (as old Falstaff says) + Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. + + How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy + The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? + Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy; + More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. + + To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, + Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong; + You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: + Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? + + What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows + The difference there is betwixt nature and art: + I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose; + And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart. + + The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun, + How after his journeys he sets up his rest; + If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, + At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast. + + So when I am wearied with wandering all day, + To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: + No matter what beauties I saw in my way; + They were but my visits, but thou art my home. + + Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, + And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; + For thou art a girl as much brighter than her + As he was a poet sublimer than me. + + + + + BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE + + + FROM THE GRUMBLING HIVE; OR, KNAVES TURNED HONEST + + A spacious hive, well stocked with bees, + That lived in luxury and ease; + And yet as famed for laws and arms, + As yielding large and early swarms; + Was counted the great nursery + Of sciences and industry. + + * * * * * + + Vast numbers thronged the fruitful hive; + Yet those vast numbers made 'em thrive; + Millions endeavouring to supply + Each others lust and vanity, + While other millions were employed + To see their handiworks destroyed; + They furnished half the universe, + Yet had more work than labourers. + Some with vast stocks, and little pains, + Jumped into business of great gains; + And some were damned to scythes and spades, + And all those hard laborious trades + Where willing wretches daily sweat + And wear out strength and limbs, to eat; + While others followed mysteries + To which few folks, bind prentices, + That want no stock but that of brass, + And may set up without a cross,-- + As sharpers, parasites, pimps, players, + Pickpockets, coiners, quacks, soothsayers, + And all those that in enmity + With downright working, cunningly + Convert to their own use the labour + Of their good-natured heedless neighbour. + These were called knaves; but bar the name, + The grave industrious were the same: + All trades and places knew some cheat, + No calling was without deceit. + + * * * * * + + Thus every part was full of vice, + Yet the whole mass a paradise: + Flattered in peace, and feared in wars, + They were th' esteem of foreigners, + And lavish of their wealth and lives, + The balance of all other hives. + Such were the blessings of that state; + Their crimes conspired to make them great. + + * * * * * + + The root of evil, avarice, + That damned, ill-natured, baneful vice, + Was slave to prodigality, + That noble sin; whilst luxury + Employed a million of the poor, + And odious pride a million more; + Envy itself, and vanity, + Were ministers of industry; + Their darling folly--fickleness + In diet, furniture, and dress-- + That strange, ridiculous vice, was made + The very wheel that turned the trade. + Their laws and clothes were equally + Objects of mutability; + For what was well done for a time, + In half a year became a crime. + + * * * * * + + How vain, is mortal happiness! + Had they but known the bounds of bliss, + And that perfection here below + Is more than gods can well bestow, + The grumbling brutes had been content + With ministers and government. + But they, at every ill success, + Like creatures lost without redress, + Cursed politicians, armies, fleets; + While every one cried, 'Damn the cheats!' + And would, though conscious of his own, + In others barbarously bear none. + One that had got a princely store + By cheating master, king, and poor, + Dared cry aloud, 'The land must sink + For all its fraud'; and whom d'ye think + The sermonizing rascal chid? + A glover that sold lamb for kid! + The least thing was not done amiss, + Or crossed the public business, + But all the rogues cried brazenly, + 'Good Gods, had we but honesty!' + Mercury smiled at th' impudence, + And others called it want of sense, + Always to rail at what they loved: + But Jove, with indignation moved, + At last in anger swore he'd rid + The bawling hive of fraud; and did. + The very moment it departs, + And honesty fills all their hearts, + There shews 'em, like th' instructive tree, + Those crimes which they're ashamed to see, + Which now in silence they confess + By blushing at their ugliness; + Like children that would hide their faults + And by their colour own their thoughts, + Imagining when they're looked upon, + That others see what they have done. + But, O ye Gods! what consternation! + How vast and sudden was th' alternation! + In half an hour, the nation round, + Meat fell a penny in the pound. + + * * * * * + + Now mind the glorious hive, and see + How honesty and trade agree. + The show is gone; it thins apace, + And looks with quite another face. + For 'twas not only that they went + By whom vast sums were yearly spent; + But multitudes that lived on them, + Were daily forced to do the same. + In vain to other trades they'd fly; + All were o'erstocked accordingly. + + * * * * * + + As pride and luxury decrease, + So by degrees they leave the seas. + Not merchants now, but companies, + Remove whole manufactories. + All arts and crafts neglected lie: + Content, the bane of industry, + Makes 'em admire their homely store, + And neither seek nor covet more. + So few in the vast hive remain, + The hundredth part they can't maintain + Against th' insults of numerous foes, + Whom yet they valiantly oppose, + Till some well-fenced retreat is found, + And here they die or stand their ground. + No hireling in their army's known; + But bravely fighting for their own + Their courage and integrity + At last were crowned with victory. + They triumphed not without their cost, + For many thousand bees were lost. + Hardened with toil and exercise, + They counted ease itself a vice; + Which so improved their temperance + That, to avoid extravagance, + They flew into a hollow tree, + Blessed with content and honesty. + + + THE MORAL: + + Then leave complaints: fools only strive + To make a great an honest hive. + T' enjoy the world's conveniences, + Be famed in war, yet live in ease, + Without great vices, is a vain + Utopia seated in the brain. + + * * * * * + + + + + ISAAC WATTS + + + THE HAZARD OF LOVING THE CREATURES + + Where'er my flattering passions rove, + I find a lurking snare; + 'Tis dangerous to let loose our love + Beneath th' eternal fair. + + Souls whom the tie of friendship binds, + And things that share our blood, + Seize a large portion of our minds, + And leave the less for God. + + Nature has soft but powerful bands, + And reason she controls; + While children with their little hands + Hang closest to our souls. + + Thoughtless they act th' old Serpent's part; + What tempting things they be! + Lord, how they twine about our heart, + And draw it off from Thee! + + Our hasty wills rush blindly on + Where rising passion rolls, + And thus we make our fetters strong + To bind our slavish souls. + + Dear Sovereign, break these fetters off. + And set our spirits free; + God in Himself is bliss enough; + For we have all in Thee. + + + THE DAY OF JUDGMENT + + When the fierce north-wind with his airy forces, + Bears 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. + See 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 through 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 arise to glory, + While our hosannas all along the passage + Shout the Redeemer. + + O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST + + O God, our help in ages past, + Our hope for years for to come, + Our shelter from the stormy blast, + And our eternal home: + + Under the shadow of Thy throne, + Thy saints have dwelt secure; + Sufficient is Thine arm alone, + And our defense is sure. + + Before the hills in order stood, + Or earth received her frame, + From everlasting Thou art God, + To endless years the same. + + A thousand ages in Thy sight + Are like an evening gone; + Short as the watch that ends the night + Before the rising sun. + + Time, like an ever-rolling stream, + Bears all its sons away; + They fly forgotten, as a dream + Dies at the opening day. + + O God, our help in ages past; + Our hope for years to come; + Be thou our guard while troubles last, + And our eternal home! + + + 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 hushed the holy child. + + Lo, He slumbers in His manger, + Where the hornèd oxen fed; + Peace, my darling: here's no danger, + Here's no ox a-near 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 forever near Him, + See His face, and sing His praise! + + + + + ALEXANDER POPE + + + FROM AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM + + 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill + Appear in writing or in judging ill; + But, of the two, less dangerous is th' offense + To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. + Some few in that, but numbers err in this, + Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; + A fool might once himself alone expose, + Now one in verse makes many more in prose. + + 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none + Go just alike, yet each believes his own. + In poets as true genius is but rare, + True taste as seldom is the critic's share; + Both must alike from heaven derive their light, + These born to judge, as well as those to write. + Let such teach others who themselves excel, + And censure freely who have written well. + Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, + But are not critics to their judgment too? + + * * * * * + + But you who seek to give and merit fame + And justly bear a critic's noble name, + Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, + How far your genius, taste, and learning go; + Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, + And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. + + * * * * * + + First follow Nature, and your judgment frame + By her just standard, which is still the same: + Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, + One clear, unchanged, and universal light, + Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, + At once the source, and end, and test of art. + Art from that fund each just supply provides, + Works without show, and without pomp presides: + In some fair body thus th' informing soul + With spirit feeds, with vigour fills the whole. + Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains; + Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. + Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, + Want as much more, to turn it to its use; + For wit and judgment often are at strife, + Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. + 'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's steed; + Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; + The wingèd courser, like a generous horse, + Shows most true mettle when you check his course. + + Those rules of old discovered, not devised, + Are Nature still, but Nature methodized; + Nature, like liberty, is but restrained + By the same laws which first herself ordained. + + You, then, whose judgment the right course would steer, + Know well each ancient's proper character; + His fable, subject, scope in every page; + Religion, country, genius of his age: + Without all these at once before your eyes, + Cavil you may, but never criticise, + Be Homer's works your study and delight, + Read them by day, and meditate by night; + Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, + And trace the Muses upward to their spring. + Still with itself compared, his text peruse; + And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. + + When first young Maro in his boundless mind + A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed, + Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law, + And but from nature's fountains scorned to draw: + But when t' examine every part he came, + Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. + Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design; + And rules as strict his laboured work confine + As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. + Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem; + To copy nature is to copy them. + + Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, + For there's a happiness as well as care. + Music resembles poetry, in each + Are nameless graces which no methods teach, + And which a master-hand alone can reach. + If, where the rules not far enough extend, + (Since rules were made but to promote their end) + Some lucky license answer to the full + Th' intent proposed, that license is a rule. + Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, + May boldly deviate from the common track; + From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, + And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, + Which without passing through the judgment, gains + The heart, and all its end at once attains. + In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, + Which out of nature's common order rise, + The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. + Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, + And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. + But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade, + (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) + Moderns, beware! or if you must offend + Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end; + Let it be seldom and compelled by need; + And have, at least, their precedent to plead. + The critic else proceeds without remorse, + Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. + + I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts + Those freer beauties, e'en in them, seem faults. + Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, + Considered singly, or beheld too near, + Which, but proportioned to their light or place, + Due distance reconciles to form and grace. + A prudent chief not always must display + His powers in equal ranks, and fair array, + But with th' occasion and the place comply, + Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. + Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, + Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. + + * * * * * + + A little learning is a dangerous thing; + Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: + There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, + And drinking largely sobers us again. + Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, + In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, + While from the bounded level of our mind, + Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; + But more advanced, behold with strange surprise + New distant scenes of endless science rise! + So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, + Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, + Th' eternal snows appear already past, + And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; + But, those attained, we tremble to survey + The growing labours of the lengthened way, + Th' increasing prospects tire our wandering eyes, + Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! + + A perfect judge will read each work of wit + With the same spirit that its author writ: + Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find + Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; + Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, + The gen'rous pleasure to be charmed with wit. + But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow, + Correctly cold, and regularly low, + That shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep; + We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep. + In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts + Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts: + 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, + But the joint force and full result of all. + Thus when we view some well-proportioned dome, + (The world's just wonder, and e'en thine, O Rome!) + So single parts unequally surprise, + All comes united to th' admiring eyes; + No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; + The whole at once is bold, and regular. + + Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, + Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. + In every work regard the writer's end, + Since none can compass more than they intend; + And if the means be just, the conduct true, + Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due; + As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, + T' avoid great errors, must the less commit: + Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, + For not to know some trifles, is a praise. + Most critics, fond of some subservient art, + Still make the whole depend upon a part: + They talk of principles, but notions prize, + And all to one loved folly sacrifice. + + Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, + A certain bard encountering on the way, + Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, + As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; + Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, + Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. + Our author, happy in a judge so nice, + Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice; + Made him observe the subject, and the plot, + The manners, passions, unities, what not? + All which, exact to rule, were brought about, + Were but a combat in the lists left out. + 'What! leave the combat out?' exclaims the knight; + Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. + 'Not so, by Heaven' (he answers in a rage), + 'Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage.' + So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain. + 'Then build a new, or act it in a plain.' + + Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice, + Curious not knowing, not exact but nice, + Form short ideas; and offend in arts + (As most in manners) by a love to parts. + + Some to conceit alone their taste confine, + And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at every line; + Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit; + One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. + Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace + The naked nature and the living grace, + With gold and jewels cover every part, + And hide with ornaments their want of art. + True wit is nature to advantage dressed, + What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed; + Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, + That gives us back the image of our mind. + As shades more sweetly recommend the light, + So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. + For works may have more wit than does 'em good, + As bodies perish through excess of blood. + + Others for language all their care express, + And value books, as women, men, for dress: + Their praise is still,--the style is excellent; + The sense, they humbly take upon content. + Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, + Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. + False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, + Its gaudy colours spreads on every place; + The face of nature we no more survey, + All glares alike, without distinction gay: + But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, + Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon, + It gilds all objects, but it alters none. + Expression is the dress of thought, and still + Appears more decent, as more suitable; + A vile conceit in pompous words expressed, + Is like a clown in regal purple dressed: + For different styles with different subjects sort, + As several garbs with country, town, and court. + Some by old words to fame have made pretence, + Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; + Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style, + Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learnèd smile. + Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, + These sparks with awkward vanity display + What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; + And but so mimic ancient wits at best, + As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dressed. + In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; + Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: + Be not the first by whom the new are tried, + Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. + + But most by numbers judge a poet's song; + And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: + In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, + Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; + Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, + Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, + Not for the doctrine, but the music there. + These equal syllables alone require, + Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; + While expletives their feeble aid do join, + And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: + While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, + With sure returns of still expected rhymes; + Where'er you find 'the cooling western breeze,' + In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees;' + If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,' + The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 'sleep': + Then, at the last and only couplet fraught + With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, + A needless Alexandrine ends the song, + That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. + Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know + What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; + And praise the easy vigour of a line, + Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. + True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. + As those move easiest who have learned to dance. + 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, + The sound must seem an echo to the sense. + Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, + And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; + But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, + The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. + When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, + The line too labours, and the words move slow; + Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. + Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, + And bid alternate passions fall and rise! + While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove + Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; + Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, + Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: + Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, + And the world's victor stood subdued by sound! + The power of music all our hearts allow, + And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. + + Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such, + Who still are pleased too little or too much. + At every trifle scorn to take offence, + That always shows great pride, or little sense; + Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, + Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. + Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; + For fools admire, but men of sense approve: + As things seem large which we through mists descry, + Dulness is ever apt to magnify. + + Some foreign writers, some our own despise; + The ancients only, or the moderns prize. + Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied + To one small sect, and all are damned beside. + Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, + And force that sun but on a part to shine, + Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, + But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; + Which from the first has shone on ages past, + Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; + Though each may feel increases and decays, + And see now clearer and now darker days. + Regard not, then, if wit be old or new, + But blame the false, and value still the true. + + Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, + But catch the spreading notion of the town; + They reason and conclude by precedent, + And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. + Some judge of author's names, not works, and then + Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. + Of all this servile herd, the worst is he + That in proud dulness joins with Quality. + A constant critic at the great man's board, + To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord. + What woful stuff this madrigal would be, + In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me? + But let a Lord once own the happy lines, + How the wit brightens! how the style refines! + Before his sacred name flies every fault, + And each exalted stanza teems with thought! + + * * * * * + + Learn then what morals critics ought to show, + For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know, + 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join; + In all you speak, let truth and candour shine: + That not alone what to your sense is due + All may allow; but seek your friendship too. + + Be silent always when you doubt your sense; + And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: + Some positive, persisting fops we know, + Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; + But you, with pleasure own your errors past, + And make each day a critic on the last. + + 'Tis not enough, your counsel still be true; + Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; + Men must be taught as if you taught them not, + And things unknown proposed as things forgot. + Without good breeding, truth is disapproved; + That only makes superior sense beloved. + + * * * * * + + The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, + With loads of learnèd lumber in his head, + With his own tongue still edifies his ears, + And always listening to himself appears. + All books he reads, and all he reads assails, + From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. + With him, most authors steal their works, or buy; + Garth did not write his own Dispensary. + Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, + Nay, showed his faults--but when would poets mend? + No place so sacred from such fops is barred, + Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: + Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead: + For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. + Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, + It still looks home, and short excursions makes; + But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, + And never shocked, and never turned aside, + Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide. + + But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, + Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? + Unbiassed, or by favour, or by spite; + Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right; + Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere, + Modestly bold, and humanly severe: + Who to a friend his faults can freely show, + And gladly praise the merit of a foe? + Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined; + A knowledge both of books and human kind: + Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride; + And love to praise, with reason on his side? + + + THE RAPE OF THE LOCK + + AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM + + CANTO II + + Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, + The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, + Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams + Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. + Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around her shone, + But every eye was fixed on her alone. + On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, + Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. + Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, + Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; + Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; + Oft she rejects, but never once offends. + Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, + And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. + Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, + Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide; + If to her share some female errors fall, + Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. + + This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, + Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind + In equal curls, and well conspired to deck + With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. + Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, + And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. + With hairy springes, we the birds betray, + Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, + Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, + And beauty draws us with a single hair. + + Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired; + He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. + Resolved to win, he meditates the way, + By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; + For when success a lover's toil attends, + Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. + + For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored + Propitious Heaven, and every power adored, + But chiefly Love; to Love an altar built, + Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. + There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, + And all the trophies of his former loves; + With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre, + And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. + Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes + Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. + The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer; + The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. + + But now secure the painted vessel glides, + The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides; + While melting music steals upon the sky, + And softened sounds along the waters die; + Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, + Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. + All but the sylph--with careful thoughts oppressed, + Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. + He summons straight his denizens of air; + The lucid squadrons around the sails repair; + Soft o'er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe, + That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. + Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, + Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; + Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, + Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. + Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, + Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, + Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, + Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, + While every beam new transient colours flings, + Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. + Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, + Superior by the head, was Ariel placed; + His purple pinions opening to the sun, + He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: + + 'Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear! + Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear! + Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assigned + By laws eternal to th' aërial kind. + Some in the fields of purest aether play, + And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. + Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, + Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. + Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale light + Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, + Or suck the mists in grosser air below, + Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, + Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, + Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain; + Others on earth o'er human race preside, + Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: + Of these the chief the care of nations own, + And guard with arms divine the British throne. + + 'Our humbler province is to tend the fair, + Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care; + To save the powder from too rude a gale, + Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale; + To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers; + To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, + A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, + Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; + Nay, oft in dreams, invention we bestow, + To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. + + 'This day, black omens threat the brightest fair + That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; + Some dire disaster, or by force, or sleight; + But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in night. + Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, + Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; + Or stain her honour, or her new brocade; + Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; + Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; + Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must fall. + Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair; + The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; + The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; + And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; + Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock; + Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. + To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, + We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: + Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail, + Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale; + Form a strong line about the silver bound, + And guard the wide circumference around. + + 'Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, + His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, + Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, + Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; + Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, + Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye; + Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, + While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; + Or alum styptics with contracting power + Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled flower; + Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel + The giddy motion of the whirling mill, + In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, + And tremble at the sea that froths below!' + + He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend; + Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; + Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; + Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; + With beating hearts the dire event they wait, + Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. + + CANTO III + + Close by those meads, forever crowned with flowers, + Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, + There stands a structure of majestic frame, + Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name. + Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom + Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; + Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, + Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea. + + Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, + To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; + In various talk th' instructive hours they passed, + Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; + One speaks the glory of the British Queen, + And one describes a charming Indian screen; + A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; + At every word a reputation dies. + Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, + With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. + Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, + The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; + The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, + And wretches hang that jurymen may dine; + The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace, + And the long labours of the toilet cease. + Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, + Burns to encounter two adventurous knights, + At ombre singly to decide their doom; + And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. + Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, + Each band the number of the sacred nine. + Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aërial guard + Descend, and sit on each important card: + First, Ariel perched upon a Matadore, + Then each, according to the rank they bore; + For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, + Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. + + Behold, four kings in majesty revered, + With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; + And four fair queens whose hands sustain a flower, + Th' expressive emblem of their softer power; + Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, + Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand; + And parti-coloured troops, a shining train, + Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. + + The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: + Let spades be trumps! she said, and trumps they were. + + Now moved to war her sable Matadores, + In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. + Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! + Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. + As many more Manillio forced to yield + And marched a victor from the verdant field. + Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard + Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. + With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, + The hoary Majesty of Spades appears, + Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed, + The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed. + The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, + Proves the just victim of his royal rage. + Even mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew, + And mowed down armies in the fights of Loo, + Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, + Falls undistinguished by the victor spade! + + Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; + Now to the baron fate inclines the field. + His warlike Amazon her host invades, + The imperial consort of the crown of spades; + The club's black tyrant first her victim died, + Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride. + What boots the regal circle on his head, + His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; + That long behind he trails his pompous robe, + And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? + + The baron now his diamonds pours apace; + Th' embroidered king who shows but half his face, + And his refulgent queen, with powers combined, + Of broken troops an easy conquest find. + Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, + With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. + Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, + Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, + With like confusion different nations fly, + Of various habit, and of various dye, + The pierced battalions disunited fall, + In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. + + The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, + And wins (oh shameful chance!) the queen of hearts. + At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, + A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; + She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, + Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. + And now (as oft in some distempered state) + On one nice trick depends the general fate. + An ace of hearts steps forth; the king unseen + Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive queen: + He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, + And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. + The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; + The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. + + Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, + Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. + Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away, + And cursed forever this victorious day. + + For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned, + The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; + On shining altars of Japan they raise + The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze; + From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, + While China's earth receives the smoking tide: + At once they gratify their scent and taste, + And frequent cups, prolong the rich repast. + Straight hover round the fair her airy band; + Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned, + Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, + Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. + Coffee (which makes the politician wise, + And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) + Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain + New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. + Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, + Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! + Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, + She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! + + But when to mischief mortals bend their will, + How soon they find fit instruments of ill! + Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace + A two-edged weapon from her shining case: + So ladies in romance assist their knight, + Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. + He takes the gift with reverence, and extends + The little engine on his fingers' ends; + This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, + As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. + Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, + A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; + And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear; + Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near. + Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought + The close recesses of the virgin's thought; + As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, + He watched th' ideas rising in her mind, + Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, + An earthly lover lurking at her heart. + Amazed, confused, he found his power expired, + Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. + + The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, + T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. + E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, + A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; + Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain + (But airy substance soon unites again). + The meeting points the sacred hair dissever + From the fair head, forever, and forever! + + Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, + And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. + Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast, + When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their last; + Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high, + In glittering dust and painted fragments lie! + + 'Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,' + The victor cried; 'the glorious prize is mine! + While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, + Or in a coach and six the British fair, + As long as Atalantis shall be read, + Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, + While visits shall be paid on solemn days, + When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze, + While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, + So long my honour, name, and praise shall live! + What Time would spare, from steel receives its date, + And monuments, like men, submit to fate! + Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, + And strike to dust th' imperial towers of Troy; + Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, + And hew triumphal arches to the ground. + What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel, + The conquering force of unresisted steel?' + + + FROM TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD + + [THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE] + + 'How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, + And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, + Attaint the lustre of my former name, + Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? + My early youth was bred to martial pains, + My soul impels me to th' embattled plains: + Let me be foremost to defend the throne, + And guard my father's glories and my own. + Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates, + (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) + The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, + And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. + And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, + My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, + Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore, + Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, + As thine, Andromache! Thy griefs I dread: + I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, + In Argive looms our battles to design, + And woes of which so large a part was thine! + To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring + The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring! + There, while you groan beneath the load of life, + They cry, "Behold the mighty Hector's wife!" + Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, + Embitters all thy woes by naming me. + The thoughts of glory past and present shame, + A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name! + May I lie cold before that dreadful day, + Pressed with a load of monumental clay! + Thy Hector, wrapped, in everlasting sleep, + Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.' + + Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy + Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. + The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, + Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. + With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, + And Hector hasted to relieve his child; + The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, + And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. + Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, + Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer: + + 'O thou! whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, + And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! + Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, + To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, + Against his country's foes the war to wage, + And rise the Hector of the future age! + So when, triumphant from successful toils, + Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, + Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, + And say, "This chief transcends his father's fame": + While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, + His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy.' + + He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, + Restored the pleasing burthen to her arms; + Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, + Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed. + The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, + She mingled with the smile a tender tear. + The softened chief with kind compassion viewed, + And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued: + + 'Andromache! my soul's far better part, + Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? + No hostile hand can antedate my doom, + Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. + Fixed is the term to all the race of earth, + And such the hard condition of our birth. + No force can then resist, no flight can save: + All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. + No more--but hasten to thy tasks at home, + There guide the spindle, and direct the loom; + Me glory summons to the martial scene, + The field of combat is the sphere for men. + Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, + The first in danger as the first in fame.' + + + From AN ESSAY ON MAN + + OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN, WITH RESPECT TO THE UNIVERSE + + Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things + To low ambition, and the pride of kings. + Let us (since life can little more supply + Than just to look about us, and to die) + Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; + A mighty maze! but not without a plan; + A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot; + Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. + Together let us beat this ample field, + Try what the open, what the covert yield; + The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore + Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; + Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, + And catch the manners living as they rise; + Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, + But vindicate the ways of God to man. + + I. + + Say first, of God above, or man below, + What can we reason, but from what we know? + Of man, what see we but his station here + From which to reason or to which refer? + Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known, + 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. + He, who through vast immensity can pierce, + See worlds on worlds compose one universe, + Observe how system into system runs. + What other planets circle other suns, + What varied being peoples every star, + May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. + But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, + The strong connections, nice dependencies, + Gradations just, has thy pervading soul + Looked through? or can a part contain the whole? + + Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, + And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee? + + II. + + Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find, + Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind? + First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, + Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less? + Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made + Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? + Or ask of yonder argent fields above, + Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. + + Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed + That wisdom infinite must form the best, + Where all must full or not coherent be, + And all that rises, rise in due degree; + Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain, + There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man: + And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) + Is only this, if God has placed him wrong? + + Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, + May, must be right, as relative to all. + In human works, though laboured on with pain, + A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; + In God's, one single can its end produce; + Yet serves to second too some other use. + So man, who here seems principal alone, + Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, + Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; + 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. + + When the proud steed shall know why man restrains + His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; + When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, + Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god: + Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend + His actions', passions', being's, use and end; + Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled; and why + This hour a slave, the next a deity. + + Then say not man's imperfect, Heaven in fault; + Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: + His knowledge measured to his state and place, + His time a moment, and a point his space. + If to be perfect In a certain sphere, + What matter, soon or late, or here or there? + The blest to-day is as completely so, + As who began a thousand years ago. + + III. + + Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, + All but the page prescribed, their present state: + From brutes what men, from men what spirits know + Or who could suffer being here below? + The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, + Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? + Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, + And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. + Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given, + That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven: + Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, + A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, + Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, + And now a bubble burst, and now a world. + + Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; + Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. + What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, + But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. + Hope springs eternal in the human breast: + Man never is, but always to be blessed. + The soul, uneasy and confined from home, + Bests and expatiates in a life to come. + + Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind + Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; + His soul, proud science never taught to stray + Far as the solar walk, or milky way; + Yet simple nature to his hope has given, + Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler Heaven; + Some safer world in depths of woods embraced, + Some happier island in the watery waste, + Where slaves once more their native land behold, + No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. + To be, contents his natural desire, + He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; + But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, + His faithful dog shall bear him company. + + IV. + + Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense + Weigh thy opinion against Providence; + Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, + Say, 'Here he gives too little, there too much;' + Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, + Yet cry, 'If man's unhappy, God's unjust;' + If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, + Alone made perfect here, immortal there, + Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, + Bejudge his justice, be the god of God. + In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; + All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. + Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, + Men would be angels, angels would be gods. + Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, + Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: + And who but wishes to invert the laws + Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause. + + V. + Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, + Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ''Tis for mine: + For me kind nature wakes her genial power, + Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower; + Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew + The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; + For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; + For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; + Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; + My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.' + But errs not Nature from this gracious end, + From burning suns when livid deaths descend, + When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep + Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? + 'No ('tis replied), the first Almighty Cause + Acts not by partial, but by general laws; + Th' exceptions few; some change, since all began: + And what created perfect?' Why then man? + If the great end be human happiness, + Then nature deviates; and can man do less? + As much that end a constant course requires + Of showers and sunshine, as of man's desires; + As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, + As men forever temperate, calm, and wise. + If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's design, + Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? + Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning forms, + Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms; + Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind, + Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? + From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs. + Account for moral, as for natural things: + Why charge we Heaven in those, in these acquit? + In both, to reason right is to submit. + Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, + Were there all harmony, all virtue here; + That never air or ocean felt the wind; + That never passion discomposed the mind. + But all subsists by elemental strife; + And passions are the elements of life. + The general order, since the whole began, + Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. + + VI. + What would this man? Now upward will he soar, + And little less than angel, would he more; + Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears + To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. + Made for his use all creatures if he call, + Say what their use, had he the powers of all? + Nature to these, without profusion, kind, + The proper organs, proper powers assigned; + Each seeming want compensated of course, + Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; + All in exact proportion to the state; + Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. + Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: + Is Heaven unkind to man, and man alone? + Shall he alone, whom rational we call, + Be pleased with nothing, if not blessed with all? + The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) + Is not to act or think beyond mankind; + No powers of body or of soul to share, + But what his nature and his state can bear. + Why has not man a microscopic eye? + For this plain reason, man is not a fly. + Say what the use, were finer optics given, + T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? + Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, + To smart and agonize at every pore? + Or quick effluvia darting through the brain, + Die of a rose in aromatic pain? + If nature thundered in his opening ears, + And stunned him with the music of the spheres, + How would he wish that Heaven had left him still + The whispering zephyr, and the purling rill? + Who finds not Providence all good and wise, + Alike in what it gives and what denies? + + VII. + Far as creation's ample range extends, + The scale of sensual, mental power ascends. + Mark how it mounts, to man's imperial race, + From the green myriads in the peopled grass: + What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, + The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: + Of smell, the headlong lioness between + And hound sagacious on the tainted green: + Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, + To that which warbles through the vernal wood: + The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! + Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: + In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true + From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew? + How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, + Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine! + 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier, + Forever separate, yet forever near! + Remembrance and reflection how allied; + What thin partitions sense from thought divide: + And middle natures, how they long to join, + Yet never pass th' insuperable line! + Without this just gradation, could they be + Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? + The powers of all subdued by thee alone, + Is not thy reason all these powers in one? + + VIII. + See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth + All matter quick, and bursting into birth. + Above, how high, progressive life may go! + Around, how wide! how deep extend below! + Vast chain of being! which from God began, + Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, + Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, + No glass can reach; from infinite to thee, + From thee to nothing.--On superior powers + Were we to pass, Inferior might on ours; + Or in the full creation leave a void, + Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed: + From nature's chain whatever link you strike, + Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. + And, if each system in gradation roll + Alike essential to th' amazing whole, + The least confusion but in one, not all + That system only, but the whole must fall. + Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly, + Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; + Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, + Being on being wrecked, and world on world; + Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, + And nature tremble to the throne of God. + All this dread order break--for whom? for thee? + Vile worm!--Oh, madness! pride! impiety! + + IX. + What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, + Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head? + What if the head, the eye, or ear repined + To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? + Just as absurd for any part to claim + To be another, in this general frame; + Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, + The great directing Mind of all ordains. + All are but parts of one stupendous whole, + Whose body nature is, and God the soul; + That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; + Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; + Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, + Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, + Lives through all life, extends through all extent, + Spreads undivided, operates unspent; + Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, + As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; + As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, + As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: + To him no high, no low, no great, no small; + He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. + + X. + Cease then, nor order imperfection name: + Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. + Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree + Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. + Submit.--In this, or any other sphere, + Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: + Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, + Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. + All nature is but art, unknown to thee; + All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; + All discord, harmony not understood; + All partial evil, universal good: + And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, + One truth is clear, _Whatever is, is right_. + + + [MAN'S POWERS AND FRAILTIES] + + Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; + The proper study of mankind is Man. + Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, + A being darkly wise, and rudely great: + With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, + With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, + He hangs between; in doubt to act or rest, + In doubt to deem himself a god or beast; + In doubt his mind or body to prefer, + Born but to die, and reasoning but to err; + Alike in ignorance, his reason such + Whether he thinks too little or too much: + Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; + Still by himself abused, or disabused; + Created half to rise, and half to fall; + Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; + Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled: + The glory, jest, and riddle of the world! + + + [VIRTUE AND HAPPINESS] + + Oh blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, + Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe! + Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, + Best knows the blessing, and will most be blessed. + But fools, the good alone unhappy call, + For ills or accidents that chance to all. + See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just! + See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust! + See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife! + Was this their virtue, or contempt of life? + Say, was it virtue, more though Heaven ne'er gave, + Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave? + Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, + Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire? + Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath, + When nature sickened, and each gale was death? + Or why so long (in life if long can be) + Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me? + What makes all physical or moral ill? + There deviates nature, and here wanders will. + God sends not ill; if rightly understood, + Or partial ill is universal good. + Or change admits, or nature lets it fall, + Short, and but rare, till man improved it all. + We just as wisely might of Heaven complain + That righteous Abel was destroyed by Cain, + As that the virtuous son is ill at ease, + When his lewd father gave the dire disease. + Think we, like some weak prince, th' Eternal Cause + Prone for his favourites to reverse his laws? + Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires, + Forget to thunder, and recall her fires? + On air or sea new motions be impressed, + Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast? + When the loose mountain trembles from on high, + Shall gravitation cease, if you go by? + Or some old temple, nodding to its fall, + For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall? + But still this world (so fitted for the knave) + Contents us not. A better shall we have? + A kingdom of the just then let it be: + But first consider how those just agree. + The good must merit God's peculiar care; + But who, but God, can tell us who they are? + One thinks on Calvin Heaven's own spirit fell; + Another deems him instrument of hell; + If Calvin feel Heaven's blessing, or its rod. + This cries, there is, and that, there is no God. + What shocks one part will edify the rest, + Nor with one system can they all he blessed. + The very best will variously incline, + And what rewards your virtue, punish mine. + _Whatever is, is right_.--This world 'tis true + Was made for Caesar--but for Titus too. + And which more blessed? who chained his country, say, + Or he whose virtue sighed to lose a day? + 'But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed,' + What then? Is the reward of virtue bread? + That, vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil; + The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil, + The knave deserves it when he tempts the main, + Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. + The good man may be weak, be indolent: + Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. + But grant him riches, your demand is o'er; + 'No--shall the good want health, the good want power?' + Add health, and power, and every earthly thing. + 'Why bounded power? why private? why no king?' + Nay, why external for internal given? + Why is not man a god, and earth a Heaven? + Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive + God gives enough, while he has more to give: + Immense the power, immense were the demand; + Say, at what part of nature will they stand? + What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, + The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, + Is virtue's prize: A better would you fix? + Then give humility a coach and six, + Justice a conqueror's sword, or truth a gown, + Or public spirit its great cure, a crown. + Weak, foolish man! will Heaven reward us there + With the same trash mad mortals wish for here? + The boy and man an individual makes, + Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes? + Go, like the Indian, in another life + Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife, + As well as dream such trifles are assigned, + As toys and empires, for a god-like mind. + Rewards, that either would to virtue bring + No joy, or be destructive of the thing: + How oft by these at sixty are undone + The virtues of a saint at twenty-one! + To whom can riches give repute, or trust, + Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? + Judges and senates have been bought for gold, + Esteem and love were never to be sold. + Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, + The lover and the love of human-kind, + Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, + Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. + Honour and shame from no condition rise; + Act well your part, there all the honour lies. + Fortune in men has some small difference made, + One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; + The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, + The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. + 'What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?' + I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool. + You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, + Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, + Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow, + The rest is all but leather or prunella. + + * * * * * + + God loves from whole to parts; but human soul + Must rise from individual to whole. + Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, + As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; + The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, + Another still, and still another spreads; + Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; + His country next; and next all human race; + Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind + Take every creature in, of every kind; + Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blessed, + And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. + Come then, my friend! my Genius! come along; + Oh master of the poet, and the song! + And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, + To man's low passions, or their glorious ends, + Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, + To fall with dignity, with temper rise; + Formed by thy converse, happily to steer + From grave to gay, from lively to severe; + Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, + Intent to reason, or polite to please. + Oh! while along the stream of time thy name + Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, + Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, + Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? + When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, + Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, + Shall then this verse to future age pretend + Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? + That urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art + From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; + For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; + Shewed erring pride, _Whatever is, is right;_ + That reason, passion, answer one great aim; + That true self-love and social are the same; + That virtue only, makes our bliss below; + And all our knowledge is, _ourselves to know_. + + + FROM MORAL ESSAYS + + OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN + + Nothing so true as what you once let fall, + 'Most women have no characters at all.' + Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, + And best distinguished by black, brown, or fair. + How many pictures of one nymph we view, + All how unlike each other, all how true! + Arcadia's countess, here in ermined pride, + Is there Pastora by a fountain side; + Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, + And there, a naked Leda with a swan. + Let then the fair one beautifully cry, + In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye, + Or dressed in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine, + With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine; + Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, + If folly grow romantic, I must paint it. + + * * * * * + + Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray; + To toast our wants and wishes, is her way; + Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give + The mighty blessing, 'while we live, to live.' + Then for all death, that opiate of the soul! + Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl. + Say, what can cause such impotence of mind? + A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind. + Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please; + With too much spirit to be e'er at ease; + With too much quickness ever to be taught; + With too much thinking to have common thought: + You purchase pain with all that joy can give, + And die of nothing but a rage to live. + Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's mate, + No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate; + Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends, + Because she's honest, and the best of friends; + Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share, + Forever in a passion, or a prayer; + Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace) + Cries, 'Ah! how charming, if there's no such place!' + Or who in sweet vicissitude appears + Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears, + The daily anodyne, and nightly draught, + To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought. + Woman and fool are two hard things to hit; + For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. + But what are these to great Atossa's mind? + Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind! + Who, with herself, or others, from her birth + Finds all her life one warfare upon earth; + Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools, + Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules. + No thought advances, but her eddy brain + Whisks it about, and down it goes again. + Full sixty years the world has been her trade, + The wisest fool much time has ever made. + From loveless youth to unrespected age, + No passion gratified except her rage. + So much the fury still outran the wit, + The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit. + Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell, + But he's a bolder man who dares be well. + Her every turn with violence pursued, + Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude: + To that each passion turns, or soon or late; + Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate: + Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse! + But an inferior not dependent? worse. + Offend her, and she knows not to forgive; + Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live; + But die, and she'll adore you--then the bust + And temple rise--then fall again to dust. + Last night, her lord was all that's good and great; + A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. + Strange! by the means defeated of the ends, + By spirit robbed of power, by warmth of friends, + By wealth of followers! without one distress, + Sick of herself through very selfishness! + Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer, + Childless with all her children, wants an heir. + To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store, + Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor. + Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design, + Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line; + Some wandering touches, some reflected light, + Some flying stroke alone can hit them right: + For how should equal colours do the knack? + Chameleons who can paint in white and black? + 'Yet Chloe sure was formed without a spot'-- + Nature in her then erred not, but forgot. + 'With every pleasing, every prudent part, + Say, what can Chloe want?'--She wants a heart. + She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; + But never, never, reached one generous thought. + Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, + Content to dwell in decencies forever. + So very reasonable, so unmoved, + As never yet to love, or to be loved. + She, while her lover pants upon her breast, + Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; + And when she sees her friend in deep despair, + Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. + Forbid it Heaven, a favour or a debt + She e'er should cancel--but she may forget. + Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear; + But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear. + Of all her dears she never slandered one, + But cares not if a thousand are undone. + Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead? + She bids her footman put it in her head. + Chloe is prudent--would you too be wise? + Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. + + * * * * * + + But grant in public men sometimes are shown, + A woman's seen in private life alone: + Our bolder talents in full light displayed; + Your virtues open fairest in the shade, + Bred to disguise, in public 'tis you hide; + There none distinguish 'twixt your shame or pride, + Weakness or delicacy, all so nice, + That each may seem a virtue or a vice. + In men, we various ruling passions find; + In women two almost divide the kind; + Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, + The love of pleasure, and the love of sway. + + * * * * * + + Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue, + Still out of reach, yet never out of view; + Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most, + To covet flying, and regret when lost: + At last, to follies youth could scarce defend, + It grows their age's prudence to pretend; + Ashamed to own they gave delight before, + Reduced to feign it, when they give no more: + As hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spite, + So these their merry, miserable night; + Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide, + And haunt the places where their honour died. + See how the world its veterans rewards! + A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; + Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, + Young without lovers, old without a friend; + A fop their passion, but their prize a sot; + Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot! + Ah! Friend! to dazzle let the vain design; + To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine! + That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring + Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing: + So when the sun's broad beam has tired the sight, + All mild ascends the moon's more sober light, + Serene in virgin modesty she shines, + And unobserved the glaring orb declines. + Oh! blest with temper whose unclouded ray + Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day; + She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear + Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; + She, who ne'er answers till a husband cools, + Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; + Charms by accepting, by submitting, sways, + Yet has her humour most, when she obeys; + Let fops or fortune fly which way they will; + Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille; + Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all, + And mistress of herself, though china fall. + And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, + Woman's at best a contradiction still. + Heaven, when it strives to polish all it can + Its last best work, but forms a softer man; + Picks from each sex, to make the favourite blest, + Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest: + Blends, in exception to all general rules, + Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools: + Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied, + Courage with softness, modesty with pride; + Fixed principles, with fancy ever new; + Shakes all together, and produces--You. + + + FROM EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT + + _P_. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said; + Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. + The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, + All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: + Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, + They rave, recite, and madden round the land. + What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? + They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; + By land, by water, they renew the charge; + They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. + No place is sacred, not the church is free; + E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me: + Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, + Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. + Is there a parson, much demused in beer, + A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, + A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, + Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? + Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls + With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? + All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain + Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. + Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, + Imputes to me and my damned works the cause; + Poor Comus sees his frantic wife elope, + And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. + Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, + The world had wanted many an idle song) + What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? + Or which must-end me, a fool's wrath or love? + A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped: + If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. + Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! + Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. + To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, + And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. + I sit with sad civility, I read + With honest anguish, and an aching head; + And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, + This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' + 'Nine years!' cries he, who high in Drury Lane, + Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, + Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, + Obliged by hunger, and request of friends: + 'The piece, you think, it incorrect? why, take it, + I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it.' + Three things another's modest wishes bound, + My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. + Pitholeon sends to me: 'You know his Grace, + I want a patron; ask him for a place.' + 'Pitholeon libelled me'--'But here's a letter + Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. + Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, + He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.' + Bless me! a packet.--''Tis a stranger sues, + A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse.' + If I dislike it, 'Furies, death, and rage!' + If I approve, 'Commend it to the stage.' + There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, + The players and I are, luckily, no friends. + Fired that the house reject him, ''Sdeath I'll print it, + And shame the fools--Your interest, sir, with Lintot!' + 'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:' + 'Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.' + All my demurs but double his attacks; + At last he whispers, 'Do; and we go snacks.' + Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door; + 'Sir, let me see your works and you no more.' + + * * * * * + + There are, who to my person pay their court: + I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short, + Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, + Such Ovid's nose, and 'Sir! you have an eye'-- + Go on, obliging creatures, make me see + All that disgraced my betters, met in me. + Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, + 'Just so immortal Maro held his head:' + And when I die, be sure you let me know + Great Homer died three thousand years ago. + Why did I write? what sin to me unknown + Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own? + As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, + I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. + I left no calling for this idle trade, + No duty broke, no father disobeyed. + The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, + To help me through this long disease, my life, + To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, + And teach the being you preserved, to bear. + But why then publish? Granville the polite, + And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; + Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, + And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; + The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; + Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, + And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) + With open arms received one poet more. + Happy my studies, when by these approved! + Happier their author, when by these beloved! + From these the world will judge of men and books, + Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes. + Soft were my numbers; who could take offence + While pure description held the place of sense? + Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, + A painted mistress, or a purling stream. + Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;-- + I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. + Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; + I never answered--I was not in debt. + If want provoked, or madness made them print, + I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. + Did some more sober critic come aboard; + If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. + Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, + And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. + Commas and points they set exactly right, + And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite; + Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, + From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds. + Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, + Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, + Even such small critics some regard may claim, + Preserved in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. + Pretty! in amber to observe the forms + Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! + The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, + But wonder how the devil they got there. + Were others angry: I excused them too; + Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. + A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; + But each man's secret standard in his mind,-- + That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,-- + This, who can gratify? for who can guess? + The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown, + Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, + Just writes to make his barrenness appear, + And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; + He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, + Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; + And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, + Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; + And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, + It is not poetry, but prose run mad: + All these, my modest satire bade translate, + And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. + How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! + And swear, not Addison himself was safe. + Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires + True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; + Blessed with each talent and each art to please, + And born to write, converse, and live with ease: + Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, + Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, + View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, + And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; + Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, + And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; + Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, + Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; + Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, + A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; + Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, + And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; + Like Cato, give his little senate laws, + And sit attentive to his own applause; + While wits and Templars every sentence raise, + And wonder with a foolish face of praise-- + Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? + Who would not weep, if Atticus were he! + + * * * * * + + Oh, let me live my own, and die so too! + (To live and die is all I have to do:) + Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, + And see what friends, and read what books I please; + Above a patron, though I condescend + Sometimes to call a minister my friend. + I was not born for courts or great affairs; + I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; + Can sleep without a poem in my head, + Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. + Why am I asked what next shall see the light? + Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? + Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) + Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? + 'I found him close with Swift.'--'Indeed? no doubt,' + Cries prating Balbus, 'something will come out.' + 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. + 'No, such a genius never can lie still;' + And then for mine obligingly mistakes + The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. + Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, + When every coxcomb knows me by my style? + Cursed be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, + That tends to make one worthy man my foe, + Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, + Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear! + But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, + Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress; + Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about; + Who writes a libel, or who copies out; + That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, + Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame; + Who can your merit selfishly approve, + And show the sense of it without the love; + Who has the vanity to call you friend, + Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend; + Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, + And, if he lie not, must at least betray; + Who to the Dean and silver bell can swear, + And sees at Canons what was never there; + Who reads, but with a lust to misapply, + Make satire a lampoon, and fiction, lie: + A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, + But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. + + * * * * * + + Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, + While yet in Britain honour had applause) + Each parent sprung---_A._ What fortune, pray?-- + _P._ Their own, + And better got, than Bestia's from the throne. + Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, + Nor marrying discord in a noble wife, + Stranger to civil and religious rage, + The good man walked innoxious through his age. + No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, + Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. + Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, + No language, but the language of the heart. + By nature honest, by experience wise, + Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; + His life, though long, to sickness passed unknown, + His death was instant, and without a groan. + O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! + Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. + O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! + Be no unpleasing melancholy mine: + Me, let the tender office long engage, + To rock the cradle of reposing age, + With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, + Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, + Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, + And keep awhile one parent from the sky! + On cares like these if length of days attend, + May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, + Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, + And just as rich as when he served a queen. + _A._ Whether that blessing be denied or given, + Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven. + + + FROM THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED + + [To GEORGE II: ON THE STATE OF LITERATURE] + + To thee, the world its present homage pays + The harvest early, but mature the praise: + Great friend of liberty! in kings a name + Above all Greek, above all Roman fame: + Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered, + As Heaven's own oracles from altars heard. + Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes + None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise. + + Just in one instance, be it yet confessed, + Your people, Sir, are partial in the rest: + Foes to all living worth except your own, + And advocates for folly dead and gone. + Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; + It is the rust we value, not the gold. + Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learned by rote, + And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote: + One likes no language but the Faery Queen; + A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green; + And each true Briton is to Ben so civil, + He swears the muses met him at the Devil. + Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires, + Why should not we be wiser than our sires? + In every public virtue we excel, + We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well. + And learned Athens to our art must stoop, + Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop. + If time improves our wit as well as wine, + Say at what age a poet grows divine? + Shall we, or shall we not, account him so, + Who died, perhaps, a hundred years ago? + End all dispute; and fix the year precise + When British bards begin t' immortalize? + 'Who lasts a century can have no flaw, + I hold that wit a classic, good in law.' + Suppose he wants a year, will you compound? + And shall we deem him ancient, right and sound, + Or damn to all eternity at once, + At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce? + 'We shall not quarrel for a year or two; + By courtesy of England, he may do.' + Then, by the rule that made the horse-tail bare, + I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair, + And melt down ancients like a heap of snow: + While you, to measure merits, look in Stowe, + And estimating authors by the year, + Bestow a garland only on a bier. + Shakespeare, (whom you and every play-house bill + Style the divine, the matchless, what you will,) + For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, + And grew immortal in his own despite. + Ben, old and poor, as little seemed to heed + The life to come, in every poet's creed. + Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet, + His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; + Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art, + But still I love the language of his heart. + 'Yet surely, surely, these were famous men! + What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben? + In all debates where critics bear a part, + Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson's art, + Of Shakespeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit; + How Beaumont's judgment checked what Fletcher writ; + How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow; + But, for the passions, Southern sure and Rowe. + These, only these, support the crowded stage, + From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age.' + All this may be; the people's voice is odd, + It is, and it is not, the voice of God. + To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, + And yet deny the Careless Husband praise, + Or say our fathers never broke a rule; + Why then, I say, the public is a fool. + But let them own, that greater faults than we + They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree. + Spenser himself affects the obsolete, + And Sidney's verse halts ill on Roman feet: + Milton's strong pinion now not heaven can bound, + Now serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground, + In quibbles angel and archangel join, + And God the Father turns a school-divine. + Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book, + Like slashing Bentley with his desperate hook, + Or damn all Shakespeare, like th' affected fool + At court, who hates whate'er he read at school. + But for the wits of either Charles's days, + The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease; + Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more, + (Like twinkling stars the Miscellanies o'er,) + One simile, that solitary shines + In the dry desert of a thousand lines, + Or lengthened thought that gleams through many a page, + Has sanctified whole poems for an age. + I lose my patience, and I owe it too, + When works are censured, not as bad but new; + While if our elders break all reason's laws, + These fools demand not pardon, but applause. + On Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow, + If I but ask, if any weed can grow; + One tragic sentence if I dare deride + Which Betterton's grave action dignified, + Or well-mouthed Booth with emphasis proclaims, + (Though but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names,) + How will our fathers rise up in a rage, + And swear all shame is lost in George's age! + You'd think no fools disgraced the former reign, + Did not some grave examples yet remain, + Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill, + And, having once been wrong, will be so still. + He, who to seem more deep than you or I, + Extols old bards, or Merlin's prophecy, + Mistake him not; he envies, not admires, + And to debase the sons, exalts the sires. + Had ancient times conspired to disallow + What then was new, what had been ancient now? + Or what remained, so worthy to be read + By learned critics, of the mighty dead? + + * * * * * + + Time was, a sober Englishman would knock + His servants up, and rise by five o'clock, + Instruct his family in every rule, + And send his wife to church, his son to school. + To worship like his fathers, was his care; + To teach their frugal virtues to his heir; + To prove that luxury could never hold; + And place, on good security, his gold. + Now times are changed, and one poetic itch + Has seized the court and city, poor and rich: + Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, + Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays, + To theatres, and to rehearsals throng, + And all our grace at table is a song. + I, who so oft renounce the muses, lie, + Not ----'s self e'er tells more fibs than I; + When sick of Muse, our follies we deplore, + And promise our best friends to rhyme no more; + We wake next morning in a raging fit, + And call for pen and ink to show our wit. + He served a prenticeship, who sets up shop; + Ward tried on puppies, and the poor, his drop; + Even Radcliffe's doctors travel first to France, + Nor dare to practise till they've learned to dance. + Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile? + (Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile;) + But those who cannot write, and those who can, + All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man. + Yet, Sir, reflect, the mischief is not great; + These madmen never hurt the church or state: + Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; + And rarely avarice taints the tuneful mind. + Allow him but his plaything of a pen, + He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men: + Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind; + And knows no losses while the Muse is kind. + To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter, + The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, + Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; + And then--a perfect hermit in his diet. + Of little use the man you may suppose + Who says in verse what others say in prose; + Yet let me show, a poet's of some weight, + And (though no soldier) useful to the state. + What will a child learn sooner than a song? + What better teach a foreigner the tongue? + What's long or short, each accent where to place, + And speak in public with some sort of grace? + I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, + Unless he praise some monster of a king; + Or virtue, or religion turn to sport, + To please a lewd, or unbelieving Court. + Unhappy Dryden!--In all Charles's days, + Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays; + And in our own (excuse some courtly stains) + No whiter page than Addison remains. + He, from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, + And sets the passions on the side of truth, + Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, + And pours each human virtue in the heart. + Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause, + Her trade supported, and supplied her laws; + And leave on Swift this grateful verse engraved, + 'The rights a court attacked, a poet saved.' + Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, + Stretched to relieve the idiot and the poor, + Proud vice to brand, or injured worth adorn, + And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn. + Not but there are, who merit other palms; + Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms: + The boys and girls whom charity maintains, + Implore your help in these pathetic strains: + How could devotion touch the country pews, + Unless the Gods bestowed a proper Muse? + Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work, + Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk, + The silenced preacher yields to potent strain, + And feels that grace his prayer besought in vain; + The blessing thrills through all the labouring throng, + And Heaven is won by violence of song. + Our rural ancestors, with little blessed, + Patient of labour when the end was rest, + Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, + With feasts, and offerings, and a thankful strain: + The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share, + Ease of their toil, and partners of their care: + The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl, + Smoothed every brow, and opened every soul: + With growing years the pleasing licence grew, + And taunts alternate innocently flew. + But times corrupt, and nature, ill-inclined, + Produced the point that left a sting behind; + Till friend with friend, and families at strife, + Triumphant malice raged through private life. + Who felt the wrong, or feared it, took th' alarm, + Appealed to law, and justice lent her arm. + At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound, + The poets learned to please, and not to wound: + Most warped to flattery's side; but some, more nice, + Preserved the freedom, and forbore the vice. + Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit, + And heals with morals what it hurts with wit. + We conquered France, but felt our captive's charms; + Her arts victorious triumphed o'er our arms; + Britain to soft refinements less a foe, + Wit grew polite, and numbers learned to flow. + Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join + The varying verse, the full-resounding line, + The long majestic march, and energy divine. + Though still some traces of our rustic vein, + And splay-foot verse, remained, and will remain. + Late, very late, correctness grew our care, + When the tired nation breathed from civil war. + Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire, + Showed us that France had something to admire. + Not but the tragic spirit was our own, + And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway shone: + But Otway failed to polish or refine, + And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. + Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, + The last and greatest art, the art to blot. + Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire + The humbler muse of comedy require. + But in known images of life, I guess + The labour greater, as th' indulgence less. + Observe how seldom even the best succeed: + Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed? + What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ! + How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit! + The stage how loosely does Astraea tread, + Who fairly puts all characters to bed! + And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, + To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause! + But fill their purse, our poet's work is done, + Alike to them, by pathos or by pun. + + * * * * * + + Yet lest you think I rally more than teach, + Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach, + Let me for once presume t' instruct the times + To know the poet from the man of rhymes: + 'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains, + Can make me feel each passion that he feigns; + Enrage, compose, with more than magic art, + With pity, and with terror, tear my heart; + And snatch me, o'er the earth, or through the air, + To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. + + + FROM THE EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES + + [THE POWER OF THE SATIRIST] + + Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see + Men not afraid of God, afraid of me: + Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, + Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone. + O sacred weapon! left for truth's defense, + Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence! + To all but Heaven-directed hands denied, + The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide: + Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal, + To rouse the watchmen of the public weal; + To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, + And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall, + Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, + That counts your beauties only by your stains, + Spin all your cobwebs, o'er the eye of day! + The Muse's wing shall brush you all away. + + + FROM THE DUNCIAD + + [THE COLLEGE OF DULNESS] + + Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, + And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, + Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, + Great Cibber's brazen brainless brothers stand, + One cell there is, concealed from vulgar eye. + The cave of Poverty and Poetry. + Keen, hollow winds howl through the bleak recess, + Emblem of music caused by emptiness. + Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, + Escape in monsters, and amaze the town. + Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast + Of Curll's chaste press and Lintot's rubric post; + Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines; + Hence Journals, Medleys, Mercuries, Magazines, + Sepulchral lies, our holy walls to grace, + And New-year odes, and all the Grub Street race. + In clouded majesty here Dulness shone. + Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne: + Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears + Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears; + Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake + Who hunger and who thirst for scribbling sake; + Prudence, whose glass presents th' approaching jail; + Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, + Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, + And solid pudding against empty praise. + Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, + Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, + Till genial Jacob or a warm third day + Call forth each mass, a poem or a play: + How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie; + How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry; + Maggots, half formed, in rhyme exactly meet, + And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. + Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes, + And ductile Dulness new meanders takes; + There motley images her fancy strike, + Figures ill paired, and similes unlike. + She sees a mob of metaphors advance, + Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance; + How Tragedy and Comedy embrace; + How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race; + How Time himself stands still at her command, + Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land. + Here gay description Egypt glads with showers, + Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers; + Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen, + There painted valleys of eternal green; + In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, + And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow. + All these and more the cloud-compelling queen + Beholds through fogs, that magnify the scene: + She, tinselled o'er in robes of varying hues, + With self-applause her wild creation views; + Sees momentary monsters rise and fall, + And with her own fools-colours gilds them all. + + * * * * * + + + [CIBBER AS DULNESS'S FAVOURITE SON] + + In each she marks her image full expressed, + But chief In Bays's monster-breeding breast; + Bays, formed by nature stage and town to bless, + And act, and be, a coxcomb with success. + Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce, + Rememb'ring she herself was Pertness once. + Now (shame to Fortune!) an ill run at play + Blanked his bold visage, and a thin third day: + Swearing and supperless the hero sate, + Blasphemed his gods, the dice, and damned his fate; + Then gnawed his pen, then dashed it on the ground, + Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! + Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there; + Yet wrote and floundered on in mere despair. + Round him much embryo, much abortion lay, + Much future ode, and abdicated play; + Nonsense precipitate, like running lead, + That slipped through cracks and zigzags of the head; + All that on Folly Frenzy could beget, + Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit. + Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll, + In pleasing memory of all he stole-- + How here he sipped, how there he plundered snug, + And sucked all o'er like an industrious bug. + Here lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes, and here + The frippery of crucified Molière; + There hapless Shakespeare, yet of Tibbald sore, + Wished he had blotted for himself before. + + * * * * * + + + [THE RESTORATION OF NIGHT AND CHAOS] + + In vain, in vain--the all-composing hour + Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the power. + She comes! she comes! the sable throne behold + Of Night primeval and of Chaos old! + Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, + And all its varying rainbows die away. + Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, + The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. + As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, + The sickening stars fade off th' ethereal plain; + As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppressed, + Closed one by one to everlasting rest: + Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, + Art after art goes out, and all is night. + See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, + Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head! + Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before, + Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. + Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, + And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! + See Mystery to Mathematics fly! + In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. + Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, + And unawares Morality expires. + Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; + Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! + Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; + Light dies before thy uncreating word: + Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; + And universal darkness buries all. + + + + + LADY WINCHILSEA + + + TO THE NIGHTINGALE + + Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring! + This moment is thy time to sing, + This moment I attend to praise, + And set my numbers to thy lays. + Free as thine shall be my song; + As thy music, short, or long. + Poets, wild as thee, were born, + Pleasing best when unconfined, + When to please is least designed, + Soothing but their cares to rest; + Cares do still their thoughts molest, + And still th' unhappy poet's breast, + Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. + She begins, let all be still! + Muse, thy promise now fulfil! + Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet! + Can thy words such accents fit? + Canst thou syllables refine, + Melt a sense that shall retain + Still some spirit of the brain, + Till with sounds like these it join? + 'Twill not be! then change thy note; + Let division shake thy throat. + Hark! division now she tries; + Yet as far the muse outflies. + Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune; + Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? + Till thy business all lies waste, + And the time of building's past! + Thus we poets that have speech, + Unlike what thy forests teach, + If a fluent vein be shown + That's transcendent to our own, + Criticise, reform, or preach, + Or censure what we cannot reach. + + + A NOCTURNAL REVERIE + + In such a night, when every louder wind + Is to its distant cavern safe confined, + And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, + And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings; + Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight, + She hollowing clear, directs the wanderer right; + In such a night, when passing clouds give place, + Or thinly veil the heaven's mysterious face; + When in some river, overhung with green, + The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen; + When freshened grass now bears itself upright, + And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, + Whence springs the woodbine and the bramble-rose, + And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows; + Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, + Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes; + When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine, + Show trivial beauties watch their hour to shine, + Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every light + In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright; + When odours which declined repelling day + Through temperate air uninterrupted stray; + When darkened groves their softest shadows wear, + And falling waters we distinctly hear; + When through the gloom more venerable shows + Some ancient fabric, awful in repose, + While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal + And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale; + When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads, + Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads, + Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear, + Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear; + When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, + And unmolested kine re-chew the cud; + When curlews cry beneath the village-walls, + And to her straggling brood the partridge calls; + Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep, + Which but endures whilst tyrant-man does sleep; + When a sedate content the spirit feels, + And no fierce light disturb, whilst it reveals; + But silent musings urge the mind to seek + Something too high for syllables to speak; + Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, + Finding the elements of rage disarmed, + O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, + Joys in th' inferior world and thinks it like her own: + In such a night let me abroad remain + Till morning breaks and all's confused again; + Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renewed, + Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued. + + + + + JOHN GAY + + + FROM RURAL SPORTS + + When the ploughman leaves the task of day, + And, trudging homeward, whistles on the way; + When the big-uddered cows with patience stand, + Waiting the strokings of the damsel's hand; + No warbling cheers the woods; the feathered choir, + To court kind slumbers, to their sprays retire; + When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees, + Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze; + Engaged in thought, to Neptune's bounds I stray, + To take my farewell of the parting day: + Far in the deep the sun his glory hides, + A streak of gold the sea and sky divides; + The purple clouds their amber linings show, + And edged with flame rolls every wave below; + Here pensive I behold the fading light, + And o'er the distant billows lose my sight. + + + FROM THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK + + THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL + + I rue the day, a rueful day I trow, + The woeful day, a day indeed of woe! + When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove: + A maiden fine bedight he happed to love; + The maiden fine bedight his love retains, + And for the village he forsakes the plains. + Return, my Lubberkin! these ditties hear! + Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + * * * * * + + Last May Day fair I searched to find a snail + That might my secret lover's name reveal. + Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found, + For always snails near sweetest fruit abound. + I seized the vermin, home I quickly sped, + And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread: + Slow crawled the snail, and, if I right can spell, + In the soft ashes marked a curious L. + Oh, may this wondrous omen lucky prove! + For L is found in 'Lubberkin' and 'Love.' + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + * * * * * + + This lady-fly I take from off the grass, + Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass: + 'Fly, lady-bird, north, south, or east, or west! + Fly where the man is found that I love best!' + He leaves my hand: see, to the west he's flown, + To call my true-love from the faithless town. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + This mellow pippin, which I pare around, + My shepherd's name shall flourish on the ground: + I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head-- + Upon the grass a perfect L is read. + Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen + Than what the paring marks upon the green. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + This pippin shall another trial make. + See, from the core two kernels brown I take: + This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn, + And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne; + But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground + (A certain token that his love's unsound), + While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last-- + Oh, were his lips to mine but joined so fast! + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, + I twitched his dangling garter from his knee; + He wist not when the hempen string I drew. + Now mine I quickly doff of inkle blue; + Together fast I tie the garters twain, + And while I knit the knot repeat this strain: + 'Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure; + Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure!' + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + As I was wont I trudged last market-day + To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay. + I made my market long before 'twas night; + My purse grew heavy and my basket light: + Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went, + And in love-powder all my money spent. + Behap what will, next Sunday after prayers, + When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs, + These golden flies into his mug I'll throw, + And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + But hold! our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his ears: + O'er yonder stile, see, Lubberkin appears! + He comes, he comes! Hobnelia's not betrayed, + Nor shall she, crowned with willow, die a maid. + He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown: + Oh, dear! I fall adown, adown, adown! + + + FROM TRIVIA + + If clothed in black you tread the busy town, + Or if distinguished by the reverend gown, + Three trades avoid: oft in the mingling press + The barber's apron soils the sable dress; + Shun the perfumer's touch with cautious eye, + Nor let the baker's step advance too nigh. + Ye walkers too that youthful colours wear, + Three sullying trades avoid with equal care: + The little chimney-sweeper skulks along, + And marks with sooty stains the heedless throng; + When 'Small-coal!' murmurs in the hoarser throat, + From smutty dangers guard thy threatened coat; + The dust-man's cart offends thy clothes and eyes, + When through the street a cloud of ashes flies. + But whether black or lighter dyes are worn, + The chandler's basket, on his shoulder borne, + With tallow spots thy coat; resign the way + To shun the surly butcher's greasy tray-- + Butchers whose hands are dyed with blood's foul stain, + And always foremost in the hangman's train. + + Let due civilities be strictly paid: + The wall surrender to the hooded maid, + Nor let thy sturdy elbow's hasty rage + Jostle the feeble steps of trembling age; + And when the porter bends beneath his load, + And pants for breath, clear thou the crowded road; + But, above all, the groping blind direct, + And from the pressing throng the lame protect. + You'll sometimes meet a fop, of nicest tread, + Whose mantling peruke veils his empty head; + At every step he dreads the wall to lose + And risks, to save a coach, his red-heeled shoes: + Him, like the miller, pass with caution by, + Lest from his shoulder clouds of powder fly. + But when the bully, with assuming pace, + Cocks his broad hat, edged round with tarnished lace, + Yield not the way; defy his strutting pride, + And thrust him to the muddy kennel's side; + He never turns again nor dares oppose, + But mutters coward curses as he goes. + + + SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN + + All in the Downs the fleet was moored, + The streamers waving in the wind, + When black-eyed Susan came aboard: + 'Oh, where shall I my true love find? + Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true + If my sweet William sails among the crew?' + + William, who high upon the yard + Rocked with the billow to and fro, + Soon as her well-known voice he heard, + He sighed and cast his eyes below; + The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, + And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. + + So the sweet lark, high poised in air, + Shuts close his pinions to his breast, + If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, + And drops at once into her nest. + The noblest captain in the British fleet + Mighty envy William's lip those kisses sweet. + + 'O, Susan, Susan, lovely dear, + My vows shall ever true remain! + Let me kiss off that falling tear: + We only part to meet again. + Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be + The faithful compass that still points to thee. + + 'Believe not what the landmen say, + Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: + They'll tell thee sailors, when away, + In every port a mistress find-- + Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, + For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. + + 'If to far India's coast we sail, + Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; + Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, + Thy skin is ivory so white. + Thus every beauteous object that I view + Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. + + 'Though battle call me from thy arms, + Let not my pretty Susan mourn; + Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, + William shall to his dear return. + Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, + Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.' + + The boatswain gave the dreadful word; + The sails their swelling bosom spread; + No longer must she stay aboard: + They kissed--she sighed--he hung his head. + Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; + 'Adieu!' she cries, and waved her lily hand. + + + MY OWN EPITAPH + + Life is a jest, and all things show it: + I thought so once, but now I know it. + + + + + SAMUEL CROXALL + + + FROM THE VISION + + Pensive beneath a spreading oak I stood + That veiled the hollow channel of the flood: + Along whose shelving bank the violet blue + And primrose pale in lovely mixture grew. + High overarched the bloomy woodbine hung, + The gaudy goldfinch from the maple sung; + The little warbling minstrel of the shade + To the gay morn her due devotion paid + Next, the soft linnet echoing to the thrush + With carols filled the smelling briar-bush; + While Philomel attuned her artless throat, + And from the hawthorn breathed a trilling note. + + Indulgent Nature smiled in every part, + And filled with joy unknown my ravished heart: + Attent I listened while the feathered throng + Alternate finished and renewed their song. + + * * * * * + + THOMAS TICKELL + + + FROM ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON + + Can I forget the dismal night that gave + My soul's best part forever to the grave? + How silent did his old companions tread, + By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, + Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, + Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! + What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; + The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; + The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid; + And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed! + While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, + Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. + Oh, gone forever! take this long adieu; + And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague! + + To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, + A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; + Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, + And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. + If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, + May shame afflict this alienated heart; + Of thee forgetful if I form a song, + My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, + My griefs be doubled from thy image free, + And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee! + + Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, + (Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown) + Along the walls where speaking marbles show + What worthies form the hallowed mould below; + Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; + In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; + + Chiefs graced with scars and prodigal of blood; + Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood; + Just men by whom impartial laws were given; + And saints who taught and led the way to Heaven. + Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, + Since their foundation came a nobler guest; + Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed + A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. + + * * * * * + + That awful form (which, so ye Heavens decree, + Must still be loved and still deplored by me,) + In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, + Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. + If business calls or crowded courts invite, + Th' unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; + If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, + I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; + If pensive to the rural shades I rove, + His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; + 'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, + Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: + There patient showed us the wise course to steer, + A candid censor, and a friend severe; + There taught us how to live, and (oh! too high + The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. + + + + + THOMAS PARNELL + + + FROM A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH + + By the blue taper's trembling light, + No more I waste the wakeful night, + Intent with endless view to pore + The schoolmen and the sages o'er; + Their books from wisdom widely stray, + Or point at best the longest way. + I'll seek a readier path, and go + Where wisdom's surely taught below. + + How deep yon azure dyes the sky, + Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie, + While through their ranks in silver pride + The nether crescent seems to glide! + The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, + The lake is smooth and clear beneath, + Where once again the spangled show + Descends to meet our eyes below. + The grounds which on the right aspire, + In dimness from the view retire: + The left presents a place of graves, + Whose wall the silent water laves. + That steeple guides thy doubtful sight + Among the livid gleams of night. + There pass, with melancholy state, + By all the solemn heaps of fate, + And think, as softly-sad you tread + Above the venerable dead, + 'Time was, like thee they life possessed, + And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.' + + Those graves, with bending osier bound, + That nameless heave the crumbled ground, + Quick to the glancing thought disclose, + Where toil and poverty repose. + The flat smooth stones that bear a name, + The chisel's slender help to fame, + (Which ere our set of friends decay + Their frequent steps may wear away;) + A middle race of mortals own, + Men, half ambitious, all unknown. + The marble tombs that rise on high, + Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, + Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, + Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones; + These, all the poor remains of state, + Adorn the rich, or praise the great; + Who while on earth in fame they live, + Are senseless of the fame they give. + + Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, + The bursting earth unveils the shades! + All slow, and wan, and wrapped with shrouds + They rise in visionary crowds, + And all with sober accent cry, + 'Think, mortal, what it is to die.' + + Now from yon black and funeral yew + That bathes the charnel house with dew + Methinks I hear a voice begin: + (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din; + Ye tolling clocks, no time resound + O'er the long lake and midnight ground) + It sends a peal of hollow groans + Thus speaking from among the bones: + 'When men my scythe and darts supply, + How great a king of fears am I! + They view me like the last of things: + They make, and then they dread, my stings. + Fools! if you less provoked your fears, + No more my spectre-form appears. + Death's but a path that must be trod + If man would ever pass to God, + A port of calms, a state of ease + From the rough rage of swelling seas.' + + + A HYMN OF CONTENTMENT + + Lovely, lasting peace of mind! + Sweet delight of humankind! + Heavenly-born, and bred on high, + To crown the favourites of the sky + With more of happiness below + Than victors in a triumph know! + Whither, O whither art thou fled, + To lay thy meek, contented head? + What happy region dost thou please + To make the seat of calms and ease? + + Ambition searches all its sphere + Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. + Increasing Avarice would find + Thy presence in its gold enshrined. + + The bold adventurer ploughs his way, + Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, + To gain thy love; and then perceives + Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. + The silent heart which grief assails, + Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, + Sees daisies open, rivers run, + And seeks, as I have vainly done, + Amusing thought; but learns to know + That solitude's the nurse of woe. + No real happiness is found + In trailing purple o'er the ground; + Or in a soul exalted high, + To range the circuit of the sky, + Converse with stars above, and know + All nature in its forms below; + The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, + And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. + + Lovely, lasting peace, appear! + This world itself, if thou art here, + Is once again with Eden blest, + And man contains it in his breast. + + 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, + I sung my wishes to the wood, + And lost in thought, no more perceived + The branches whisper as they waved: + It seemed, as all the quiet place + Confess'd the presence of the Grace. + When thus she spoke--'Go rule thy will, + Bid thy wild passions all be still, + Know God, and bring thy heart to know + The joys which from religion flow; + Then every grace shall prove its guest, + And I'll be there to crown the rest.' + + Oh! by yonder mossy seat, + In my hours of sweet retreat, + Might I thus my soul employ, + With sense of gratitude and joy! + Raised as ancient prophets were, + In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer; + Pleasing all men, hurting none, + Pleased and blessed with God alone; + Then while the gardens take my sight, + With all the colours of delight; + While silver waters glide along, + To please my ear, and court my song; + I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, + And thee, great Source of nature, sing. + + The sun that walks his airy way, + To light the world, and give the day; + The moon that shines with borrowed light; + The stars that gild the gloomy night; + The seas that roll unnumbered waves; + The wood that spreads its shady leaves; + The field whose ears conceal the grain, + The yellow treasure of the plain; + All of these, and all I see, + Should be sung, and sung by me: + They speak their Maker as they can, + But want and ask the tongue of man. + + Go search among your idle dreams, + Your busy or your vain extremes; + And find a life of equal bliss, + Or own the next begun in this. + + + + + ALLAN RAMSAY + + From THE GENTLE SHEPHERD + + PATIE AND ROGER + + Beneath the south side of a craigy bield, + Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield, + Twa youthfu' shepherds on the gowans lay, + Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May. + Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring; + But blither Patie likes to laugh and sing. + + _Patie._ My Peggy is a young thing, + Just entered 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 wauking 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 wauking 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 blythe and bauld, + And naething gi'es me sic delight + At wauking 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 wauking of the fauld. + + This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood, + And puts all Nature in a jovial mood. + How hartsome is't to see the rising plants, + To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants! + + How halesom 'tis to snuff the cauler air, + And all the sweets it bears, when void of care! + What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane? + Tell me the cause of thy ill-seasoned pain. + + _Roger._ I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate; + I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great! + Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood, + Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins' blood; + But I, oppressed with never-ending grief, + Maun ay despair of lighting on relief. + + * * * * * + + You have sae saft a voice and slid a tongue, + You are the darling of baith auld and young: + If I but ettle at a sang or speak, + They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek, + And jeer me hameward frae the loan or bught, + While I'm confused with mony a vexing thought; + Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee, + Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye; + For ilka sheep ye have I'll number ten, + And should, as ane may think, come farer ben. + + * * * * * + + _Patie._ Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way! + Seem careless: there's my hand ye'll win the day. + Hear how I served my lass I love as weel + As ye do Jenny and with heart as leel. + Last morning I was gay and early out; + Upon a dyke I leaned, glowring about. + I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lea; + I saw my Meg, but Peggy saw na me, + For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist, + And she was close upon me e'er she wist: + Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw + Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than snaw. + Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek, + Her haffet-locks hang waving on her cheek; + Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her een sae clear; + And, oh, her mouth's like ony hinny pear; + Neat, neat she was in bustine waistcoat clean, + As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green. + Blythesome I cried, 'My bonnie Meg, come here! + I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer, + + But I can guess ye're gawn to gather dew.' + She scoured awa, and said, 'What's that to you?' + 'Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,' + I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dyke. + I trow when, that she saw, within a crack + She came with a right thieveless errand back: + Misca'd me first; then bade me hound my dog, + To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. + I leugh, an sae did she: then with great haste + I clasped my arms about her neck and waist, + About her yielding waist, and took a fourth + Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth; + While hard and fast I held her in my grips, + My very saul came louping to my lips; + Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack, + But weel I kenned she meant nae as she spak. + Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom, + Do ye sae too and never fash your thumb: + Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood; + Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood. + + Dear Roger, if your Jenny geck, + And answer kindness with a slight, + Seem unconcerned at her neglect; + For women in a man delight, + But them despise who're soon defeat + And with a simple face give way + To a repulse: then he not blate; + Push bauldly on, and win the day. + + When maidens, innocently young, + Say aften what they never mean, + Ne'er mind their pretty lying tongue, + But tent the language of their een: + If these agree, and she persist + To answer all your love with hate, + Seek elsewhere to be better blest, + And let her sigh when'tis too late. + + _Roger._ Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart! + Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have sie an art + + To hearten ane; for now, as clean's a leek, + Ye've cherished me since ye began to speak. + Sae, for your pains, I'll mak ye a propine + (My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine)-- + A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo, + Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blue, + With spraings like gowd and siller crossed with black; + I never had it yet upon my back: + Weel are ye wordy o' 't, what have sae kind + Sed up my reveled doubts and cleared my mind. + + + + + AMBROSE PHILIPS + + + TO MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER + MOTHER'S ARMS + + Timely blossom, infant fair, + Pondling of a happy pair, + Every morn and every night + Their solicitous delight; + Sleeping, waking, still at ease, + Pleasing, without skill to please; + Little gossip, blithe and hale, + Tattling many a broken tale, + Singing many a tuneless song, + Lavish of a heedless tongue. + Simple maiden, void of art, + Babbling out the very heart, + Yet abandoned to thy will, + Yet imagining no ill, + Yet too innocent to blush; + Like the linnet in the bush, + To the mother-linnet's note + Moduling her slender throat, + Chirping forth thy pretty joys; + Wanton in the change of toys, + Like the linnet green, in May, + Flitting to each bloomy spray; + + Wearied then, and glad of rest, + Like the linnet in the nest. + This thy present happy lot, + This, in time, will be forgot; + Other pleasures, other cares, + Ever-busy Time prepares; + And thou shalt in thy daughter see + This picture once resembled thee. + + + + + JOHN DYER + + + GRONGAR HILL + + Silent Nymph, with curious eye! + Who, the purple evening, lie + On the mountain's lonely van, + Beyond the noise of busy man; + Painting fair the form of things, + While the yellow linnet sings; + Or the tuneful nightingale + Charms the forest with her tale; + Come, with all thy various hues, + Come, and aid thy sister Muse; + Now while Phoebus riding high + Gives lustre to the land and sky! + Grongar Hill invites my song, + Draw the landscape bright and strong; + Grongar, in whose mossy cells + Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; + Grongar, in whose silent shade, + For the modest Muses made, + So oft I have, the evening still, + At the fountain of a rill, + Sate upon a flowery bed, + With my hand beneath my head; + While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood. + Over mead, and over wood, + From house to house, from hill to hill, + 'Till Contemplation had her fill. + About his chequered sides I wind, + And leave his brooks and meads behind, + And groves, and grottoes where I lay, + And vistas shooting beams of day: + Wide and wider spreads the vale, + As circles on a smooth canal: + The mountains round--unhappy fate! + Sooner or later, of all height, + Withdraw their summits from the skies, + And lessen as the others rise: + Still the prospect wider spreads, + Adds a thousand woods and meads; + Still it widens, widens still, + And sinks the newly-risen hill. + + Now I gain the mountain's brow, + What a landscape lies below! + No clouds, no vapours intervene, + But the gay, the open scene + Does the face of nature shew, + In all the hues of heaven's bow! + And, swelling to embrace the light, + Spreads around beneath the sight. + + Old castles on the cliffs arise, + Proudly towering in the skies! + Rushing from the woods, the spires + Seem from hence ascending fires! + Half his beams Apollo sheds + On the yellow mountain-heads! + Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, + And glitters on the broken rocks! + + Below me trees unnumbered rise, + Beautiful in various dyes: + The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, + The yellow beech, the sable yew, + The slender fir, that taper grows, + The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; + And beyond the purple grove, + Haunt of Phillis, queen of love! + Gaudy as the opening dawn, + Lies a long and level lawn + On which a dark hill, steep and high, + Holds and charms the wandering eye! + + Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, + His sides are clothed with waving wood, + And ancient towers crown his brow, + That cast an awful look below; + Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, + And with her arms from falling keeps; + So both a safety from the wind + On mutual dependence find. + + 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode; + 'Tis now th' apartment of the toad; + And there the fox securely feeds; + And there the poisonous adder breeds + Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds: + While, ever and anon, there falls + Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls. + Yet time has seen, that lifts the low, + And level lays the lofty brow, + Has seen this broken pile complete, + Big with the vanity of state; + But transient is the smile of fate! + A little rule, a little sway, + A sunbeam in a winter's day, + Is all the proud and mighty have + Between the cradle and the grave. + + And see the rivers how they run, + Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, + Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, + Wave succeeding wave, they go + A various journey to the deep, + Like human life to endless sleep! + Thus is nature's vesture wrought, + To instruct our wandering thought; + Thus she dresses green and gay, + To disperse our cares away. + + Ever charming, ever new, + When will the landscape tire the view! + The fountain's fall, the river's flow, + The woody valleys warm and low; + The windy summit, wild and high, + Roughly rushing on the sky; + The pleasant seat, the ruined tower, + The naked rock, the shady bower; + + The town and village, dome and farm, + Each gives each a double charm, + As pearls upon an Aethiop's arm. + + See, on the mountain's southern side, + Where the prospect opens wide, + Where the evening gilds the tide; + How close and small the hedges lie! + What streaks of meadows cross the eye! + A step methinks may pass the stream, + So little distant dangers seem; + So we mistake the future's face, + Eyed through Hope's deluding glass; + As yon summits soft and fair + Clad in colours of the air, + Which to those who journey near, + Barren, brown, and rough appear; + Still we tread the same coarse way; + The present's still a cloudy day. + + O may I with myself agree, + And never covet what I see: + Content me with an humble shade, + My passions tamed, my wishes laid; + For while our wishes wildly roll, + We banish quiet from the soul: + 'Tis thus the busy beat the air; + And misers gather wealth and care. + + Now, even now, my joys run high, + As on the mountain-turf I lie; + While the wanton Zephyr sings, + And in the vale perfumes his wings; + While the waters murmur deep; + While the shepherd charms his sheep; + While the birds unbounded fly, + And with music fill the sky, + Now, even now, my joys, run high. + + Be full, ye courts, be great who will; + Search for Peace with all your skill: + Open wide the lofty door, + Seek her on the marble floor, + In vain ye search, she is not there; + In vain ye search the domes of Care! + + Grass and flowers Quiet treads, + On the meads, and mountain-heads, + Along with Pleasure, close allied, + Ever by each other's side: + And often, by the murmuring rill, + Hears the thrush, while all is still, + Within the groves of Grongar Hill. + + + + + GEORGE BERKELEY + + + VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING + ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA + + The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime + Barren of every glorious theme, + In distant lands now waits a better time, + Producing subjects worthy fame: + + In happy climes where from the genial sun + And virgin earth such scenes ensue, + The force of art in nature seems outdone, + And fancied beauties by the true: + + In happy climes, the seat of innocence, + Where nature guides and virtue rules, + Where men shall not impose for truth and sense + The pedantry of courts and schools. + + There shall be sung another golden age, + The rise of empire and of arts, + The good and great inspiring epic rage, + The wisest heads and noblest hearts. + + Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; + Such as she bred when fresh and young, + When heavenly flame did animate her clay, + By future poets shall be sung. + + Westward the course of empire takes its way; + The four first acts already past, + A fifth shall close the drama with the day; + Time's noblest offspring is the last. + + + + + JAMES THOMSON + + + THE SEASONS + + FROM WINTER + + [HARDSHIPS AND BENEVOLENCE] + + The keener tempests come; and, fuming dun + From all the livid east or piercing north, + Thick clouds ascend, in whose capacious womb + A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed. + Heavy they roll their fleecy world along, + And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. + Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, + At first thin wavering, till at last the flakes + Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day + With a continual flow. The cherished fields + Put on their winter robe of purest white; + 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts + Along the mazy current; low the woods + Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun + Faint from the west emits his evening ray, + Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill, + Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide + The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox + Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands + The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, + Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around + The winnowing store, and claim the little boon + Which Providence assigns them. One alone, + The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, + Wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky, + In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves + + His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man + His annual visit: half-afraid, he first + Against the window beats; then brisk alights + On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor, + Eyes all the smiling family askance, + And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is, + Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs + Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds + Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, + Though timorous of heart and hard beset + By death in various forms--dark snares, and dogs, + And more unpitying men,--the garden seeks, + Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind + Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth, + With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed, + Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. + + Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind: + Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens + With food at will; lodge them below the storm, + And watch them strict, for from the bellowing east, + In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing + Sweeps up the burthen of whole wintry plains + At one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks, + Hid in the hollow of two neighbouring hills, + The billowy tempest whelms, till, upward urged, + The valley to a shining mountain swells, + Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky. + + As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce + All Winter drives along the darkened air, + In his own loose-revolving fields the swain + Disastered stands; sees other hills ascend, + Of unknown, joyless brow, and other scenes, + Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain; + Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid + Beneath the formless wild, but wanders on + From hill to dale, still more and more astray, + Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, + Stung with the thoughts of home. The thoughts of home + Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth + In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul, + What black despair, what horror fills his heart, + When, for the dusky spot which fancy feigned + + His tufted cottage rising through the snow, + He meets the roughness of the middle waste, + Far from the track and blest abode of man, + While round him night resistless closes fast, + And every tempest, howling o'er his head, + Renders the savage wilderness more wild! + Then throng the busy shapes into his mind + Of covered pits unfathomably deep + (A dire descent!), beyond the power of frost; + Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, + Smoothed up with snow; and--what is land unknown, + What water--of the still unfrozen spring, + In the loose marsh or solitary lake, + Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. + These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks + Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, + Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, + Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots + Through the wrung bosom of the dying man-- + His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. + In vain for him th' officious wife prepares + The fire fair-blazing and the vestment warm; + In vain his little children, peeping out + Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, + With tears of artless innocence. Alas! + Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, + Nor friends nor sacred home: on every nerve + The deadly Winter seizes, shuts up sense, + And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, + Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, + Stretched out and bleaching in the northern blast. + + Ah, little think the gay licentious proud + Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; + They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth + And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; + Ah, little think they, while they dance along, + How many feel, this very moment, death + And all the sad variety of pain: + How many sink in the devouring flood, + Or more devouring flame; how many bleed, + By shameful variance betwixt man and man; + How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms, + + Shut from the common air, and common use + Of their own limbs; how many drink the cup + Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread + Of misery; sore pierced by wintry winds, + How many shrink into the sordid hut + Of cheerless poverty; how many shake + With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, + Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; + Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, + They furnish matter for the tragic Muse; + Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, + With friendship, peace, and contemplation joined, + How many, racked with honest passions, droop + In deep retired distress; how many stand + Around the deathbed of their dearest friends, + And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man + Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, + That one incessant struggle render life, + One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, + Vice in his high career would stand appalled, + And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; + The conscious heart of charity would warm, + And her wide wish benevolence dilate; + The social tear would rise, the social sigh; + And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, + Refining still, the social passions work. + + + From SUMMER + + (LIFE'S MEANING TO THE GENEROUS MIND) + + Forever running an enchanted round, + Passes the day, deceitful vain and void, + As fleets the vision o'er the formful brain, + This moment hurrying wild th' impassioned soul, + The nest in nothing lost. 'Tis so to him, + The dreamer of this earth, an idle blank; + A sight of horror to the cruel wretch, + Who all day long in sordid pleasure rolled, + Himself an useless load, has squandered vile, + Upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheered + A drooping family of modest worth. + + But to the generous still-improving mind, + That gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy, + Diffusing kind beneficence around, + Boastless,--as now descends the silent dew,-- + To him the long review of ordered life + Is inward rapture, only to be felt. + + + FROM SPRING + + [THE DIVINE FORCE IN SPRING] + + Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come! + And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud, + While music wakes around, veiled in a shower + Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend! + + O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts + With unaffected grace, or walk the plain + With Innocence and Meditation joined + In soft assemblage, listen to my song, + Which thy own season paints, when nature all + Is blooming and benevolent, like thee. + + And see where surly Winter passes off, + Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts: + His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill, + The shattered forest, and the ravaged vale; + While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch-- + Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost-- + The mountains lift their green heads to the sky. + As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed, + And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze, + Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets + Deform the day delightless; so that scarce + The bittern knows his time, with bill engulfed, + To shake the sounding marsh, or from the shore + The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath + And sing their wild notes to the listening waste. + At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun, + And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more + Th' expansive atmosphere is cramped with cold, + But, full of life and vivifying soul, + Lifts the light clouds sublime and spreads them thin, + Fleecy and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven; + + Forth fly the tepid airs, and, unconfined, + Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays. + Joyous, th' impatient husbandman perceives + Relenting nature, and his lusty steers + Drives from their stalls, to where the well-used plough + Lies in the furrow, loosened from the frost; + There, unrefusing, to the harnessed yoke + They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil, + Cheered by the simple song and soaring lark; + Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share + The master leans, removes th' obstructing clay, + Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe. + White through the neighbouring fields the sower stalks, + With measured step, and liberal throws the grain + Into the faithful bosom of the ground; + The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene. + + Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious man + Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow! + Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend! + And temper all, thou world-reviving sun, + Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live + In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride, + Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear. + Such themes as these the rural Maro sung + To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height + Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined. + In ancient times, the sacred plough employed + The kings and awful fathers of mankind; + And some, with whom compared your insect tribes + Are but the beings of a summer's day, + Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm + Of mighty war, then with victorious hand, + Disdaining little delicacies, seized + The plough, and, greatly independent, scorned + All the vile stores corruption can bestow. + Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough; + And o'er your hills and long-withdrawing vales + Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun, + Luxuriant and unbounded! As the sea, + Far through his azure, turbulent domain, + Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores + Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports, + + So with superior boon may your rich soil + Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour + O'er every land, the naked nations clothe, + And be th' exhaustless granary of a world. + + Nor only through the lenient air this change, + Delicious, breathes: the penetrative sun, + His force deep-darting to the dark retreat + Of vegetation, sets the steaming power + At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth, + In various hues--but chiefly thee, gay green! + Thou smiling Nature's universal robe, + United light and shade, where the sight dwells + With growing strength and ever new delight. + From the moist meadow to the withered hill, + Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, + And swells and deepens to the cherished eye. + The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves + Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, + Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed + In full luxuriance to the sighing gales, + Where the deer rustle through the twining brake, + And the birds sing concealed. At once, arrayed + In all the colours of the flushing year + By Nature's swift and secret-working hand, + The garden glows, and fills the liberal air + With lavished fragrance, while the promised fruit + Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived, + Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, + Buried in smoke and sleep and noisome damps, + Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, + Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops + From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze + Of sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk; + Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend + Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, + And see the country, far diffused around, + One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower + Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye + Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath + The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. + + * * * * * + + What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say, + That in a powerful language, felt not heard, + Instructs the fowl of heaven, and through their breast + These arts of love diffuses? What but God? + Inspiring God! who boundless spirit all, + And unremitting energy, pervades, + Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole. + He ceaseless works alone, and yet alone + Seems not to work; with such perfection framed + Is this complex, stupendous scheme of things. + But, though concealed, to every purer eye + Th' informing author in his works appears: + Chief, lovely Spring, in thee, and thy soft scenes, + The smiling God is seen; while water, earth, + And air attest his bounty; which exalts + The brute creation to this finer thought, + And annual melts their undesigning hearts + Profusely thus in tenderness and joy, + + Still let my song a nobler note assume, + And sing th' infusive force of Spring on man, + When heaven and earth, as if contending, vie + To raise his being, and serene his soul. + Can he forbear to join the general smile + Of nature? Can fierce passions vex his breast, + While every gale is peace, and every grove + Is melody? Hence from the bounteous walks + Of flowing Spring, ye sordid sons of earth, + Hard, and unfeeling of another's woe; + Or only lavish to yourselves; away! + But come, ye generous minds, la whose wide thought, + Of all his works, creative bounty burns + With warmest beam! + + + FROM AUTUMN + + [THE PLEASING SADNESS OF THE DECLINING YEAR] + + But see! the fading many-coloured woods, + Shade deepening over shade, the country round + Imbrown, a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, + + Of every hue from wan declining green + To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse, + Low-whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks, + And give the season in its latest view. + Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm + Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave + Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn + The gentle current, while, illumined wide, + The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, + And through their lucid veil his softened force + Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, + For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm, + To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, + And soar above this little scene of things, + To tread low-thoughted Vice beneath their feet, + To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, + And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. + Thus solitary, and in pensive guise, + Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead + And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard + One dying strain to cheer the woodman's toil. + Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, + Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse; + While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, + And each wild throat whose artless strains so late + Swelled all the music of the swarming shades, + Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit + On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock, + With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, + And naught save chattering discord in their note. + Oh, let not, aimed from some inhuman eye, + The gun the music of the coming year + Destroy, and harmless, unsuspecting harm, + Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey, + In mingled murder fluttering on the ground! + The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, + A gentler mood inspires: for now the leaf + Incessant rustles from the mournful grove, + Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, + And slowly circles through the waving air; + But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs + + Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams, + Till, choked and matted with the dreary shower, + The forest walks, at every rising gale, + Roll wide the withered waste and whistle bleak. + Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields, + And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race + Their sunny robes resign; even what remained + Of stronger fruits fall from the naked tree; + And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around, + The desolated, prospect thrills the soul. + + + A HYMN + + (CONCLUDING THE SEASONS) + + These, as they change, Almighty Father, these, + Are but the varied God. The rolling year + Is full of Thee. Forth In the pleasing Spring + Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. + Wide-flush the fields; the softening air is balm; + Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; + And every sense, and every heart is joy. + Then comes thy glory in the summer-months, + With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun + Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: + And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; + And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, + By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. + Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, + And spreads a common feast for all that lives. + In winter awful thou' with clouds and storms + Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled + Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, + Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, + And humblest nature with thy northern blast. + + Mysterious round! what skill, what force Divine + Deepfelt, in these appear! a simple train, + Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, + Such beauty and beneficence combined: + Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; + And all so forming an harmonious whole; + + That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. + But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, + Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand; + That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres; + Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence + The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring: + Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; + Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; + And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, + With transport touches all the springs of life. + + Nature, attend! join every living soul, + Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, + In adoration join; and ardent raise + One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, + Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes. + Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms + Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine + Fills the brown shade with a religious awe; + And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, + Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven + Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. + His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; + And let me catch it as I muse along. + Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; + Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze + Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, + A secret world of wonders in thyself, + Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice + Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. + So roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, + In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, + Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. + Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to Him; + Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, + As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. + Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as earth asleep + Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams; + Ye constellations, while your angels strike, + Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. + + Great source of day! blest image here below + Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, + Prom world to world, the vital ocean round, + On nature write with every beam His praise. + The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world, + While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. + Bleat out afresh, ye hills: ye mossy rocks, + Retain the sound; the broad responsive low, + Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns, + And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. + Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song + Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, + Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, + Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm + The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. + Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles; + At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, + Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, + Assembled men to the deep organ join + The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, + At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; + And, as each mingling flame increases each, + In one united ardour rise to Heaven. + Or if you rather choose the rural shade, + And find a fane in every sacred grove, + There let the shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay, + The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, + Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. + For me, when I forget the darling theme, + Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray + Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, + Or Winter rises in the blackening east-- + Se my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, + And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. + + Should Fate command me to the furthest verge + Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, + Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun + Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam + Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me; + Since God is ever present, ever felt, + In the void waste as in the city full; + + And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. + When even at last the solemn hour shall come, + And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, + I cheerfully will obey; there with new powers, + Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go + Where Universal Love not smiles around, + Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns; + From seeming evil still educing good, + And better thence again, and better still, + In infinite progression. But I lose + Myself in Him, in Light ineffable! + Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise. + + + [RULE, BRITANNIA] + + AN ODE: FROM ALFRED, A MASQUE + + When Britain first, at Heaven's command, + Arose from out the azure main, + This was the charter of the land, + And guardian angels sang this strain: + Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! + Britons never will be slaves! + + The nations not so blest as thee, + Must in their turns to tyrants fall, + Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, + The dread and envy of them all. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + Still more majestic shalt thou rise, + More dreadful from each foreign stroke; + As the loud blast that tears the skies, + Serves but to root thy native oak. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; + And their attempts to bend thee down + Will but arouse thy generous flame, + But work their woe and thy renown. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + To thee belongs the rural reign; + Thy cities shall with commerce shine; + All thine shall be the subject main, + And every shore it circles thine. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + The Muses, still with freedom found, + Shall to thy happy coast repair; + Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, + And manly hearts to guard the fair! + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + + From THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE + + O mortal man, who livest here by toil, + Do not complain of this thy hard estate: + That like an emmet thou must ever moil + Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; + And, certes, there is for it reason great, + For though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail + And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, + Withouten that would come an heavier bale-- + Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. + + In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, + With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, + A most enchanting wizard did abide, + Than whom, a fiend more fell is nowhere found. + It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; + And there a season atween June and May, + Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, + A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, + No living wight could work, ne carèd even for play. + + Was naught around but images of rest: + Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; + And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, + From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, + Where never yet was creeping creature seen. + Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, + And hurlèd everywhere their waters sheen, + That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, + Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. + + Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, + Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, + And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, + And vacant shepherds piping in the dale; + And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, + Or stock doves 'plain amid the forest deep, + That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; + And still a coil the grasshopper did keep: + Yet all these sounds, yblent, inclinèd all to sleep. + + Pull in the passage of the vale, above, + A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, + Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move, + As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood; + And up the hills, on either side, a wood + Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, + Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; + And where this valley winded out, below, + The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. + + A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was: + Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; + And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, + Forever flushing round a summer sky. + There eke the soft delights, that witchingly + Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, + And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; + But whate'er smacked of 'noyance or unrest + Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. + + The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease, + Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) + Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, + That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, + And made a kind of checkered day and night. + Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, + Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight + Was placed; and, to his lute, of cruel fate + And labour harsh complained, lamenting man's estate. + + Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, + From all the roads of earth that pass there by; + For, as they chaunced to breathe on neighbouring hill, + The freshness of this valley smote their eye, + And drew them ever and anon more nigh, + Till clustering round th' enchanter false they hung, + Ymolten with his syren melody. + While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung, + And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung: + + 'Behold, ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! + See all but man with unearned pleasure gay! + See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, + Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May. + What youthful bride can equal her array? + Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? + From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, + From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, + Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. + + 'Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, + The swarming songsters of the careless grove, + Ten thousand throats that, from the flowering thorn, + Hymn their good God and carol sweet of love, + Such grateful kindly raptures them emove! + They neither plough nor sow; ne, fit for flail, + E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; + Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, + Whatever crowns the hill or smiles along the vale. + + 'Outcast of Nature, man! the wretched thrall + Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, + Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, + And of the vices, an inhuman train, + That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: + For when hard-hearted Interest first began + To poison earth, Astraea left the plain; + Guile, violence, and murder seized on man, + And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran.' + + He ceased. But still their trembling ears retained + The deep vibrations of his 'witching song, + That, by a kind of magic power, constrained + To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng: + Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipped along + In silent ease; as when beneath the beam + Of summer moons, the distant woods among, + Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam, + The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream. + + * * * * * + + Of all the gentle tenants of the place, + There was a man of special grave remark; + A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, + Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not dark; + As soote this man could sing as morning lark, + And teach the noblest morals of the heart; + But these his talents were yburied stark: + Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, + Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. + + To noontide shades incontinent he ran, + Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound, + Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, + Amid the broom he basked him on the ground, + Where the wild thyme and camomil are found; + There would he linger, till the latest ray + Of light sate trembling on the welkin's bound, + Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray, + Sauntering and slow: so had he passed many a day. + + Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they passed; + For oft the heavenly fire, that lay concealed + Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, + And all its native light anew revealed; + Oft as he traversed the cerulean field, + And marked the clouds that drove before the wind, + Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, + Ten thousand great ideas filled his mind: + But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. + + + + + EDWARD YOUNG + + + From LOVE OF FAME + + ON WOMEN + + Such blessings Nature pours, + O'erstocked mankind enjoy but half her stores: + In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, + She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green: + Pure, gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, + And waste their music on the savage race. + Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss? + Repine we guiltless in a world like this? + But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, + And painted art's depraved allurements choose. + Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air + (An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair; + Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs, + And larks, and nightingales, are odious things; + But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds, delight; + And to be pressed to death, transports her quite: + Where silver rivulets play through flowery meads, + And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their shades, + Black kennels' absent odours she regrets, + And stops her nose at beds of violets. + + * * * * * + + Few to good-breeding make a just pretense; + Good-breeding is the blossom of good-sense; + The last result of an accomplished mind, + With outward grace, the body's virtue, joined. + A violated decency now reigns; + And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains. + With Chinese painters modern toasts agree, + The point they aim at is deformity: + They throw their persons with a hoyden air + Across the room, and toss into the chair. + So far their commerce with mankind is gone, + They, for our manners, have exchanged their own. + + The modest look, the castigated grace, + The gentle movement, and slow-measured pace, + For which her lovers died, her parents prayed, + Are indecorums with the modern maid. + + * * * * * + + What swarms of amorous grandmothers I see! + And misses, ancient in iniquity! + What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming! + What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming! + Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence; + Such griping avarice, such profuse expense; + Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes; + Such licensed ill, such masquerading times; + Such venal faith, such misapplied applause; + Such flattered guilt, and such inverted laws! + + Such dissolution through the whole I find, + 'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind. + Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dressed belle + Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of Hell; + And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all + Who listen less to Collins than St. Paul. + Atheists have been but rare; since Nature's birth + Till now, she-atheists ne'er appeared on earth. + Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs + This daring character, in timorous things? + Who start at feathers, from an insect fly, + A match for nothing--but the Deity. + But, not to wrong the fair, the Muse must own + In this pursuit they court not fame alone; + But join to that a more substantial view, + 'From thinking free, to be free agents, too.' + + They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down, + In complaisance to all the fools in town. + O how they tremble at the name of prude! + And die with shame at thought of being good! + For, what will Artimis, the rich and gay, + What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs, say? + They Heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave; + Through cowardice, most execrably brave. + With our own judgments durst we to comply, + In virtue should we live, in glory die. + + Rise then, my Muse, In honest fury rise; + They dread a satire who defy the skies. + + Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own; + And nothing but his attributes dethrone. + From atheists far, they steadfastly believe + God is, and is almighty--to forgive, + His other excellence they'll not dispute; + But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute. + Shall pleasures of a short duration chain + A lady's soul in everlasting pain? + Will the great Author us poor worms destroy, + For now and then a sip of transient joy? + No; he's forever in a smiling mood; + He's like themselves; or how could he be good? + And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose. + Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose, + The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead, + A deity that's perfectly well bred. + + 'Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men; + Nor thought he more than thought great Origen. + Though once upon a time he misbehaved, + Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be saved. + Let priests do something for their one in ten; + It is their trade; so far they're honest men. + Let them cant on, since they have got the knack, + And dress their notions, like themselves, in black; + Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown, + From joys of this, to keep them all their own. + Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee; + But then they leave our untithed virtue free. + Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show: + Did ever mortal write like Rochefoucauld? + Thus pleads the Devil's fair apologist, + And, pleading, safely enters on his list. + + + + + NIGHT-THOUGHTS + + + [MAN'S MARVELLOUS NATURE] + + How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, + How complicate, how wonderful is man! + How passing wonder He who made him such, + Who centred in our make such strange extremes! + From different natures marvellously mixed, + Connection exquisite of distant worlds! + Distinguished link in being's endless chain! + Midway from nothing to the Deity! + A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed! + Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine! + Dim miniature of greatness absolute! + An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! + Helpless immortal! insect infinite! + A worm! A god!--I tremble at myself, + And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, + Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast + And wondering at her own. How reason reels! + O what a miracle to man is man, + Triumphantly distressed; what joy! what dread! + Alternately transported and alarmed! + What can preserve my life? or what destroy? + An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; + Legions of angels can't confine me there. + + + [SATIETY IN THIS WORLD] + + Live ever here, Lorenzo? Shocking thought! + So shocking, they who wish disown it, too; + Disown from shame what they from folly crave. + Live ever in the womb nor see the light? + For what live ever here? With labouring step + To tread our former footsteps? pace the round + Eternal? to climb life's worn, heavy wheel, + Which draws up nothing new? to beat, and beat + The beaten track? to bid each wretched day + The former mock? to surfeit on the same, + And yawn our joys? or thank a misery + For change, though sad? to see what we have seen; + Hear, till unheard, the same old slabbered tale? + To taste the tasted, and at each return + Less tasteful? o'er our palates to decant + Another vintage? strain a flatter year, + Through loaded vessels and a laxer tone? + Crazy machines, to grind earth's wasted fruits! + + + [GOD JUST AS WELL AS MERCIFUL] + + Thou most indulgent, most tremendous Power! + Still more tremendous for thy wondrous love! + That arms, with awe more awful, thy commands; + And foul transgression dips in sevenfold guilt! + How our hearts tremble at thy love immense! + In love immense, inviolably just! + Thou, rather than thy justice should be stained, + Didst stain the cross; and, work of wonders far + The greatest, that thy dearest far might bleed. + + Bold thought! shall I dare speak it, or repress? + Should man more execrate, or boast, the guilt + Which roused such vengeance? which such love inflamed? + Our guilt (how mountainous!) with outstretched arms, + Stern justice and soft-smiling love embrace, + Supporting, in full majesty, thy throne, + When seemed its majesty to need support, + Or that, or man, inevitably lost; + What, but the fathomless of thought divine, + Could labour such expedient from despair, + And rescue both? both rescue! both exalt! + O how are both exalted by the deed! + The wondrous deed! or shall I call it more + A wonder in Omnipotence itself! + A mystery no less to gods than men! + + Not thus our infidels th' Eternal draw,-- + A God all o'er, consummate, absolute, + Full-orbed, in his whole round of rays complete. + They set at odds Heaven's jarring attributes, + And, with one excellence, another wound; + Maim Heaven's perfection, break its equal beams, + Bid mercy triumph over--God himself, + Undeified by their opprobrious praise; + A God all mercy, is a God unjust. + + + + + EDWARD YOUNG + + + (MAN'S NATURE PROVES HIS IMMORTALITY) + + In man, the more we dive, the more we see + Heaven's signet stamping an immortal make. + Dive to the bottom of the soul, the base + Sustaining all, what find we? Knowledge, love. + As light and heat essential to the sun, + These to the soul. And why, if souls expire? + How little lovely here! How little known! + Small knowledge we dig up with endless toil; + And love unfeigned may purchase perfect hate. + Why starved on earth our angel appetites, + While brutal are indulged their fulsome fill? + Were then capacities divine conferred + As a mock diadem, in savage sport, + Rank insult of our pompous poverty, + Which reaps but pain from seeming claims so fair? + In future age lies no redress? And shuts + Eternity the door on our complaint? + If so, for what strange ends were mortals made! + The worst to wallow, and the best to weep; + The man who merits most, must most complain: + Can we conceive a disregard in Heaven + What the worst perpetrate or best endure? + + This cannot be. To love, and know, in man + Is boundless appetite, and boundless power: + And these demonstrate boundless objects, too. + Objects, powers, appetites, Heaven suits in all; + Nor, nature through, e'er violates this sweet + Eternal concord, on her tuneful string. + Is man the sole exception from her laws? + Eternity struck off from human hope, + (I speak with truth, but veneration too) + Man is a monster, the reproach of Heaven, + A stain, a dark impenetrable cloud + On Nature's beauteous aspect; and deforms + (Amazing blot!) deforms her with her lord + If such is man's allotment, what is Heaven? + Or own the soul immortal, or blaspheme. + + Or own the soul immortal, or invert + All order. Go, mock-majesty! go, man! + And bow to thy superiors of the stall; + + Through every scene of sense superior far: + They graze the turf untilled; they drink the stream + Unbrewed, and ever full, and unembittered + With doubts, fears, fruitless hopes, regrets, despair. + Mankind's peculiar! reason's precious dower! + No foreign clime they ransack for their robes, + No brother cite to the litigious bar. + Their good is good entire, unmixed, unmarred; + They find a paradise in every field, + On boughs forbidden, where no curses hang: + Their ill no more than strikes the sense, unstretched + By previous dread or murmur in the rear; + When the worst comes, it comes unfeared; one stroke + Begins and ends their woe: they die but once; + Blessed incommunicable privilege! for which + Proud man, who rules the globe and reads the stars, + Philosopher or hero, sighs in vain. + Account for this prerogative in brutes: + No day, no glimpse of day, to solve the knot + But what beams on it from eternity. + O sole and sweet solution! that unties + The difficult, and softens the severe; + The cloud on Nature's beauteous face dispels, + Restores bright order, easts the brute beneath, + And re-enthrones us in supremacy + Of joy, e'en here. Admit immortal life, + And virtue is knight-errantry no more: + Each virtue brings in hand a golden dower + Far richer in reversion: Hope exults, + And, though much bitter in our cup is thrown, + Predominates and gives the taste of Heaven. + + + + + ANONYMOUS + + + THE HAPPY SAVAGE + + Oh, happy he who never saw the face + Of man, nor heard the sound of human voice! + But soon as born was carried and exposed + In some vast desert, suckled by the wolf + Or shaggy bear, more kind than our fell race; + Who with his fellow brutes can range around + The echoing forest. His rude artless mind + Uncultivated as the soil, he joins + The dreadful harmony of howling wolves, + And the fierce lion's roar; while far away + Th' affrighted traveller retires and trembles. + Happy the lonely savage! nor deceived, + Nor vexed, nor grieved; in every darksome cave, + Under each verdant shade, he takes repose. + Sweet are his slumbers: of all human arts + Happily ignorant, nor taught by wisdom + Numberless woes, nor polished into torment. + + + + + SOAME JENYNS + + + From AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE + + Were once these maxims fixed, that God's our friend, + Virtue our good, and happiness our end. + How soon must reason o'er the world prevail, + And error, fraud, and superstition fail! + None would hereafter then with groundless fear + Describe th' Almighty cruel and severe, + Predestinating some without pretence + To Heaven, and some to Hell for no offence; + Inflicting endless pains for transient crimes, + And favouring sects or nations, men or times. + + To please him none would foolishly forbear + Or food, or rest, or itch in shirts of hair, + Or deem it merit to believe or teach + What reason contradicts, within its reach; + None would fierce zeal for piety mistake, + Or malice for whatever tenet's sake, + Or think salvation to one sect confined, + And Heaven too narrow to contain mankind. + + * * * * * + + No servile tenets would admittance find + Destructive of the rights of humankind; + Of power divine, hereditary right, + And non-resistance to a tyrant's might. + For sure that all should thus for one be cursed, + Is but great nature's edict just reversed. + No moralists then, righteous to excess, + Would show fair Virtue in so black a dress, + That they, like boys, who some feigned sprite array, + First from the spectre fly themselves away: + No preachers in the terrible delight, + But choose to win by reason, not affright; + Not, conjurors like, in fire and brimstone dwell, + And draw each moving argument from Hell. + + * * * * * + + No more applause would on ambition wait, + And laying waste the world be counted great, + But one good-natured act more praises gain, + Than armies overthrown, and thousands slain; + No more would brutal rage disturb our peace, + But envy, hatred, war, and discord cease; + Our own and others' good each hour employ, + And all things smile with universal joy; + Virtue with Happiness, her consort, joined, + Would regulate and bless each human mind, + And man be what his Maker first designed. + + + + + PHILIP DODDRIDGE + + + SURSUM + + Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, + With all your feeble light; + Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, + Pale empress of the night. + + And thou refulgent orb of day, + In brighter flames arrayed; + My soul that springs beyond thy sphere, + No more demands thine aid. + + Ye stars are but the shining dust + Of my divine abode, + The pavement of those heavenly courts + Where I shall reign with God. + + The Father of eternal light + Shall there His beams display; + Nor shall one moment's darkness mix + With that unvaried day. + + No more the drops of piercing grief + Shall swell into mine eyes; + Nor the meridian sun decline + Amidst those brighter skies. + + + + + WILLIAM SOMERVILLE + + + FROM THE CHASE + + Here on this verdant spot, where nature kind, + With double blessings crowns the farmer's hopes; + Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank mead + Affords the wandering hares a rich repast; + Throw off thy ready pack. See, where they spread + And range around, and dash the glittering dew. + If some staunch hound, with his authentic voice, + Avow the recent trail, the justling tribe + Attend his call, then with one mutual cry, + The welcome news confirm, and echoing hills + Repeat the pleasing tale. See how they thread + The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along! + But quick they back recoil, and wisely check + Their eager haste; then o'er the fallowed ground + How leisurely they work, and many a pause + Th' harmonious concert breaks; till more assured + With joy redoubled the low valleys ring. + What artful labyrinths perplex their way! + Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants, she doubts + If now she lives; she trembles as she sits, + With horror seized. The withered grass that clings + Around her head of the same russet hue + Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyes + With life full-beaming her vain wiles betrayed. + At distance draw thy pack, let all be hushed, + No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard, + Lest the wild hound run gadding o'er the plain + Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. + Now gently put her off; see how direct + To her known mew she flies! Here, huntsman, bring + (But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds, + And calmly lay them in. How low they stoop, + And seem to plough the ground! then all at once + With greedy nostrils snuff the fuming steam + That glads their fluttering hearts. As winds let loose + From the dark caverns of the blustering god, + They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn. + Hope gives them wings, while she's spurred on by fear; + The welkin rings; men, dogs, hills, racks, and woods + In the full concert join. Now, my brave youths, + Stripped for the chase, give all your souls to joy! + See how their coursers, than the mountain roe + More fleet, the verdant carpet skim; thick clouds + Snorting they breathe; their shining hoofs scarce print + The grass unbruised; when emulation fired, + They strain, to lead the field, top the barred gate, + O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush + The thorny-twining hedge; the riders bend + O'er their arched necks; with steady hands, by turns + Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. + Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, + Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone, + And with the panting winds lag far behind. + + + + + HENRY BROOKE + + FROM UNIVERSAL BEAUTY + + [THE DEITY IN EVERY ATOM] + + Thus beauty, mimicked in our humbler strains, + Illustrious through the world's great poem reigns! + The One grows sundry by creative power, + Th' eternal's found in each revolving hour; + Th' immense appears in every point of space, + Th' unchangeable in nature's varying face; + Th' invisible conspicuous to our mind, + And Deity in every atom shrined. + + + [NATURE SUPERIOR TO CIVILIZATION] + + O Nature, whom the song aspires to scan! + O Beauty, trod by proud insulting man, + This boasted tyrant of thy wondrous ball, + This mighty, haughty, little lord of all; + This king o'er reason, but this slave to sense, + Of wisdom careless, but of whim immense; + Towards thee incurious, ignorant, profane, + But of his own, dear, strange productions vain! + Then with this champion let the field be fought, + And nature's simplest arts 'gainst human wisdom brought. + Let elegance and bounty here unite-- + There kings beneficent and courts polite; + Here nature's wealth--there chemist's golden dreams; + Her texture here--and there the statesman's schemes; + Conspicuous here let sacred truth appear-- + The courtier's word, and lordling's honour, there; + Here native sweets in boon profusion flow-- + There smells that scented nothing of a beau; + Let justice here unequal combat wage-- + Nor poise the judgment of the law-learned sage; + Though all-proportioned with exactest skill, + Yet gay as woman's wish, and various as her will. + O say ye pitied, envied, wretched great, + Who veil pernicion with the mask of state! + Whence are those domes that reach the mocking skies, + And vainly emulous of nature rise? + Behold the swain projected o'er the vale! + See slumbering peace his rural eyelids seal; + Earth's flowery lap supports his vacant head, + Beneath his limbs her broidered garments spread; + Aloft her elegant pavilion bends, + And living shade of vegetation lends, + With ever propagated bounty blessed, + And hospitably spread for every guest: + No tinsel here adorns a tawdry woof, + Nor lying wash besmears a varnished roof; + With native mode the vivid colours shine, + And Heaven's own loom has wrought the weft divine, + Where art veils art, and beauties' beauties close, + While central grace diffused throughout the system flows. + + + [THE SPLENDOUR OF INSECTS] + + Gemmed o'er their heads the mines of India gleam, + And heaven's own wardrobe has arrayed their frame; + Each spangled back bright sprinkling specks adorn, + Each plume imbibes the rosy-tinctured morn; + Spread on each wing, the florid seasons glow, + Shaded and verged with the celestial bow, + Where colours blend an ever-varying dye, + And wanton in their gay exchanges vie. + Not all the glitter fops and fair ones prize, + The pride of fools, and pity of the wise; + Not all the show and mockery of state, + The little, low, fine follies of the great; + Not all the wealth which eastern pageants wore, + What still our idolizing worlds adore; + Can boast the least inimitable grace + Which decks profusive this illustrious race. + + + [MORAL LESSONS FROM ANIMAL LIFE] + + Ye self-sufficient sons of reasoning pride, + Too wise to take Omniscience for your guide, + Those rules from insects, birds, and brutes discern + Which from the Maker you disdain to learn! + The social friendship, and the firm ally, + The filial sanctitude, and nuptial tie, + Patience in want, and faith to persevere, + Th' endearing sentiment, and tender care, + Courage o'er private interest to prevail, + And die all Decii for the public weal. + + + [PROMPTINGS OF DIVINE INSTINCT] + + Dispersed through every copse or marshy plain, + Where hunts the woodcock or the annual crane, + Where else encamped the feathered legions spread + Or bathe incumbent on their oozy bed, + The brimming lake thy smiling presence fills, + And waves the banners of a thousand hills. + Thou speed'st the summons of thy warning voice: + Winged at thy word, the distant troops rejoice, + From every quarter scour the fields of air, + And to the general rendezvous repair; + Each from the mingled rout disporting turns, + And with the love of kindred plumage burns. + Thy potent will instinctive bosoms feel, + And here arranging semilunar, wheel; + Or marshalled here the painted rhomb display + Or point the wedge that cleaves th' aërial way: + Uplifted on thy wafting breath they rise; + Thou pav'st the regions of the pathless skies, + Through boundless tracts support'st the journeyed host + And point'st the voyage to the certain coast,-- + Thou the sure compass and the sea they sail, + The chart, the port, the steerage, and the gale! + + + PROLOGUE TO 'GUSTAVUS VASA' + + Britons! this night presents a state distressed: + Though brave, yet vanquished; and though great, oppressed. + Vice, ravening vulture, on her vitals preyed; + Her peers, her prelates, fell corruption swayed: + Their rights, for power, the ambitious weakly sold: + The wealthy, poorly, for superfluous gold, + Hence wasting ills, hence severing factions rose, + And gave large entrance to invading foes: + Truth, justice, honour, fled th' infected shore; + For freedom, sacred freedom, was no more. + Then, greatly rising in his country's right, + Her hero, her deliverer sprung to light: + A race of hardy northern sons he led, + Guiltless of courts, untainted and unread; + Whose inborn spirit spurned the ignoble fee, + Whose hands scorned bondage, for their hearts were free. + Ask ye what law their conquering cause confessed?-- + Great Nature's law, the law within the breast: + Formed by no art, and to no sect confined, + But stamped by Heaven upon th' unlettered mind. + Such, such of old, the first born natives were + Who breathed the virtues of Britannia's air, + Their realm when mighty Caesar vainly sought, + For mightier freedom against Caesar fought, + And rudely drove the famed invader home, + To tyrannize o'er polished--venal Rome. + Our bard, exalted in a freeborn flame, + To every nation would transfer this claim: + He to no state, no climate, bounds his page, + But bids the moral beam through every age. + Then be your judgment generous as his plan; + Ye sons of freedom! save the friend of man. + + + From CONRADE, A FRAGMENT + + What do I love--what is it that mine eyes + Turn round in search of--that my soul longs after, + But cannot quench her thirst?--'Tis Beauty, Phelin! + I see it wide beneath the arch of heaven, + When the stars peep upon their evening hour, + And the moon rises on the eastern wave, + Housed in a cloud of gold! I see it wide + In earth's autumnal taints of various landscape + When the first ray of morning tips the trees, + And fires the distant rock! I hear its voice + When thy hand sends the sound along the gale, + Swept from the silver strings or on mine ear + Drops the sweet sadness! At my heart I feel + Its potent grasp, I melt beneath the touch, + When the tale pours upon my sense humane + The woes of other times! What art thou, Beauty? + Thou art not colour, fancy, sound, nor form-- + These but the conduits are, whence the soul quaffs + The liquor of its heaven. Whate'er thou art, + Nature, or Nature's spirit, thou art all + I long for! Oh, descend upon my thoughts! + To thine own music tune, thou power of grace, + The cordage of my heart! Fill every shape + That rises to my dream or wakes to vision; + And touch the threads of every mental nerve, + With all thy sacred feelings! + + + + + MATTHEW GREEN + + + FROM THE SPLEEN + + To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen + Some recommend the bowling-green; + Some, hilly walks; all, exercise; + Fling but a stone, the giant dies. + Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been + Extreme good doctors for the spleen; + And kitten, if the humour hit, + Has harlequined away the fit. + + Since mirth is good in this behalf, + At some particulars let us laugh: + Witlings, brisk fools, cursed with half-sense, + That stimulates their impotence; + Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies, + Err with their wings for want of eyes; + Poor authors worshipping a calf, + Deep tragedies that make us laugh, + A strict dissenter saying grace, + A lecturer preaching for a place, + Folks, things prophetic to dispense, + Making the past the future tense, + The popish dubbing of a priest, + Fine epitaphs on knaves deceased. + + * * * * * + + Forced by soft violence of prayer, + The blithesome goddess soothes my care, + I feel the deity inspire, + And thus she models my desire. + Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid, + Annuity securely made, + A farm some twenty miles from town, + Small, tight, salubrious, and my own; + Two maids, that never saw the town, + A serving-man not quite a clown, + A boy to help to tread the mow, + And drive, while t'other holds the plough; + A chief, of temper formed to please, + Fit to converse, and keep the keys; + And better to preserve the peace, + Commissioned by the name of niece; + With understandings of a size + To think their master very wise. + + + + + WILLIAM SHENSTONE + + + FROM THE SCHOOLMISTRESS + + Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, + Emblem right meet of decency does yield: + Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, + As is the harebell that adorns the field; + + And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield + Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, + With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled; + And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, + And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. + + * * * * * + + A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; + A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; + 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; + 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! + 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare; + And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around, + Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; + For they in gaping wonderment abound, + And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. + + * * * * * + + Lo, now with state she utters the command! + Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; + Their books of stature small they take in hand, + Which with pellucid horn securèd are; + To save from finger wet the letters fair: + The work so gay, that on their back is seen, + St. George's high achievements does declare; + On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been + Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween! + + Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beam + Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write! + As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, + Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, + Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. + For brandishing the rod, she doth begin + To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight! + And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, + Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. + + O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, + His little sister doth his peril see: + All playful as she sate, she grows demure; + She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; + She meditates a prayer to set him free: + Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, + (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) + To her sad grief that swells in either eye, + And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. + + The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, + Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: + By turns, astonied, every twig survey, + And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware; + Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; + Till fear has taught them a performance meet, + And to the well-known chest the dame repairs; + Whence oft with sugared cates she doth 'em greet, + And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet! + + * * * * * + + Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear! + Even now sagacious foresight points to show + A little bench of heedless bishops here, + And there a chancellor in embryo, + Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, + As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die! + Though now he crawl along the ground so low, + Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high, + Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly. + + + + WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY + + + To thee, fair freedom! I retire + From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; + Nor art thou found in mansions higher + Than the low cot, or humble inn. + + 'Tis here with boundless power I reign; + And every health which I begin, + Converts dull port to bright champagne; + Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. + + I fly from pomp, I fly from plate! + I fly from falsehood's specious grin! + Freedom I love, and form I hate, + And choose my lodgings at an inn. + + Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, + Which lacqueys else might hope to win; + It buys, what courts have not in store; + It buys me freedom, at an inn. + + Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, + Where'er his stages may have been, + May sigh to think he still has found + The warmest welcome at an inn. + + + + + JONATHAN SWIFT + + + FROM THE BEASTS' CONFESSION + + When beasts could speak, (the learned say + They still can do so every day,) + It seems they had religion then, + As much as now we find in men. + It happened, when a plague broke out, + (Which therefore made them more devout,) + The king of brutes (to make it plain, + Of quadrupeds I only mean) + By proclamation gave command + That every subject in the land + Should to the priest confess their sins; + And thus the pious Wolf begins:-- + 'Good father, I must own with shame, + That often I have been to blame: + I must confess, on Friday last, + Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: + But I defy the basest tongue + To prove I did my neighbour wrong; + Or ever went to seek my food, + By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.' + + The Ass approaching next, confessed + That in his heart he loved a jest: + A wag he was, he needs must own, + And could not let a dunce alone: + + Sometimes his friend he would not spare, + And might perhaps be too severe: + But yet the worst that could be said, + He was a wit both born and bred; + And, if it be a sin and shame, + Nature alone must bear the blame: + One fault he has, is sorry for't, + His ears are half a foot too short; + Which could he to the standard bring, + He'd show his face before the king: + Then for his voice, there's none disputes + That he's the nightingale of brutes. + + The Swine with contrite heart allowed + His shape and beauty made him proud: + In diet was perhaps too nice, + But gluttony was ne'er his vice: + In every turn of life content, + And meekly took what fortune sent; + Inquire through all the parish round, + A better neighbour ne'er was found; + His vigilance might some displease; + 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. + + The mimic Ape began his chatter, + How evil tongues his life bespatter; + Much of the censuring world complained, + Who said, his gravity was feigned: + Indeed, the strictness of his morals + Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: + He saw, and he was grieved to see 't, + His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: + He found his virtues too severe + For our corrupted times to bear; + Yet such a lewd licentious age + Might well excuse a stoic's rage. + + The Goat advanced with decent pace, + And first excused his youthful face; + Forgiveness begged that he appeared + ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. + 'Tis true, he was not much inclined + To fondness for the female kind: + Not, as his enemies object, + From chance, or natural defect; + + Not by his frigid constitution; + But through a pious resolution: + For he had made a holy vow + Of chastity, as monks do now: + Which he resolved to keep for ever hence + And strictly too, as doth his reverence. + + Apply the tale, and you shall find, + How just it suits with human kind. + Some faults we own; but can you guess? + --Why, virtues carried to excess, + Wherewith our vanity endows us, + Though neither foe nor friend allows us. + + The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) + He never squeezed a needy client; + And this he makes his constant rule, + For which his brethren call him fool; + His conscience always was so nice, + He freely gave the poor advice; + By which he lost, he may affirm, + A hundred fees last Easter term; + While others of the learned robe, + Would break the patience of a Job. + No pleader at the bar could match + His diligence and quick dispatch; + Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, + Above a term or two at most. + + The cringing Knave, who seeks a place + Without success, thus tells his case: + Why should he longer mince the matter? + He failed, because he could not flatter; + He had not learned to turn his coat, + Nor for a party give his vote: + His crime he quickly understood; + Too zealous for the nation's good: + He found the ministers resent it, + Yet could not for his heart repent it. + + The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, + Though it would raise him to the lawn: + He passed his hours among his books; + You find it in his meagre looks: + He might, if he were worldly wise, + Preferment get, and spare his eyes; + But owns he had a stubborn spirit, + That made him trust alone to merit; + Would rise by merit to promotion; + Alas! a mere chimeric notion. + + The Doctor, if you will believe him, + Confessed a sin; (and God forgive him!) + Called up at midnight, ran to save + A blind old beggar from the grave: + But see how Satan spreads his snares; + He quite forgot to say his prayers. + He cannot help it, for his heart, + Sometimes to act the parson's part: + Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, + That moves his patients to repentance; + And, when his medicines do no good, + Supports their minds with heavenly food: + At which, however well intended. + He hears the clergy are offended; + And grown so bold behind his back, + To call him hypocrite and quack. + + * * * * * + + I own the moral not exact, + Besides, the tale is false, in fact; + And so absurd, that could I raise up, + From fields Elysian, fabling. + Aesop, I would accuse him to his face, + For libelling the four-foot race. + Creatures of every kind but ours + Well comprehend their natural powers, + While we, whom reason ought to sway, + Mistake our talents every day. + The Ass was never known so stupid + To act the part of Tray or Cupid; + Nor leaps upon his master's lap. + There to be stroked, and fed with pap, + As Aesop would the world persuade; + He better understands his trade: + Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, + But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. + Our author's meaning, I presume, is + A creature _bipes et implumis_; + + Wherein the moralist designed + A compliment on human kind; + For here he owns, that now and then + Beasts may degenerate into men. + + + FROM VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT + + Vain human kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, + Their empire in our hearts divide. + Give others riches, power, and station, + 'Tis all on me a usurpation. + I have no title to aspire; + Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. + In Pope I cannot read a line + But with a sigh I wish it mine; + When he can in one couplet fix + More sense than I can do in six, + It gives me such a jealous fit I cry, + 'Pox take him and his wit!' + I grieve to be outdone by Gay + In my own humorous biting way. + Arbuthnot is no more my friend, + Who dares to irony pretend, + Which I was born to introduce, + Refined it first, and showed its use. + St. John, as well as Pultney, knows, + That I had some repute for prose; + And, till they drove me out of date, + Could maul a minister of state. + If they have _mortified_ my pride, + And made me throw my pen aside: + If with such talents Heaven has blessed 'em, + Have I not reason to detest 'em? + + * * * * * + + Suppose me dead; and then suppose + A club assembled at the Rose; + Where, from discourse of this and that, + I grow the subject of their chat. + + And while they toss my name about, + With favour some, and some without, + One, quite indifferent in the cause, + My character impartial draws: + + 'The Dean, if we believe report, + Was never ill-received at court. + As for his works in verse and prose, + I own myself no judge of those; + Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em, + But this I know, all people bought 'em, + As with a moral view designed + To cure the vices of mankind, + His vein, ironically grave, + Exposed the fool, and lashed the knave. + To steal a hint was never known, + But what he writ was all his own. + + 'He never thought an honour done him, + Because a duke was proud to own him; + Would rather slip aside and choose + To talk with wits in dirty shoes; + Despised the fools with stars and garters, + So often seen caressing Chartres. + He never courted men in station, + Nor persons held in admiration; + Of no man's greatness was afraid, + Because he sought for no man's aid. + Though trusted long in great affairs, + He gave himself no haughty airs. + Without regarding private ends. + Spent all his credit for his friends; + And only chose the wise and good; + No flatterers; no allies in blood: + But succoured virtue in distress, + And seldom failed of good success; + As numbers in their hearts must own, + Who, but for him, had been unknown. + + * * * * * + + 'Perhaps I may allow the Dean + Had too much satire in his vein; + And seemed determined not to starve it, + Because no age could more deserve it. + + Yet malice never was his aim; + He lashed the vice, but spared the name; + No individual could resent, + Where thousands equally were meant; + His satire points at no defect, + But what all mortals may correct; + For he abhorred that senseless tribe + Who call it humour when they gibe: + He spared a hump, or crooked nose, + Whose owners set not up for beaux. + True genuine dulness moved his pity, + Unless it offered to be witty. + Those who their ignorance confessed, + He never offended with a jest; + But laughed to hear an idiot quote + A verse from Horace learned by rote. + + 'He knew a hundred pleasing stories, + With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: + Was cheerful to his dying day; + And friends would let him have his way. + + 'He gave the little wealth he had + To build a house for fools and mad; + And showed by one satiric touch, + No nation wanted it so much.' + + + + + CHARLES WESLEY + + + FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY + + Hark! how all the welkin rings + 'Glory to the King of kings! + Peace on earth, and mercy mild, + God and sinners reconciled!' + + Joyful, all ye nations, rise, + Join the triumph of the skies; + Universal nature say, + 'Christ the Lord is born to-day!' + + Christ, by highest Heaven adored; + Christ, the everlasting Lord; + Late in time behold Him come, + Offspring of a virgin's womb! + + Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; + Hail, th' incarnate Deity, + Pleased as man with men to appear, + Jesus, our Immanuel here! + + Hail! the heavenly Prince of Peace! + Hail! the Sun of Righteousness! + Light and life to all He brings, + Risen with healing in His wings. + + Mild He lays His glory by, + Barn that man no more may die, + Born to raise the sons of earth, + Born to give them second birth. + + Come, Desire of Nations, come, + Fix in us Thy humble home! + Rise, the Woman's conquering Seed, + Bruise in us the Serpent's head! + + Now display Thy saving power, + Ruined nature now restore, + Now in mystic union join + Thine to ours, and ours to Thine! + + Adam's likeness, Lord, efface; + Stamp Thy image in its place; + Second Adam from above, + Reinstate us in Thy love! + + Let us Thee, though lost, regain, + Thee, the Life, the Inner Man; + O! to all Thyself impart, + Formed in each believing heart! + + + FOR EASTER-DAY + + 'Christ the Lord is risen to-day,' + Sons of men and angels say: + Raise your joys and triumphs high, + Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply. + + Love's redeeming work is done, + Fought the fight, the battle won: + Lo! our Sun's eclipse is o'er; + Lo! He sets in blood no more. + + Vain the stone, the watch, the seal; + Christ hath burst the gates of hell! + Death in vain forbids His rise; + Christ hath opened Paradise! + + Lives again our glorious King: + Where, O Death, is now thy sting? + Dying once, He all doth save: + Where thy victory, O Grave? + + Soar we now where Christ has led, + Following our exalted Head; + Made like Him, like Him we rise; + Ours the Cross, the grave, the skies. + + What though once we perished all, + Partners in our parents' fall? + Second life we all receive, + In our Heavenly Adam live. + + Risen with Him, we upward move; + Still we seek the things above; + Still pursue, and kiss the Son + Seated on His Father's Throne. + + Scarce on earth a thought bestow, + Dead to all we leave below; + Heaven our aim, and loved abode, + Hid our life with Christ in God: + + Hid, till Christ our Life appear + Glorious in His members here; + Joined to Him, we then shall shine, + All immortal, all divine. + + Hail the Lord of Earth and Heaven! + Praise to Thee by both be given! + Thee we greet triumphant now! + Hail, the Resurrection Thou! + + King of glory, Soul of bliss! + Everlasting life is this, + Thee to know, Thy power to prove, + Thus to sing, and thus to love! + + + IN TEMPTATION + + Jesu, lover of my soul, + Let me to Thy bosom fly, + While the nearer waters roll, + While the tempest still is high! + Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, + Till the storm of life is past, + Safe into the haven guide; + O receive my soul at last! + + Other refuge have I none; + Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; + Leave, ah! leave me not alone, + Still support and comfort me! + All my trust on Thee is stayed, + All my help from Thee I bring: + Cover my defenceless head + With the shadow of Thy wing! + + Wilt Thou not regard my call? + Wilt Thou not accept my prayer? + Lo! I sink, I faint, I fall! + Lo! on Thee I cast my care! + Reach me out Thy gracious hand! + While I of Thy strength receive, + Hoping against hope I stand, + Dying, and behold I live! + + Thou, O Christ, art all I want; + More than all in Thee I find: + Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, + Heal the sick, and lead the blind! + Just and holy is Thy Name; + I am all unrighteousness; + False and full of sin I am, + Thou art full of truth and grace. + + Plenteous grace with Thee is found, + Grace to cover all my sin; + Let the healing streams abound; + Make and keep me pure within! + Thou of Life the Fountain art, + Freely let me take of Thee; + Spring Thou up within my heart! + Rise to all eternity! + + + WRESTLING JACOB + + Come, O thou Traveller unknown, + Whom still I hold, but cannot see; + My company before is gone, + And I am left alone with Thee; + With Thee all night I mean to stay, + And wrestle till the break of day. + + I need not tell Thee who I am, + My misery or sin declare; + Thyself hast called me by my name; + Look on Thy hands, and read it there! + But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou? + Tell me Thy name, and tell me now. + + In vain Thou strugglest to get free, + I never will unloose my hold; + Art Thou the Man that died for me? + The secret of Thy love unfold. + + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal + Thy new, unutterable name? + Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell: + To know it now, resolved I am: + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + 'Tis all in vain to hold Thy tongue, + Or touch the hollow of my thigh; + Though every sinew be unstrung, + Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly; + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + What though my shrinking flesh complain, + And murmur to contend so long? + I rise superior to my pain; + When I am weak, then I am strong: + And when my all of strength shall fail, + I shall with the God-Man prevail. + + My strength is gone; my nature dies; + I sink beneath Thy weighty hand, + Faint to revive, and fall to rise; + I fall, and yet by faith I stand: + I stand, and will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + Yield to me now, for I am weak, + But confident in self-despair; + Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, + Be conquered by my instant prayer! + Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move, + And tell me, if Thy name is Love? + + 'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me! + I hear Thy whisper in my heart! + The morning breaks, the shadows flee; + Pure universal Love Thou art! + To me, to all, Thy bowels move; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + My prayer hath power with God; the grace + Unspeakable I now receive; + Through faith I see Thee face to face, + I see Thee face to face, and live: + In vain I have not wept and strove; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art; + Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend! + Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, + But stay, and love me to the end! + Thy mercies never shall remove, + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + The Sun of Righteousness on me + Hath rose, with healing in His wings; + Withered my nature's strength, from Thee + My soul its life and succour brings; + My help is all laid up above; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + Contented now upon my thigh + I halt, till life's short journey end; + All helplessness, all weakness, I + On Thee alone for strength depend; + Nor have I power from Thee to move; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + Lame as I am, I take the prey, + Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome; + I leap for joy, pursue my way, + And as a bounding hart fly home! + Through all eternity to prove, + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + + + + ROBERT BLAIR + + + FROM THE GRAVE + + See yonder hallowed fane;--the pious work + Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, + And buried midst the wreck of things which were; + There lie interred the more illustrious dead. + The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks + Till now I never heard a sound so dreary: + Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, + Rooked in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles, + Black--plastered, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons + And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound + Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, + The mansions of the dead.--Roused from their slumbers, + In grim array the grisly spectres rise, + Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, + Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night. + Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! + I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill. + + * * * * * + + Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seen + By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees, + The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand, + Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, + And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, + (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,) + That tell in homely phrase who lie below. + Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, + The sound of something purring at his heels; + Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, + Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows; + Who gather round, and wonder at the tale + Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, + That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand + O'er some new-opened grave; and (strange to tell!) + Evanishes at crowing of the cock. + + The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spied, + Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead: + Listless, she crawls along in doleful black, + Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye, + Fast falling down her now untasted cheek: + Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man + She drops; whilst busy, meddling memory, + In barbarous succession musters up + The past endearments of their softer hours, + Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks + She sees him, and indulging the fond thought, + Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf, + Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way. + + * * * * * + + When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, + Not unattentive to the call, shall wake, + And every joint possess its proper place + With a new elegance of form unknown + To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul + Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd + Singling its other half, into its arms + Shall rush with all the impatience of a man + That's new come home, who having long been absent + With haste runs over every different room + In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! + Nor time nor death shall part them ever more. + 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night, + We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. + + Thus at the shut of even the weary bird + Leaves the wide air and, in some lonely brake, + Cowers down and dozes till the dawn of day, + Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away. + + + + + WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + + + FROM ON RIDICULE + + Our mirthful age, to all extremes a prey, + Even, courts the lash, and laughs her pains away, + Declining worth imperial wit supplies, + And Momus triumphs, while Astraea flies. + No truth so sacred, banter cannot hit, + No fool so stupid but he aims at wit. + Even those whose breasts ne'er planned one virtuous deed, + Nor raised a thought beyond the earth they tread: + Even those can censure, those can dare deride + A Bacon's avarice, or a Tully's pride; + And sneer at human checks by Nature given. + To curb perfection e'er it rival Heaven: + Nay, chiefly such in these low arts prevail, + Whose want of talents leaves them time to raid. + Born for no end, they worse than useless grow, + (As waters poison, if they cease to flow;) + And pests become, whom kinder fate designed + But harmless expletives of human kind. + See with what zeal th' insidious task they ply! + Where shall the prudent, where the virtuous fly? + Lurk as ye can, if they direct the ray, + The veriest atoms in the sunbeams play. + No venial slip their quick attention 'scapes; + They trace each Proteus through his hundred shapes; + To Mirth's tribunal drag the caitiff train, + Where Mercy sleeps, and Nature pleads in vain. + + * * * * * + + Here then we fix, and lash without control + These mental pests, and hydras of the soul; + Acquired ill-nature, ever prompt debate, + A seal for slander, and deliberate hate: + These court contempt, proclaim the public foe, + And each, Ulysses like, should aim the blow. + Yet sure, even here, our motives should be known: + Rail we to check his spleen, or ease our own? + + Does injured virtue every shaft supply, + Arm the keen tongue, and flush th' erected eye? + Or do we from ourselves ourselves disguise? + And act, perhaps, the villain we chastise? + Hope we to mend him? hopes, alas, how vain! + He feels the lash, not listens to the rein. + + 'Tis dangerous too, in these licentious times, + Howe'er severe the smile, to sport with crimes. + Vices when ridiculed, experience says, + First lose that horror which they ought to raise, + Grow by degrees approved, and almost aim at praise. + + * * * * * + + [The] fear of man, in his most mirthful mood, + May make us hypocrites, but seldom good. + + * * * * * + + Besides, in men have varying passions made + Such nice confusions, blending, light with shade, + That eager zeal to laugh the vice away + May hurt some virtue's intermingling ray. + + * * * * * + + Then let good-nature every charm exert, + And while it mends it, win th' unfolding heart. + Let moral mirth a face of triumph wear, + Yet smile unconscious of th' extorted tear. + See with what grace instructive satire flows, + Politely keen, in Olio's numbered prose! + That great example should our zeal excite, + And censors learn from Addison to write. + So, in our age, too prone to sport with pain, + Might soft humanity resume her reign; + Pride without rancour feel th' objected fault, + And folly blush, as willing to be taught; + Critics grow mild, life's witty warfare cease, + And true good-nature breathe the balm of peace. + + + THE ENTHUSIAST + + Once--I remember well the day, + 'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May + Had lost their freshest hues, + When every flower on every hill, + In every vale, had drank its fill + Of sunshine and of dews. + + In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime + When Spring gives up the reins of time + To Summer's glowing hand, + And doubting mortals hardly know + By whose command the breezes blow + Which fan the smiling land. + + 'Twas then, beside a greenwood shade + Which clothed a lawn's aspiring head, + I urged my devious way, + With loitering steps regardless where, + So soft, so genial was the air, + So wondrous bright the day. + + And now my eyes with transport rove + O'er all the blue expanse above, + Unbroken by a cloud! + And now beneath delighted pass, + Where winding through the deep-green grass + A full-brimmed river flowed. + + I stop, I gaze; in accents rude, + To thee, serenest Solitude, + Bursts forth th' unbidden lay; + 'Begone vile world! the learned, the wise, + The great, the busy, I despise, + And pity even the gay. + + 'These, these are joys alone, I cry, + 'Tis here, divine Philosophy, + Thou deign'st to fix thy throne! + Here contemplation points the road + Through nature's charms to nature's God! + These, these are joys alone! + + 'Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares, + Ye human hopes, and human fears, + Ye pleasures and ye pains!' + While thus I spake, o'er all my soul + A philosophic calmness stole, + A stoic stillness reigns. + + The tyrant passions all subside, + Fear, anger, pity, shame, and pride, + No more my bosom move; + Yet still I felt, or seemed to feel + A kind of visionary zeal + Of universal love. + + When lo! a voice, a voice I hear! + 'Twas Reason whispered in my ear + These monitory strains; + 'What mean'st thou, man? wouldst thou unbind + The ties which constitute thy kind, + The pleasures and the pains? + + 'The same Almighty Power unseen, + Who spreads the gay or solemn scene + To contemplation's eye, + Fixed every movement of the soul, + Taught every wish its destined goal, + And quickened every joy. + + 'He bids the tyrant passions rage, + He bids them war eternal wage, + And combat each his foe: + Till from dissensions concords rise, + And beauties from deformities, + And happiness from woe. + + 'Art thou not man, and dar'st thou find + A bliss which leans not to mankind? + Presumptuous thought and vain + Each bliss unshared is unenjoyed, + Each power is weak unless employed + Some social good to gain. + + 'Shall light and shade, and warmth and air. + With those exalted joys compare + Which active virtue feels, + When oil she drags, as lawful prize, + Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice, + At her triumphant wheels? + + 'As rest to labour still succeeds, + To man, whilst virtue's glorious deeds + Employ his toilsome day, + This fair variety of things + Are merely life's refreshing springs, + To sooth him on his way. + + 'Enthusiast go, unstring thy lyre, + In vain thou sing'st if none admire, + How sweet soe'er the strain, + And is not thy o'erflowing mind, + Unless thou mixest with thy kind, + Benevolent in vain? + + 'Enthusiast go, try every sense, + If not thy bliss, thy excellence, + Thou yet hast learned to scan; + At least thy wants, thy weakness know, + And see them all uniting show + That man was made for man.' + + + + + MARK AKENSIDE + + + FROM THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION + + [THE AESTHETIC AND MORAL INFLUENCE OF NATURE] + + Fruitless is the attempt, + By dull obedience and by creeping toil + Obscure, to conquer the severe ascent + Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath + Must fire the chosen genius; Nature's hand + + Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings, + Impatient of the painful steep, to soar + High as the summit, there to breathe at large + Ethereal air, with bards and sages old, + Immortal sons of praise. + + * * * * * + + Even so did Nature's hand + To certain species of external things + Attune the finer organs of the mind: + So the glad impulse of congenial powers, + Or of sweet sounds, or fair-proportioned form, + The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, + Thrills through imagination's tender frame, + From nerve to nerve; all naked and alive + They catch the spreading rays, till now the soul + At length discloses every tuneful spring, + To that harmonious movement from without + Responsive. + + * * * * * + + What then is taste, but these internal powers + Active, and strong, and feelingly alive + To each fine impulse? a discerning sense + Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust + From things deformed, or disarranged, or gross + In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, + Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; + But God alone, when first his active hand + Imprints the secret bias of the soul. + He, mighty parent wise and just in all, + Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven, + Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain + Who journey's homeward from a summer day's + Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils + And due repose, he loiters to behold + The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds + O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween, + His rude expression and untutored airs, + Beyond the power of language, will unfold + The form of beauty smiling at his heart-- + How lovely! how commanding! + + * * * * * + + Oh! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs + Of Luxury, the siren! nor the bribes + Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils + Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave + Those ever-blooming sweets which, from the store + Of Nature, fair Imagination culls + To charm th' enlivened soul! What though not all + Of mortal offspring can attain the heights + Of envied life, though only few possess + Patrician treasures or imperial state; + Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, + With richer treasure and an ampler state, + Endows at large whatever happy man + Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp; + The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns + The princely dome, the column and the arch, + The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, + Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, + His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring + Distils her dews, and from the silken gem + Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand + Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch + With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. + Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; + And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, + And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze + Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes + The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain + From all the tenants of the warbling shade + Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake + Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes + Fresh pleasure only; for th' attentive mind, + By this harmonious action on her powers, + Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft + In outward things to meditate the charm + Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home + To find a kindred order, to exert + Within herself this elegance of love, + This fair-inspired delight; her tempered powers + Refine at length, and every passion wears + A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. + But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze + On Nature's form where, negligent of all + These lesser graces, she assumes the part + Of that Eternal Majesty that weighed + The world's foundations, if to these the mind + Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far + Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms + Of servile custom cramp her generous powers? + Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth + Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down + To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? + Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds + And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course + The elements and seasons: all declare + For what th' Eternal Maker has ordained + The powers of man: we feel within ourselves + His energy divine: he tells the heart + He meant, he made us, to behold and love + What he beholds and loves, the general orb + Of life and being; to be great like him, + Beneficent and active. Thus the men + Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself + Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, + With his conceptions; act upon his plan; + And form to his, the relish of their souls. + + + + + JOSEPH WARTON + + + FROM THE ENTHUSIAST; OR, THE LOVER OF + NATURE + + Ye green-robed Dryads, oft at dusky eve + By wondering shepherds seen, to forests brown + To unfrequented meads, and pathless wilds, + Lead me from gardens decked with art's vain pomps. + Can gilt alcoves, can marble-mimic gods + Parterres embroidered, obelisks, and urns + Of high relief; can the long, spreading lake, + Or vista lessening to the sight; can Stow, + With all her Attic fanes, such raptures raise, + As the thrush-haunted copse, where lightly leaps + The fearful fawn the rustling leaves along, + And the brisk squirrel sports from bough to bough, + While from an hollow oak, whose naked roots + O'erhang a pensive rill, the busy bees + Hum drowsy lullabies? The bards of old, + Fair Nature's friends, sought such retreats, to charm + Sweet Echo with their songs; oft too they met + In summer evenings, near sequestered bowers, + Or mountain nymph, or Muse, and eager learnt + The moral strains she taught to mend mankind. + + * * * * * + + Rich in her weeping country's spoils, Versailles + May boast a thousand fountains, that can cast + The tortured waters to the distant heavens: + Yet let me choose some pine-topped precipice + Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy stream, + Like Anio, tumbling roars; or some bleak heath, + Where straggling stands the mournful juniper, + Or yew-tree scathed; while in clear prospect round + From the grove's bosom spires emerge, and smoke + In bluish wreaths ascends, ripe harvests wave, + Low, lonely cottages, and ruined tops + Of Gothic battlements appear, and streams + Beneath the sunbeams twinkle. + + Happy the first of men, ere yet confined + To smoky cities; who in sheltering groves, + Warm caves, and deep-sunk valleys lived and loved, + By cares unwounded; what the sun and showers, + And genial earth untillaged, could produce, + They gathered grateful, or the acorn brown + Or blushing berry; by the liquid lapse + Of murmuring waters called to slake their thirst, + Or with fair nymphs their sun-brown limbs to bathe; + With nymphs who fondly clasped their favourite youths, + Unawed by shame, beneath the beechen shade, + Nor wiles nor artificial coyness knew. + Then doors and walls were not; the melting maid + Nor frown of parents feared, nor husband's threats; + + Nor had cursed gold their tender hearts allured: + Then beauty was not venal. Injured Love, + Oh! whither, god of raptures, art thou fled? + + * * * * * + + What are the lays of artful Addison, + Coldly correct, to Shakespeare's warblings wild? + Whom on the winding Avon's willowed banks + Fair Fancy found, and bore the smiling babe + To a close cavern (still the shepherds show + The sacred place, whence with religious awe + They hear, returning from the field at eve, + Strange whisperings of sweet music through the air). + Here, as with honey gathered from the rock, + She fed the little prattler, and with songs + Oft soothed his wandering ears; with deep delight + On her soft lap he sat, and caught the sounds. + + Oft near some crowded city would I walk, + Listening the far-off noises, rattling cars, + Loud shouts of joy, sad shrieks of sorrow, knells + Full slowly tolling, instruments of trade, + Striking my ears with one deep-swelling hum. + Or wandering near the sea, attend the sounds + Of hollow winds and ever-beating waves. + Even when wild tempests swallow up the plains, + And Boreas' blasts, big hail, and rains combine + To shake the groves and mountains, would I sit, + Pensively musing on th' outrageous crimes + That wake Heaven's vengeance: at such solemn hours, + Demons and goblins through the dark air shriek, + While Hecat, with her black-browed sisters nine, + Bides o'er the Earth, and scatters woes and death. + Then, too, they say, in drear Egyptian wilds + The lion and the tiger prowl for prey + With roarings loud! The listening traveller + Starts fear-struck, while the hollow echoing vaults + Of pyramids increase the deathful sounds. + + But let me never fail in cloudless nights, + When silent Cynthia in her silver car + Through the blue concave slides, when shine the hills, + Twinkle the streams, and woods look tipped with gold, + To seek some level mead, and there invoke + + Old Midnight's sister, Contemplation sage, + (Queen of the rugged brow and stern-fixt eye,) + To lift my soul above this little earth, + This folly-fettered world: to purge my ears, + That I may hear the rolling planets' song, + And tuneful turning spheres: if this be barred + The little fays, that dance in neighbouring dales, + Sipping the night-dew, while they laugh and love, + Shall charm me with aërial notes.--As thus + I wander musing, lo, what awful forms + Yonder appear! sharp-eyed Philosophy + Clad in dun robes, an eagle on his wrist, + First meets my eye; next, virgin Solitude + Serene, who blushes at each gazer's sight; + Then Wisdom's hoary head, with crutch in hand, + Trembling, and bent with age; last Virtue's self, + Smiling, in white arrayed, who with her leads + Sweet Innocence, that prattles by her side, + A naked boy!--Harassed with fear I stop, + I gaze, when Virtue thus--'Whoe'er thou art, + Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld + In these my midnight walks; depart, and say, + That henceforth I and my immortal train + Forsake Britannia's isle; who fondly stoops + To vice, her favourite paramour.' She spoke, + And as she turned, her round and rosy neck, + Her flowing train, and long ambrosial hair, + Breathing rich odours, I enamoured view. + + O who will bear me then to western climes, + Since virtue leaves our wretched land, to fields + Yet unpolluted with Iberian swords, + The isles of innocence, from mortal view + Deeply retired, beneath a plantain's shade, + Where happiness and quiet sit enthroned. + With simple Indian swains, that I may hunt + The boar and tiger through savannahs wild, + Through fragrant deserts and through citron groves? + There fed on dates and herbs, would I despise + The far-fetched cates of luxury, and hoards + Of narrow-hearted avarice; nor heed + The distant din of the tumultuous world. + + + + + JOHN GILBERT COOPER + + + FROM THE POWER OF HARMONY + + THE HARMONY OF NATURE + + Hail, thrice hail! + Ye solitary seats, where Wisdom seeks + Beauty and Good, th' unseparable pair, + Sweet offspring of the sky, those emblems fair + Of the celestial cause, whose tuneful word + From discord and from chaos raised this globe + And all the wide effulgence of the day. + From him begins this beam of gay delight, + When aught harmonious strikes th' attentive mind; + In him shall end; for he attuned the frame + Of passive organs with internal sense, + To feel an instantaneous glow of joy, + When Beauty from her native seat of Heaven, + Clothed in ethereal wildness, on our plains + Descends, ere Reason with her tardy eye + Can view the form divine; and through the world + The heavenly boon to every being flows. + + * * * * * + + Nor less admire those things, which viewed apart + Uncouth appear, or horrid; ridges black + Of shagged rocks, which hang tremendous o'er + Some barren heath; the congregated clouds + Which spread their sable skirts, and wait the wind + To burst th' embosomed storm; a leafless wood, + A mouldering ruin, lightning-blasted fields; + Nay, e'en the seat where Desolation reigns + In brownest horror; by familiar thought + Connected to this universal frame, + With equal beauty charms the tasteful soul + As the gold landscapes of the happy isles + Crowned with Hesperian fruit: for Nature formed + One plan entire, and made each separate scene + Co-operate with the general of all + In that harmonious contrast. + + * * * * * + + From these sweet meditations on the charms + Of things external, on the genuine forms + Which blossom in creation, on the scene + Where mimic art with emulative hue + Usurps the throne of Nature unreproved, + On the just concord of mellifluent sounds; + The soul, and all the intellectual train + Of fond desires, gay hopes, or threatening fears, + Through this habitual intercourse of sense + Is harmonized within, till all is fair + And perfect; till each moral power perceives + Its own resemblance, with fraternal joy, + In every form complete, and smiling feels + Beauty and Good the same. + + + + + WILLIAM COLLINS + + ODE + + Written in the beginning of the year 1746 + + How sleep the brave who sink to rest + By all their country's wishes blest! + When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, + Returns to deck their hallowed mould, + She there shall dress a sweeter sod + 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! + + + ODE TO EVENING + + If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song + May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, + Like thy own solemn springs + Thy springs and dying gales, + + O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun + Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, + With brede ethereal wove, + O'erhang his wavy bed: + + Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, + With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing; + 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 softened strain, + + Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, + May not unseemly with its stillness suit, + As, musing slow, I hail + Thy genial loved return! + + For when thy folding-star, arising, shows + His paly circlet, at his warning lamp + The fragrant Hours, and elves + Who slept in flowers 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-hallowed pile + Or upland fallows grey + Reflect its last cool gleam. + + But when chill blustering winds or driving rain + Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut + That from the mountain's side + Views wilds, and swelling floods, + + And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, + And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all + Thy dewy fingers draw + The gradual dusky veil. + + While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, + And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve; + While Summer loves to sport + Beneath thy lingering light; + + While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; + Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, + Affrights thy shrinking train, + And rudely rends thy robes; + + So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, + Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipped Health, + Thy gentlest influence own, + And hymn, thy favourite name! + + + ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER + + STROPHE + + As once---if not with light regard + I read aright that gifted bard + (Him whose school above the rest + His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest)-- + One, only one, unrivalled fair + Might hope the magic girdle wear, + At solemn tourney hung on high, + The wish of each love-darting eye; + Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied, + As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, + Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame, + With whispered spell had burst the starting band, + + It left unblest her loathed, dishonoured side; + Happier, hopeless fair, if never + Her baffled hand, with vain endeavour, + Had touched that fatal zone to her denied! + Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, + To whom, prepared and bathed in heaven, + The cest of amplest power is given, + To few the godlike gift assigns + To gird their blest, prophetic loins, + And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmixed her flame! + + EPODE + + The band, as fairy legends say, + Was wove on that creating day + When He who called with thought to birth + Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, + And dressed with springs and forests tall, + And poured the main engirting all, + Long by the loved enthusiast wood, + Himself in some diviner mood, + Retiring, sate with her alone, + And placed her on his sapphire throne, + The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, + Seraphic wires were heard to sound, + Now sublimest triumph swelling, + Now on love and mercy dwelling; + And she, from out the veiling cloud, + Breathed her magic notes aloud, + And thou, thou rich-haired Youth of Morn, + And all thy subject life, was born! + The dangerous passions kept aloof, + Far from the sainted growing woof: + But near it sate ecstatic Wonder, + Listening the deep applauding thunder; + And Truth, in sunny vest arrayed, + By whose the tarsel's eyes were made; + All the shadowy tribes of mind, + In braided dance, their murmurs joined, + And all the bright uncounted powers + Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers. + Where is the bard whose soul can now + Its high presuming hopes avow? + Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, + This hallowed work for him designed? + + ANTISTROPHE + + High on some cliff, to heaven up-piled, + Of rude access, of prospect wild, + Where, tangled round the jealous steep, + Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep. + And holy genii guard the rock, + Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, + While on its rich ambitious head + An Eden, like his own, lies spread, + + I view that oak, the fancied glades among, + By which as Milton lay, his evening ear, + From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew, + Nigh sphered in heaven, its native strains could hear, + On which that ancient trump he reached was hung: + Thither oft, his glory greeting, + From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, + With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, + My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue; + In vain--such bliss to one alone + Of all the sons of soul was known, + And Heaven and Fancy, kindred powers, + Have now o'erturned th' inspiring bowers, + Or curtained close such scene from every future view. + + + THE PASSIONS + + AN ODE FOR MUSIC + + When Music, heavenly maid, was young, + While yet in early Greece she sung, + The Passions oft, to hear her shell, + Thronged around her magic cell, + Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, + Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; + By turns they felt the glowing mind + Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: + + Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, + Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, + From the supporting myrtles round + They snatched her instruments of sound; + And, as they oft had heard apart + Sweet lessons of her forceful art, + Each (for madness ruled the hour) + Would prove his own expressive power. + + First Fear in hand, its skill to try, + Amid the chords bewildered laid, + And back recoiled, he knew not why, + Even at the sound himself had made. + + Next Anger rushed: his eyes, on fire, + In lightnings owned his secret stings; + In one rude clash he struck the lyre, + And swept with hurried hand the strings. + + With woeful measures wan Despair + Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; + A solemn, strange, and mingled air-- + 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. + + But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, + What was thy delightful measure? + Still it whispered promised pleasure, + And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! + Still would her touch the strain prolong; + And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, + She called on Echo still, through all the song; + And where her sweetest theme she chose, + A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, + And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. + + And longer had she sung--but with a frown + Revenge impatient rose; + He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, + And with a withering look + The war-denouncing trumpet took, + And blew a blast so loud and dread, + Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. + + And ever and anon he beat + The doubling drum with furious heat; + And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, + Dejected Pity, at his side, + Her soul-subduing voice applied, + Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, + While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. + Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed, + Sad proof of thy distressful state; + Of differing themes the veering--song was mixed, + And now It courted Love, now raving called on Hate. + + With eyes upraised, as one inspired, + Pale Melancholy sate retired, + And from her wild sequestered seat, + In notes by distance made more sweet, + Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; + And, dashing soft from rocks around, + Bubbling runnels joined the sound: + Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, + Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, + Round an holy calm diffusing, + Love of peace and lonely musing, + In hollow murmurs died away, + + But O how altered was its sprightlier tone, + When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, + Her how across her shoulder flung, + Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, + Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, + The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known! + The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, + Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, + Peeping from forth their alleys green; + Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; + And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. + Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: + He, with viny crown advancing, + First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; + But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, + Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. + + They would have thought, who heard the strain, + They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, + Amidst the festal-sounding shades, + To some unwearied minstrel dancing, + While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, + Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round; + Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, + And he, amidst his frolic play, + As if he would the charming air repay, + Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. + + O Music! sphere-descended maid! + Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! + Why, goddess, why, to us denied, + Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? + As in that loved Athenian bower + You learned an all-commanding power, + Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared, + Can well recall what then it heard. + Where is thy native simple heart, + Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? + Arise as in that elder time, + Warm energic, chaste, sublime! + Thy wonders, in that godlike age, + Fill thy recording sister's page: + 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, + Thy humblest reed could more prevail, + Had more of strength, diviner rage, + Than all which charms this laggard age, + E'en all at once together found, + Cecilia's mingled world of sound. + O bid our vain endeavours cease: + Revive the just designs of Greece; + Return in all thy simple state; + Confirm the tales her sons relate! + + + ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF + THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND + + CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY + + I + + H----, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long + Have seen thee lingering, with a fond delay, + 'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, + Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. + Go, not, unmindful of that cordial youth + Whom, long-endeared, thou leav'st by Levant's side; + Together let us wish him lasting truth, + And joy untainted, with his destined bride. + Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast + My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; + But think, far off, how on the Southern coast + I met thy friendship with an equal flame! + Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose every vale + Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: + To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; + Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand, + And paint what all believe who own thy genial land. + + II + + There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; + 'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet, + Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet + Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill. + There each trim lass that skims the milky store + To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots; + By night they sip it round the cottage door, + While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. + There every herd, by sad experience, knows + How, winged with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly; + When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, + Or, stretched on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. + Such airy beings awe th' untutored swain: + Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect; + Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain: + These are the themes of simple, sure effect, + That add new conquests to her boundless reign, + And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain. + + III + + Even yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear, + Where to the pole the boreal mountains run, + Taught by the father to his listening son, + Strange lays, whose power had charmed a Spenser's ear. + At every pause, before thy mind possessed, + Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, + With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest, + Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned: + Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat + The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, + When every shrieking maid her bosom beat, + And strewed with choicest herbs his scented grave; + Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel, + Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms, + When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, + The sturdy clans poured forth their bony swarms, + And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms. + + IV + + 'Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells, + In Skye's lone isle the gifted wizard seer, + Lodged in the wintry cave with [Fate's fell spear;] + Or in the depth of Uist's dark forests dwells: + How they whose sight such dreary dreams engross, + With their own visions oft astonished droop, + When o'er the watery strath of quaggy moss + They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop; + Or if in sports, or on the festive green, + Their [destined] glance some fated youth descry, + Who, now perhaps in lusty vigour seen + And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. + For them the viewless forms of air obey, + Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. + They know what spirit brews the stormful day, + And, heartless, oft like moody madness stare + To see the phantom train their secret work prepare. + + V + + [To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, + Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow! + The seer, in Skye, shrieked as the blood did flow, + When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay! + As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth, + In the first year of the first George's reign, + And battles raged in welkin of the North, + They mourned in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! + And as, of late, they joyed in Preston's fight, + Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crowned, + They raved, divining, through their second sight, + Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drowned! + Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! + One William saved us from a tyrant's stroke; + He, for a sceptre, gained heroic fame; + But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, + To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke! + + VI + + These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic Muse + Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar! + Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more! + Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er lose; + Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath: + Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, + He glows, to draw you downward to your death, + In his bewitched, low, marshy willow brake!] + What though far off, from some dark dell espied, + His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight, + Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, + Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; + For, watchful, lurking 'mid th' unrustling reed, + At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, + And listens oft to hear the passing steed, + And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, + If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise. + + VII + + Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest indeed! + Whom, late bewildered in the dank, dark fen, + Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then, + To that sad spot [where hums the sedgy weed:] + On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, + Shall never look with Pity's kind concern, + But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood + O'er its drowned bank, forbidding all return. + Or, if he meditate his wished escape + To some dim hill that seems uprising near, + To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape, + In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. + Meantime, the watery surge shall round him rise, + Poured sudden forth from every swelling source. + What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? + His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, + And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse. + + VIII + + For him, in vain, his anxious wife shall wait, + Or wander forth to meet him on his way; + For him, in vain, at to-fall of the day, + His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate. + Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night + Her travelled limbs in broken slumbers steep, + With dropping willows dressed, his mournful sprite + Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: + Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, + Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, + And with his blue-swoln face before her stand, + And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: + 'Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue + At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; + Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew, + While I lie weltering on the oziered shore, + Drowned by the kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!' + + IX + + Unbounded is thy range; with varied style + Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring + From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing + Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle + To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows: + In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, + Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, + And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground! + Or thither, where, beneath the showery West, + The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: + Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest; + No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: + Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour, + The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, + And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, + In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold, + And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold. + + X + + But oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, + On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, + Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. + Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace! + Then to my ear transmit some gentle song + Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, + Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, + And all their prospect but the wintry main. + With sparing temperance, at the needful time, + They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-pressed, + Along th' Atlantic rock undreading climb, + And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. + Thus blest in primal innocence they live, + Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare + Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. + Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; + Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! + + XI + + Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engage + Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed; + For not alone they touch the village breast, + But filled in elder time th' historic page. + There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned,-- + [Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen!]-- + In musing hour, his wayward Sisters found, + And with their terrors dressed the magic scene. + From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, + Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, + The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line + Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed. + Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, + Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; + Proceed! in forceful sounds and colours bold, + The native legends of thy land rehearse; + To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse. + + XII + + In scenes like these, which, daring to depart + From sober truth, are still to nature true, + And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, + Th' heroic muse employed her Tasso's art! + How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, + Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured; + When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, + And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword! + How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind, + To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,-- + Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind + Believed the magic wonders which he sung! + Hence at each sound imagination glows; + [_The MS. lacks a line here_.] + Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows; + Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear, + And fills th' impassioned heart, and wins th' harmonious ear. + + XIII + + All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail, + Ye [splendid] friths and lakes which, far away, + Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or pastoral Tay, + Or Don's romantic springs; at distance, hail! + The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread + Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom, + Or o'er your stretching heaths by fancy led + [Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom:] + Then will I dress once more the faded bower. + Where Jonson sat in Drummond's [classic] shade, + Or crop from Teviot's dale each [lyric flower] + And mourn on Yarrow's banks [where Willy's laid!] + Meantime, ye Powers that on the plains which bore + The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend, + Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir, + To him I lose your kind protection lend, + And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend! + + + + + THOMAS WARTON + + + FROM THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY + + Beneath yon ruined abbey's moss-grown piles + Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, + Where through some western window the pale moon + Pours her long-levelled rule of streaming light, + While sullen, sacred silence reigns around, + Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bower + Amid the mouldering caverns dark and damp, + Or the calm breeze that rustles in the leaves + Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green + Invests some wasted tower. Or let me tread + Its neighbouring walk of pines, where mused of old + The cloistered brothers: through the gloomy void + That far extends beneath their ample arch + As on I pace, religious horror wraps + My soul in dread repose. But when the world + Is clad in midnight's raven-coloured robe, + 'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame + Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare + O'er the wan heaps, while airy voices talk + Along the glimmering walls, or ghostly shape, + At distance seen, invites with beckoning hand, + My lonesome steps through the far-winding vaults. + Nor undelightful is the solemn noon + Of night, when, haply wakeful, from my couch + I start: lo, all is motionless around! + Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men + And every beast in mute oblivion lie; + All nature's hushed in silence and in sleep: + O then how fearful is it to reflect + That through the still globe's awful solitude + No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep + My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews. + Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born, + My senses lead through flowery paths of joy: + But let the sacred genius of the night + Such mystic visions send as Spenser saw + When through bewildering Fancy's magic maze, + To the fell house of Busyrane, he led + Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew, + When in abstracted thought he first conceived + All Heaven in tumult, and the seraphim + Come towering, armed in adamant and gold. + + * * * * * + + Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces breathe, + And happiest art adorn his Attic page, + Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, + As, at the root of mossy trunk reclined, + In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song + I see deserted Una wander wide + Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths, + Weary, forlorn, than when the fated fair + Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames + Launches in all the lustre of brocade, + Amid the splendours of the laughing sun: + The gay description palls upon the sense, + And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss. + + * * * * * + + The tapered choir, at the late hour of prayer, + Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice + The many-sounding organ peals on high + The clear slow-dittied chant or varied hymn, + Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies + And lapped in Paradise. Or let me sit + Far in sequestered aisles of the deep dome; + There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds, + Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults, + In hollow murmurs reach my ravished ear. + Nor when the lamps, expiring, yield to night, + And solitude returns, would I forsake + The solemn mansion, but attentive mark + The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway, + Measuring Time's flight with momentary sound. + + + From THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR + + [THE PASSING OF THE KING] + + O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared, + High the screaming sea-mew soared; + On Tintagel's topmost tower + Darksome fell the sleety shower; + Round the rough castle shrilly sung + The whirling blast, and wildly flung + On each tall rampart's thundering side + The surges of the tumbling tide: + When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks + On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks: + By Mordred's faithless guile decreed + Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed! + Yet in vain a paynim foe + Armed with fate the mighty blow; + For when he fell, an Elfin Queen + All in secret, and unseen, + O'er the fainting hero threw + Her mantle of ambrosial blue; + And bade her spirits bear him far, + In Merlin's agate-axled car, + To her green isle's enamelled steep + Far in the navel of the deep. + O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew + From flowers that in Arabia grew: + On a rich enchanted bed + She pillowed his majestic head; + O'er his brow, with whispers bland, + Thrice she waved an opiate wand; + And to soft music's airy sound, + Her magic curtains closed around, + There, renewed the vital spring, + Again he reigns a mighty king; + And many a fair and fragrant clime, + Blooming in immortal prime, + By gales of Eden ever fanned, + Owns the monarch's high command: + Thence to Britain shall return + (If right prophetic rolls I learn), + Born on Victory's spreading plume, + His ancient sceptre to resume; + Once more, in old heroic pride, + His barbed courser to bestride; + His knightly table to restore, + And brave the tournaments of yore. + + + SONNET WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S 'MONASTICON' + + Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, + By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled, + Of painful pedantry the poring child, + Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, + Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. + Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smiled + On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage + His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styled, + Intent. While cloistered Piety displays + Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores + New manners, and the pomp of elder days, + Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. + Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways + Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers. + + + SONNET WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE + + Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle! + Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore, + To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, + Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile, + T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile: + Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, + Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: + Or Danish chiefs, enriched with savage spoil, + To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, + Reared the rude heap: or, in thy hallowed round, + Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line; + Or here those kings in solemn state were crowned: + Studious to trace thy wondrous origin, + We muse on many an ancient tale renowned. + + + SONNET TO THE RIVER LODON + + Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, + Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, + And thought my way was all through fairy ground, + Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun, + Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! + While pensive Memory traces back the round, + Which fills the varied interval between; + Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. + Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure + No more return, to cheer my evening road! + Yet still one joy remains: that not obscure + Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed, + From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; + Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed. + + + + + THOMAS GRAY + + + ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE + + Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, + That crown the watery glade, + Where grateful Science still adores + Her Henry's holy shade; + And ye, that from the stately brow + Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below + Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, + Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among + Wanders the hoary Thames along + His silver-winding way. + + Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! + Ah, fields beloved in vain! + Where once my careless childhood strayed, + A stranger yet to pain! + I feel the gales that from ye blow, + A momentary bliss bestow, + As waving fresh their gladsome wing, + My weary soul they seem to soothe, + And, redolent of joy and youth, + To breathe a second spring. + + Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen + Full many a sprightly race + Disporting on thy margent green + The paths of pleasure trace, + Who foremost now delight to cleave + With pliant arm thy glassy wave? + The captive linnet which enthrall? + What idle progeny succeed + To chase the rolling circle's speed, + Or urge the flying ball? + + While some on earnest business bent + Their murmuring labours ply + 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint + To sweeten liberty: + Some bold adventurers disdain + The limits of their little reign, + And unknown regions dare descry: + Still as they run they look behind, + They hear a voice in every wind, + And snatch a fearful joy. + + Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, + Less pleasing when possessed; + The tear forgot as soon as shed, + The sunshine of the breast: + Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, + Wild wit, invention ever-new, + And lively cheer of vigour born; + The thoughtless day, the easy night, + The spirits pure, the slumbers light, + That fly th' approach of morn. + + Alas! regardless of their doom, + The little victims play; + No sense have they of ills to come, + Nor care beyond to-day: + Yet see how all around 'em wait + The ministers of human fate, + And black Misfortune's baleful train! + Ah, shew them where in ambush stand + To seize their prey the murderous band! + Ah, tell them, they are men! + + These shall the fury Passions tear, + The vultures of the mind, + Disdainful, Anger, pallid Fear, + And Shame that skulks behind; + Or pining Love shall waste their youth, + Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, + That inly gnaws the secret heart, + And Envy wan, and faded Care, + Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, + And Sorrow's piercing dart. + + Ambition this shall tempt to rise, + Then whirl the wretch from high, + To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, + And grinning Infamy. + The stings of Falsehood those shall try, + And hard Unkindness' altered eye, + That mocks the tear it forced to flow; + And keen Remorse with blood defiled, + And moody Madness laughing wild + Amid severest woe. + + Lo, in the vale of years beneath + A grisly troop are seen, + The painful family of Death, + More hideous than their Queen: + This racks the joints, this fires the veins, + That every labouring sinew strains, + Those in the deeper vitals rage: + Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, + That numbs the soul with icy hand, + And slow-consuming Age. + + To each his sufferings; all are men, + Condemned alike to groan, + The tender for another's pain; + The unfeeling for his own. + Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, + Since sorrow never comes too late, + And happiness too swiftly flies? + Thought would destroy their paradise. + No more; where ignorance is bliss, + 'Tis folly to be wise. + + + HYMN TO ADVERSITY + + Daughter of Jove, relentless power, + Thou tamer of the human breast, + Whose iron scourge and torturing hour + The bad affright, afflict the best! + Bound in thy adamantine chain, + The proud are taught to taste of pain, + And purple tyrants vainly groan + With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. + + When first thy sire to send on earth + Virtue, his darling child, designed, + To thee he gave the heavenly birth, + And bade to form her infant mind. + Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore + With patience many a year she bore; + What sorrow was thou bad'st her know, + And from her own she learned to melt at other's woe. + + Scared at thy frown terrific, fly + Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, + Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, + And leave us leisure to be good: + Light they disperse, and with them go + The summer friend, the flattering foe; + By vain Prosperity received, + To her they TOW their truth, and are again believed. + + Wisdom in sable garb arrayed, + Immersed in rapturous thought profound, + And Melancholy, silent maid + With leaden eye, that loves the ground, + Still on thy solemn steps attend; + Warm Charity, the genial friend, + With Justice, to herself severe, + And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear, + + Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, + Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! + Hot in thy Gorgon terrors clad, + Nor circled with the vengeful band + (As by the impious thou art seen), + With thundering voice and threatening mien, + With screaming Horror's funeral cry, + Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty: + + Thy form benign, O goddess, wear, + Thy milder influence impart; + Thy philosophic train be there + To soften, not to wound, my heart; + The generous spark extinct revive, + Teach me to love and to forgive, + Exact nay own defects to scan, + What others are to feel, and know myself a man. + + + ELEGY + + WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, + The ploughman 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 tower + The moping owl does to the moon complain + Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, + Molest her ancient solitary reign. + + Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, + Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, + Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. + + The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, + The swallow twittering 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 bowed 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 power, + And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, + Await 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 Flattery 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 swayed, + 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 repressed their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene, + The dark unfathomed 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 listening 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 growing 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 learned to stray; + Along the cool sequestered vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. + + Yet even these bones from insult to protect, + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, + With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + + Their names, their years, spelt by th' unlettered 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 resigned, + Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, + Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? + + On some fond breast the parting soul relies, + Some pious drops the closing eye requires; + Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. + + For thee, who mindful of th' unhonoured 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, + Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; + Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, + Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. + + 'One morn I missed him on the customed hill, + Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 frowned not on his humble birth, + And Melancholy marked him for her own. + + Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; + Heaven did a recompense as largely send: + He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, + He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) 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._ + + + THE PROGRESS OF POESY + + I. 1 + + 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, + Through 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. + + I. 2 + + Oh sovereign of the willing soul, + Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, + Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares + And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. + On Thracia's hills the Lord of War + Has curbed the fury of his car + And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command. + Perching on the sceptred hand + Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king + With ruffled plumes and flagging wing; + Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie + The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye. + + I. 3 + + Thee the voice, the dance, obey, + Tempered to thy warbled lay. + O'er Idalia's velvet-green + The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen, + On Cytherea's day, + With antic Sports and blue-eyed Pleasures + 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. + + II. 1 + + 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 given in vain the heavenly Muse? + Night, and all her sickly dews, + Her spectres 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 glittering shafts of war, + + II. 2 + + 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 shivering native's dull abode. + And oft, beneath the odorous shade + Of Chili's boundless forests laid, + She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, + 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. + + II. 3 + + 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 labyrinths creep, + How do your tuneful echoes languish, + Mute but to the voice of Anguish? + Where each old poetic mountain + Inspiration breathed around, + Every shade and hallowed fountain + Murmured deep a solemn sound; + Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour + Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains: + Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, + And coward Vice that revels in her chains. + When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, + They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast. + + III. 1 + + Far from the sun and summer-gale, + In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, + What time, where lucid Avon strayed, + To him the mighty mother did unveil + Her awful face: the dauntless child + Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. + 'This pencil take,' she said, 'whose colours clear + Richly paint the vernal year. + 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.' + + III. 2 + + Nor second he that rode sublime + Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, + The secrets of th' abyss to spy. + He passed 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! + III. 3 + + 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? Though he inherit + Nor the pride nor ample pinion + That the Theban Eagle bear, + Sailing with supreme dominion + Through the azure deep of air, + Yet oft before his infant eyes would run + Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, + With orient hues unborrowed of the sun: + 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. + + + THE BARD + + I. 1 + + 'Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! + Confusion on thy banners wait; + Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing, + They mock the air with idle state. + Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, + Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail + To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, + From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' + Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride + Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, + As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side + He wound with toilsome march his long array. + Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance; + 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. + + I. 2 + + On a rock, whose haughty brow + Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. + Robed in the sable garb of woe, + With haggard eyes the poet stood + (Loose his heard and hoary hair + Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), + And with a master's hand and prophet's fire + Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: + 'Hark how each giant oak and desert cave + Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! + O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they wave, + Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe, + Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, + To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay. + + I. 3 + + 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, + That hushed the stormy main; + Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed; + Mountains, ye mourn in vain + Modred, whose magic song + Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head: + On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, + Smeared with gore and ghastly pale; + Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; + The famished eagle screams, and passes by. + Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, + Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, + Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, + Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- + No more I weep: they do not sleep! + On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, + I see them sit; they linger yet + Avengers of their native land: + With me in dreadful harmony they join, + And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. + + II. 1 + + '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 through 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 Heaven: what terrors round him wait! + Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, + And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. + + II. 2 + + '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 noontide 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, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. + + II. 3 + + '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 through the kindred squadrons mow their way. + Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, + With many a foul and midnight murther 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 thy thorny shade. + Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, + Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom! + + III. 1 + + '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.) + Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn + Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn! + In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, + They melt, they vanish from my eyes. + But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, + Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? + Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! + Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! + No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: + All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! + + III. 2 + + 'Girt with many a baron bold, + Sublime their starry fronts they rear; + And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old + In bearded majesty, appear. + In the midst a form divine! + Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line; + Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, + Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. + What strings symphonious tremble in the air, + What strains of vocal transport round her play! + Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear: + They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. + Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, + Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings. + + III. 3 + + 'The verse adorn again + Fierce War and faithful Love + And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. + In buskined measures move + Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, + With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. + A voice, as of the cherub-choir, + Gales from blooming Eden bear; + And distant warblings lessen on my ear, + That, lost in long futurity, expire. + Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, + Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day! + To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, + And warms the nations with redoubled ray. + Enough for me; with joy I see + The different doom our Fates assign: + Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; + To triumph and to die are mine.' + He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height + Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. + + + THE FATAL SISTERS + + AN ODE FROM THE NORSE TONGUE + + How the storm begins to lower, + (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) + Iron-sleet of arrowy shower + Hurtles in the darkened air. + + Glittering lances are the loom, + Where the dusky warp we strain, + Weaving many a soldier's doom, + Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane. + + See the grisly texture grow, + ('Tis of human entrails made,) + And the weights, that play below, + Each a gasping warrior's head. + + Shafts for shuttles, dipped in gore, + Shoot the trembling cords along. + Sword, that once a monarch bore, + Keep the tissue close and strong. + + Mista black, terrific maid, + Sangrida, and Hilda see, + Join the wayward work to aid: + 'Tis the woof of victory. + + Ere the ruddy sun be set, + Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, + Blade with clattering buckler meet, + Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. + + (Weave the crimson web of war.) + Let us go, and let us fly, + Where our friends the conflict share, + Where they triumph, where they die. + + As the paths of fate we tread, + Wading through th' ensanguined field: + Gondula, and Geira, spread + O'er the youthful king your shield. + + We the reins to slaughter give, + Ours to kill, and ours to spare: + Spite of danger he shall live. + (Weave the crimson web of war.) + + They, whom once the desert-beach + Pent within its bleak domain, + Soon their ample sway shall stretch + O'er the plenty of the plain. + + Low the dauntless earl is laid, + Gored with many a gaping wound: + Fate demands a nobler head; + Soon a king shall bite the ground. + + Long his loss shall Erin weep, + Ne'er again his likeness see; + Long her strains in sorrow steep, + Strains of immortality! + + Horror covers all the heath, + Clouds of carnage blot the sun. + Sisters,--weave the web of death; + Sisters, cease, the work is done. + + Hail the task, and hail the hands! + Songs of joy and triumph sing! + Joy to the victorious bands; + Triumph to the younger king. + + Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, + Learn the tenor of our song. + Scotland, through each winding Tale + Far and wide the notes prolong. + + Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: + Each her thundering falchion wield; + Each bestride her sable steed. + Hurry, hurry to the field. + + +ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE + + Now the golden Morn aloft + Waves her dew-bespangled wing; + With vermeil cheek and whisper soft + She wooes the tardy Spring; + Till April starts, and calls around + The sleeping fragrance from the ground, + And lightly o'er the living scene + Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. + + New-born flocks, In rustic dance, + Frisking ply their feeble feet; + Forgetful of their wintry trance, + The birds his presence greet; + But chief the sky-lark warbles high + His trembling, thrilling ecstasy, + And, lessening from the dazzled sight, + Melts into air and liquid light. + + Rise, my soul! on wings of fire + Rise the rapturous choir among! + Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre, + And leads the general song. +[_Four lines lacking in the MS_.] + + Yesterday the sullen year + Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; + Mute was the music of the air, + The herd stood drooping by: + Their raptures now that wildly flow + No yesterday nor morrow know; + 'Tis man alone that joy descries + With forward and reverted eyes. + + Smiles on past Misfortune's brow + Soft Reflection's hand can trace, + And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw + A melancholy grace; + While Hope prolongs our happier hour, + Or deepest shades, that dimly lower + And blacken round our weary way, + Gilds with a gleam of distant day. + + Still where rosy Pleasure leads + See a kindred Grief pursue; + Behind the steps that Misery treads, + Approaching Comfort view: + The hues of bliss more brightly glow + Chastised by sabler tints of woe, + And, blended, form with artful strife + The strength and harmony of life. + + See the wretch that long has tossed + On the thorny bed of pain + At length repair his vigour lost + And breathe and walk again: + The meanest flowret of the vale, + The simplest note that swells the gale. + The common sun, the air, the skies, + To him are opening Paradise. + + Humble Quiet builds her cell + Near the source whence Pleasure flows; + She eyes the clear crystalline well, + And tastes it as it goes. + +[_The rest is lacking_.] + + + + + SAMUEL JOHNSON + + + From THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES + + IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL + + In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, + Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: + To him the church, the realm, their powers consign; + Through him the rays of regal bounty shine; + Turned by his nod the stream of honour flows; + His smile alone security bestows. + Still to new heights his restless wishes tower; + Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; + Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, + And rights submitted left him none to seize. + At length his sovereign frowns--the train of state + Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate: + Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye; + His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; + Now drops at once the pride of awful state-- + The golden canopy, the glittering plate, + The regal palace, the luxurious board, + The liveried army, and the menial lord. + With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, + He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. + Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, + And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. + + * * * * * + + When first the college rolls receive his name, + The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame; + Through all his veins the fever of renown + Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown; + O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, + And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. + Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth, + And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth! + Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat, + Till captive science yields her last retreat; + Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray, + And pour on misty doubt resistless day; + Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, + Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright; + Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain, + And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain; + Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, + Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart; + Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, + Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade; + Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, + Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee: + Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, + And pause awhile from letters, to be wise; + There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, + Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. + See nations slowly wise, and meanly just, + To buried merit raise the tardy bust! + + * * * * * + + On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, + How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide. + A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, + No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; + O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, + Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain. + No joys to him pacific sceptres yield-- + War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; + Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, + And one capitulate, and one resign: + Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; + 'Think nothing gained,' he cries, 'till naught remain! + On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, + And all be mine beneath the polar sky!' + The march begins in military state, + And nations on his eye suspended wait. + Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, + And Winter barricades the realms of frost. + He comes; nor want nor cold his course delay-- + Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day! + The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, + And shows his miseries in distant lands, + Condemned a needy supplicant to wait + While ladies interpose and slaves debate. + But did not Chance at length her error mend? + Did no subverted empire mark his end? + Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, + Or hostile millions press him to the ground? + His fall was destined to a barren strand, + A petty fortress, and a dubious hand. + He left the name at which the world grew pale, + To point a moral or adorn a tale. + + * * * * * + + But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime + Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime; + An age that melts with unperceived decay, + And glides in modest innocence away; + Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, + Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers; + The general favourite as the general friend: + Such age there is, and who shall wish its end? + Yet even on this her load Misfortune flings, + To press the weary minutes' flagging wings; + New sorrow rises as the day returns, + A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns, + Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, + Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear. + Year chases year, decay pursues decay, + Still drops some joy from withering life away; + New forms arise, and different views engage, + Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage, + Till pitying Nature signs the last release, + And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. + + * * * * * + + Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? + Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? + Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, + Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? + Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, + No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?-- + Enquirer, cease; petitions yet remain, + Which Heaven may hear; nor deem religion vain. + Still raise for good the supplicating voice, + But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice; + Safe in His power, whose eyes discern afar + The secret ambush of a specious prayer. + Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, + Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best. + Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires, + And strong devotion to the skies aspires, + Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, + Obedient passions, and a will resigned; + For love, which scarce collective man can fill; + For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill; + For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, + Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat: + These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain; + These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain; + With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, + And makes the happiness she does not find. + + + + + RICHARD JAGO + + + FROM THE GOLDFINCHES + + All in a garden, on a currant bush, + With wondrous art they built their airy seat; + In the next orchard lived a friendly thrush + Nor distant far a woodlark's soft retreat. + + Here blessed with ease, and in each other blessed, + With early songs they waked the neighbouring groves, + Till time matured their joys, and crowned their nest + With infant pledges of their faithful loves. + + And now what transport glowed in either's eye! + What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food! + What joy each other's likeness to descry; + And future sonnets in the chirping brood! + + But ah! what earthly happiness can last! + How does the fairest purpose often fail? + A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blast + Their flattering hopes, and leave them both to wail. + + The most ungentle of his tribe was he, + No generous precept ever touched his heart; + With concord false, and hideous prosody, + He scrawled his task, and blundered o'er his part. + + On mischief bent, he marked, with ravenous eyes, + Where wrapped in down the callow songsters lay; + Then rushing, rudely seized the glittering prize. + And bore it in his impious hands away! + + But how stall I describe, in numbers rude, + The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed, + When from her secret stand aghast she viewed + The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed? + + 'O grief of griefs!' with shrieking voice she cried, + 'What sight is this that I have lived to see! + O! that I had in youth's fair season died, + From love's false joys and bitter sorrows free.' + + + + + JOHN DALTON + + + From A DESCRIPTIVE POEM + + ... To nature's pride, + Sweet Keswick's vale, the Muse will guide: + The Muse who trod th' enchanted ground, + Who sailed the wondrous lake around, + With you will haste once more to hail + The beauteous brook of Borrodale. + + * * * * * + + Let other streams rejoice to roar + Down the rough rocks of dread Lodore, + Rush raving on with boisterous sweep, + And foaming rend the frighted deep; + Thy gentle genius shrinks away + From such a rude unequal fray; + Through thine own native dale where rise + Tremendous rocks amid the skies, + Thy waves with patience slowly wind, + Till they the smoothest channel find, + Soften the horrors of the scene, + And through confusion flow serene. + Horrors like these at first alarm, + But soon with savage grandeur charm, + And raise to noblest thought the mind: + Thus by the fall, Lodore, reclined, + The craggy cliff, impendent wood, + Whose shadows mix o'er half the flood, + The gloomy clouds which solemn sail, + Scarce lifted by the languid gale. + + * * * * * + + Channels by rocky torrents torn, + Rocks to the lake in thunder borne, + Or such as o'er our heads appear, + Suspended in their mid-career, + To start again at his command + Who rules fire, water, air, and land, + I view with wonder and delight, + A pleasing, though an awful sight. + + * * * * * + + And last, to fix our wandering eyes, + Thy roofs, O Keswick, brighter rise + The lake and lofty hills between, + Where Giant Skiddow shuts the scene. + Supreme of mountains, Skiddow, hail! + To whom all Britain sinks a vale! + Lo, his imperial brow I see + From foul usurping vapours free! + 'Twere glorious now his side to climb, + Boldly to scale his top sublime, + And thence--My Muse, these flights forbear, + Nor with wild raptures tire the fair. + + + + + JANE ELLIOT + + + THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST + + I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, + Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of 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; + The lasses are lanely, 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, + The 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 more 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. + + + + + CHARLES CHURCHILL + + + FROM THE ROSCIAD + + [QUIN, THE ACTOR] + + His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, + Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul. + Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage, + Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. + When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears, + Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers, + With the same cast of features he is seen + To chide the libertine and court the queen. + From the tame scene which without passion flows, + With just desert his reputation rose. + Nor less he pleased when, on some surly plan, + He was at once the actor and the man. + In Brute he shone unequalled: all agree + Garrick's not half so great a brute as he. + When Cato's laboured scenes are brought to view, + With equal praise the actor laboured too; + For still you'll find, trace passions to their root, + Small difference 'twixt the stoic and the brute. + In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, + He could not for a moment sink the man. + In whate'er cast his character was laid, + Self still, like oil, upon the surface played. + Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in: + Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff--still 'twas Quin. + + + + FROM THE GHOST + + [DR. JOHNSON] + + + Pomposo, insolent and loud, + Vain idol of a scribbling crowd, + Whose very name inspires an awe, + Whose every word is sense and law, + For what his greatness hath decreed, + Like laws of Persia and of Mede, + Sacred through all the realm of wit, + Must never of repeal admit; + Who, cursing flattery, is the tool + Of every fawning, flattering fool; + Who wit with jealous eye surveys, + And sickens at another's praise; + Who, proudly seized of learning's throne, + Now damns all learning but his own; + Who scorns those common wares to trade in, + Reasoning, convincing, and persuading, + But makes each sentence current pass + With 'puppy,' 'coxcomb,' 'scoundrel,' 'ass,' + For 'tis with him a certain rule, + The folly's proved when he calls 'fool'; + Who, to increase his native strength, + Draws words six syllables in length, + With which, assisted with a frown + By way of club, he knocks us down. + + + + + JAMES MACPHERSON + + ["TRANSLATIONS" FROM "OSSIAN, THE SON OF FINGAL"] + + FROM FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM + + [FINGAL'S ROMANTIC GENEROSITY TOWARD HIS CAPTIVE ENEMY] + + + 'King of Lochlin,' said Fingal, 'thy blood flows in the + veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they + loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast in the + hall, and send round the joy of the shell. Let thy face + brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp. + Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy + valour forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands + when they engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise + thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca! + Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful + soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one. I spared + thee in the halls of Starno, when my sword was red with + slaughter, when my eye was full of tears for the maid. + Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat which thy + fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart + renowned, like the sun setting in the west!' + + 'King of the race of Morven!' said the chief of resounding + Lochlin, 'never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a + thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the halls of Starno: + few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I + said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal? We + have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the + shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy + halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let + the bards send his name who overcame to future years, + for noble was the strife of Malmour! But many of the + ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena. Take + these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran! + When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells + shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale.' + + 'Nor ship' replied the king, 'shall Fingal take, nor land + of many hills. The desert is enough to me, with all its + deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, thou noble + friend of Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to the beam + of the morning; return to the echoing hills of Gormal.' + 'Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,' said Swaran of the + dark-brown shield. 'In peace thou art the gale of spring. + In war, the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in + friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mourn + those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to + earth. Raise high the mossy stones of their fame: that + the children of the north hereafter may behold the place + where their fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he + leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and Swaran fought, + the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say, + and our fame shall last for ever!' + + 'Swaran,' said the king of hills, 'to-day our fame is + greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound + will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost + in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our + rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it + when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and + Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more. Give us the + song of other years. Let the night pass away on the sound, + and morning return with joy.' + + We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed + their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened, + like the full moon of heaven: when the clouds + vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst + of the sky. + + + + FROM THE SONGS OF SELMA + + [COLMA'S LAMENT] + + It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. + The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours + down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain, forlorn + on the hill of winds. + + Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, + arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love + rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung; + his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, + by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the + wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why + delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? + Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring + stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! + whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from + my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race + have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar! + + Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a + while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer + hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the + tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why + delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes + forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey + on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come + not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here + I must sit alone! + + Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and + my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they + give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is + tormented with fears! Ah, they are dead! Their swords + are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why + hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou + slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall + I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among + thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear + my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; + silent for ever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay. Oh! + from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy + steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be + afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of + the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on + the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm! + + I sit in my grief? I wait for morning in my tears! + Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till + Colma come. My life flies away like a dream! why should + I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the + stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the + hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in + the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter + shall hear from his booth. He shall fear, but love my + voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: + pleasant were her friends to Colma! + + + + [THE LAST WORDS OF OSSIAN] + + Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; + when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other + times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills and + heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona + [Ossian], the first among a thousand bards! But age is + now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear at times + the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But + memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! + They say as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon + shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise + his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy + on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his + strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. + My voice remains, like a blast that roars lonely on a + sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark + moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving + trees! + + + + + CHRISTOPHER SMART + + + FROM A SONG TO DAVID + + 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 assigned, + Where ask is have, where seek is find, + Where knock is open wide. + + Beauteous the fleet before the gale; + Beauteous the multitudes in mail, + Ranked arms and crested heads; + Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild, + Walk, water, meditated wild, + And all the bloomy beds; + + Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; + And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn + The virgin to her spouse; + Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, + When to the heaven of heavens they build + Their heart-directed vows: + + Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, + The shepherd King upon his knees, + For his momentous trust; + With wish of infinite conceit + For man, beast, mute, the small and great, + And prostrate dust to dust. + + Precious the bounteous widow's mite; + And precious, for extreme delight, + The largess from the churl; + Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, + And Alba's blest imperial rays, + And pure cerulean pearl; + + 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 hallowed sod: + + More precious that diviner part + Of David, even the Lord's own heart, + Great, beautiful, and new; + In all things where it was intent, + In all extremes, in each event, + Proof--answering true to true. + + Glorious the sun in mid career; + Glorious th' assembled fires appear; + Glorious the comet's train; + Glorious the trumpet and alarm; + Glorious th' Almighty's stretched-out arm; + Glorious th' enraptured main; + + Glorious the northern lights a-stream; + Glorious the song, when God's the theme; + Glorious the thunder's roar; + Glorious, Hosannah 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 called Thy son; + Thou that stupendous truth believed, + And now the matchless deed's achieved, + Determined, dared, and done. + + + + + OLIVER GOLDSMITH + + + FROM THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF + SOCIETY + + As some lone miser, visiting his store, + Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts It o'er, + Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, + Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: + Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, + Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies; + Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, + To see the hoard of human bliss so small, + And oft I wish amidst the scene to find + Some spot to real happiness consigned, + Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. + May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. + But where to find that happiest spot below, + Who can direct, when all pretend to know? + + * * * * * + + To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, + I turn; and France displays her bright domain. + Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, + Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, + How often have I led thy sportive choir, + With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire, + Where shading elms along the margin grew, + And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew! + And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, + But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's skill, + Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, + And dance forgetful of the noontide hour. + Alike all ages: dames of ancient days + Have led their children through the mirthful maze; + And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, + Has frisked beneath the burthen of threescore, + + So blessed a life these thoughtless realms display; + Thus idly busy rolls their world away. + + + Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, + For honour forms the social temper here: + Honour, that praise which real merit gains, + Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, + Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, + It shifts in splendid traffic round the land; + From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, + And all are taught an avarice of praise; + They pleased, are pleased; they give, to get, esteem, + Till, seeming blessed, they grow to what they seem. + + But while this softer art their bliss supplies, + It gives their follies also room to rise; + For praise, too dearly loved or warmly sought, + Enfeebles all internal strength of thought, + And the weak soul, within itself unblessed, + Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. + Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, + Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; + Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, + And trims her robes of frieze with copper-lace; + Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer, + To boast one splendid banquet once a year: + The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, + Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. + + * * * * * + + Vain, very vain, my weary search to find + That bliss which only centres in the mind. + Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, + To seek a good each government bestows? + In every government, though terrors reign, + Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, + How small, of all that human hearts endure, + That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! + Still to ourselves in every place consigned, + Our own felicity we make or find: + With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, + Glides the smooth current of domestic joy; + The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, + Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, + To men remote from power but rarely known, + Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own. + + + THE DESERTED VILLAGE + + Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain; + Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, + Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, + And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed: + Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, + Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, + How often have I loitered o'er thy green, + Where humble happiness endeared each scene! + How often have I paused on every charm, + The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, + The never-failing brook, the busy mill, + The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill, + The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade + For talking age and whispering lovers made! + How often have I blest the coming day, + When toil remitting lent its turn to play, + And all the village train, from labour free, + Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, + While many a pastime circled in the shade, + The young contending as the old surveyed; + And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, + And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. + And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, + Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; + The dancing pair that simply sought renown + By holding out to tire each other down; + The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, + While secret laughter tittered round the place; + The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, + The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: + These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, + With sweet succession, taught even toil to please: + These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed: + These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled. + + Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, + Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn + Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, + And desolation saddens all thy green: + One only master grasps the whole domain, + And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. + No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, + But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; + Along the glades, a solitary guest, + The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest; + Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, + And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; + Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, + And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; + And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, + Far, far away thy children leave the land. + + Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, + Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: + Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; + A breath can make them, as a breath has made: + But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, + When once destroyed, can never be supplied. + + A time there was, ere England's griefs began, + When every rood of ground maintained its man; + For him light labour spread her wholesome store, + Just gave what life required, but gave no more: + His best companions, innocence and health; + And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. + + But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train + Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; + Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, + Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, + And every want to opulence allied, + And every pang that folly pays to pride. + These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, + Those calm desires that asked but little room, + Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, + Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; + These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, + And rural mirth and manners are no more. + + Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, + Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. + Here, as I take my solitary rounds + Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, + And, many a year elapsed, return to view + Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, + Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, + Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. + + In all my wanderings round this world of care, + In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- + I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, + Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; + To husband out life's taper at the close, + And keep the flame from wasting by repose: + I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, + Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, + Around my fire an evening group to draw, + And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; + And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue + Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, + I still had hopes, my long vexations past, + Here to return--and die at home at last. + + O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, + Retreats from care, that never must be mine, + How happy he who crowns in shades like these + A youth of labour with an age of ease; + Who quits a world where strong temptations try, + And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! + For him no wretches, born to work and weep, + Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; + No surly porter stands in guilty state, + To spurn imploring famine from the gate; + But on he moves to meet his latter end, + Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; + Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, + While resignation gently slopes the way; + And, all his prospects brightening to the last, + His Heaven commences ere the world be past! + + Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close + Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. + There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, + The mingling notes came softened from below; + The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, + The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, + The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, + The playful children just let loose from school, + The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, + And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;-- + These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, + And filled each pause the nightingale had made. + + + But now the sounds of population fail, + No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, + No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, + For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. + All but yon widowed, solitary thing, + That feebly bends beside the plashy spring: + She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, + To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, + To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, + To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; + She only left of all the harmless train, + The sad historian of the pensive plain. + + Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, + And still where many a garden flower grows wild; + There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, + The village preacher's modest mansion rose. + A man he was to all the country dear, + And passing rich with forty pounds a year; + Remote from towns he ran his godly race, + Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; + Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, + By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; + Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, + More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. + His house was known to all the vagrant train; + He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain: + The long-remembered beggar was his guest, + Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; + The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, + Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; + The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, + Sate by his fire, and talked the night away, + Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, + Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. + Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, + And quite forget their vices in their woe; + Careless their merits or their faults to scan, + His pity gave ere charity began. + + Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, + And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; + But in his duty prompt at every call, + He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all; + + And, as a bird each fond endearment tries + To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, + He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, + Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. + + Beside the bed where parting life was laid, + And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, + The reverend champion stood. At his control + Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; + Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, + And his last faltering accents whispered praise. + + At church, with meek and unaffected grace, + His looks adorned the venerable place; + Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, + And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. + The service past, around the pious man, + With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; + Even children followed with endearing wile, + And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. + His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; + Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed: + To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, + But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. + As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, + Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, + Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, + Eternal sunshine settles on its head. + + Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, + With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, + There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, + The village master taught his little school. + A man severe he was, and stern to view; + I knew him well, and every truant knew; + Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace + The days' disasters in his morning face; + Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee + At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; + Full well the busy whisper circling round + Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. + Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, + The love he bore to learning was in fault: + The village all declared how much he knew; + 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; + Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, + And even the story ran that he could gauge; + In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, + For, even though vanquished, he could argue still; + While words of learned length and thundering sound + Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; + And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, + That one small head could carry all he knew. + + But past is all his fame. The very spot + Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. + Wear yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, + Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, + Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, + Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, + Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, + And news much older than their ale went round. + Imagination fondly stoops to trace + The parlour splendours of that festive place: + The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, + The varnished clock that clicked behind the door: + The chest contrived a double debt to pay, + A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; + The pictures placed for ornament and use, + The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; + The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, + With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; + While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, + Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. + + Vain transitory splendours could not all + Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? + Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart + An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. + Thither no more the peasant shall repair + To sweet oblivion of his daily care; + No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, + No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; + No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, + Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; + The host himself no longer shall be found + Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; + Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, + Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. + + Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, + These simple blessings of the lowly train; + To me more dear, congenial to my heart, + One native charm, than all the gloss of art. + Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, + The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; + Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, + Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. + But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, + With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed-- + In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, + The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; + And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, + The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. + + Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey + The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, + 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand + Between a splendid and an happy land. + Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, + And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; + Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, + And rich men flock from all the world around. + Yet count our gains! This wealth is but a name + That leaves our useful products still the same. + Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride + Takes up a space that many poor supplied; + Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, + Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: + The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth + Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; + His seat, where solitary sports are seen, + Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: + Around the world each needful product flies, + For all the luxuries the world supplies; + While thus the land adorned for pleasure all + In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. + + As some fair female unadorned and plain, + Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, + Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, + Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; + But when those charms are passed, for charms are frail, + When time advances, and when lovers fail, + She then, shines forth, solicitous to bless, + In all the glaring impotence of dress. + Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed: + In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, + But verging to decline, its splendours rise, + Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; + While, scourged by famine from the smiling land + The mournful peasant leads his humble band, + And while he sinks, without one arm to save, + The country blooms--a garden and a grave. + + Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, + To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? + If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, + He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, + Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, + And even the bare-worn common is denied. + + If to the city sped--what waits him there? + To see profusion that he must not share; + To see ten thousand baneful arts combined + To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; + To see those joys the sons of pleasure know + Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. + Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, + There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; + Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, + There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. + The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign + Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train: + Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, + The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. + Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! + Sure these denote one universal joy! + Are these thy serious thoughts?--Ah, turn thine eyes + Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. + She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed, + Has wept at tales of innocence distressed; + Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, + Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: + Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, + Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, + And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, + With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, + + + When idly first, ambitious of the town, + She left her wheel and robes of country brown. + + Do thine, sweet Auburn,--thine, the loveliest train,-- + Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? + Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, + At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! + + Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, + Where half the convex world intrudes between, + Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, + Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. + Far different there from all that charmed before + The various terrors of that horrid shore; + Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, + And fiercely shed intolerable day; + Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, + But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; + Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, + Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; + Where at each step the stranger fears to wake + The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; + Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, + And savage men more murderous still than they; + While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, + Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. + Far different these from every former scene, + The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, + The breezy covert of the warbling grove, + That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. + + Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, + That called them from their native walks away; + When the poor exiles, every pleasure passed, + Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, + And took a long farewell, and wished in vain + For seats like these beyond the western main, + And shuddering still to face the distant deep, + Returned and wept, and still returned to weep, + The good old sire the first prepared to go + To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; + But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, + He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. + His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, + The fond companion of his helpless years, + Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, + And left a lover's for a father's arms. + With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, + And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, + And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, + And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear, + Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief + In all the silent manliness of grief. + + O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, + How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! + How do thy potions, with insidious joy, + Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy! + Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, + Boast of a florid vigour not their own. + At every draught more large and large they grow, + A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; + Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, + Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round. + + Even now the devastation is begun, + And half the business of destruction done; + Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, + I see the rural Virtues leave the land. + Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, + That idly waiting flaps with every gale, + Downward they move, a melancholy band, + Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. + Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, + And kind connubial Tenderness, ate there; + And Piety with wishes placed above, + And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. + And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, + Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; + Unfit in these degenerate times of shame + To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; + Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, + My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; + Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, + That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; + Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, + Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! + Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, + On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, + Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, + Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, + Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, + Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; + Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; + Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; + Teach him, that states of native strength possessed, + Though very poor, may still be very blessed; + That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, + As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away; + While self-dependent power can time defy, + As rocks resist the billows and the sky. + + + FROM RETALIATION + + Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such + We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; + Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, + And to party gave up what was meant for mankind; + Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat + To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; + Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, + And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; + Though equal to all things, for all things unfit-- + Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit, + For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient, + And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient: + In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir, + To eat mutton cold and cut blocks with a razor. + + * * * * * + + Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, + The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; + A flattering painter, who made it his care + To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are: + His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, + And Comedy wonders at being so fine-- + Like a tragedy-queen he has dizened her out, + Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout; + His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd + Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud; + And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, + Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. + Say, where has our poet this malady caught, + Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? + Say, was it that, vainly directing his view + To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, + Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, + He grew lazy at last and drew from himself? + + * * * * * + + Here lies David Garrick: describe me, who can, + An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; + As an actor, confessed without rival to shine; + As a wit, if not first, in the very first line. + Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, + The man had his failings, a dupe to his art: + Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread, + And beplastered with rouge his own natural red; + On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting-- + 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. + With no reason on earth to go out of his way, + He turned and he varied full ten times a day: + Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick + If they were not his own by finessing and trick; + He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, + For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. + Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, + And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; + Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease, + Who peppered the highest was surest to please. + But let us be candid, and speak out our mind: + If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind; + Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, + What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave! + How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised, + While he was be-Rosciused and you were bepraised! + But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies + To act as an angel and mix with the skies! + Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill + Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; + + Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, + And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. + + * * * * * + + Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, + He has not left a better or wiser behind. + His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; + His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; + Still born to improve us in every part-- + His pencil oar faces, his manners our heart. + To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, + When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing; + When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, + He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. + + + + + JAMES BEATTIE + + + FROM THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS + OF GENIUS + + Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, + That a poor villager inspires my strain; + With thee let pageantry and power abide: + The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; + Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain + Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. + They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, + The parasite their influence never warms, + Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. + + Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, + Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. + Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, + While warbling larks on russet pinions float; + Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, + Where the grey linnets carol from the hill: + O let them ne'er, with artificial note, + To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, + But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will! + + * * * * * + + And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. + Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye. + Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy, + Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy; + Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy; + And now his look was most demurely sad; + And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why. + The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad; + Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. + + * * * * * + + In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight, + Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. + In darkness and in storm he found delight, + Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene + The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen. + Even sad vicissitude amused his soul; + And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, + And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, + A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control. + + * * * * * + + When the long-sounding curfew from afar + Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, + Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, + Lingering and listening, wandered down the vale. + There would he dream of graves, and corses pale, + And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng, + And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, + Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, + Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along. + + * * * * * + + Or when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, + Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, + To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, + Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; + And there let fancy rove at large, till sleep + A vision brought to his entranced sight. + And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep + Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, + With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night. + + * * * * * + + Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth. + Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device + Oft cheered the shepherds round their social hearth; + Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice + To purchase chat or laughter at the price + Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed + That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. + Ah! had they been of court or city breed, + Such, delicacy were right marvellous indeed. + + Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave, + He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view + The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave + High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue; + Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new, + Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, + More wildly great than ever pencil drew-- + Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, + And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. + + Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, + The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, + Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar + Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array + When sulphurous clouds rolled on th' autumnal day, + Even then he hastened from the haunts of man, + Along the trembling wilderness to stray, + What time the lightning's fierce career began, + And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. + + Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all + In sprightly dance the village youth were joined, + Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, + From the rude gambol far remote reclined, + Soothed, with the soft notes warbling in the wind. + Ah then all jollity seemed noise and folly + To the pure soul by fancy's fire refined! + Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy + When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy! + + + + + LADY ANNE LINDSAY + + + 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 gaid 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 toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; + Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e + Said, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!' + + My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; + But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; + His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee? + Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me! + + My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; + But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: + They gi'ed him my hand, though 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. + * * * * * + + + + + JEAN ADAMS + + + THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE + + And are ye sure the news is true, + And are ye sure he's weel? + Is this a time to think of wark? + Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. + Is this the time to think of wark, + When Colin's at the door? + Gi'e me my cloak! I'll to the quay + And see him come ashore. + + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck ava; + There's little pleasure in the house, + When our gudeman's awa'. + + Rise up and mak' a clean fireside; + Put on the muckle pot; + Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, + And Jock his Sunday coat: + And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, + Their hose as white as snaw; + It's a' to please my ain gudeman, + For he's been long awa'. + + There's twa fat hens upon the bauk, + Been fed this month and mair; + Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, + That Colin weel may fare; + And mak' the table neat and clean, + Gar ilka thing look braw; + It's a' for love of my gudeman, + For he's been long awa'. + + O gi'e me down my bigonet, + My bishop satin gown, + For I maun tell the bailie's wife + That Colin's come to town. + My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, + My hose o' pearl blue; + 'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman, + For he's baith leal and true. + + Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, + His breath's like caller air! + His very foot has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy with the thought,-- + In troth, I'm like to greet. + + The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, + That thrilled through my heart, + They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe, + Till death we'll never part: + But what puts parting in my head? + It may be far awa'; + The present moment is our ain, + The neist we never saw. + + Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, + I ha'e nae more to crave; + Could I but live to mak' him blest, + I'm blest above the lave: + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-- + In troth, I'm like to greet. + + + + + ROBERT FERGUSSON + + + THE DAFT DAYS + + Now mirk December's dowie face + Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace, + While, thro' his minimum of space, + The bleer-eyed sun, + Wi' blinkin' light and steeling pace, + His race doth run. + + From naked groves nae birdie sings; + To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings; + The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings + From Borean cave; + And dwyning Nature droops her wings, + Wi' visage grave. + + Mankind but scanty pleasure glean + Frae snawy hill or barren plain, + Whan Winter,'midst his nipping train, + Wi' frozen spear, + Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain, + And guides the weir. + + Auld Reikiel thou'rt the canty hole, + A bield for mony a caldrife soul, + What snugly at thine ingle loll, + Baith warm and couth, + While round they gar the bicker roll + To weet their mouth. + + When merry Yule Day comes, I trow, + You'll scantlins find a hungry mou; + Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou + O' gusty gear + And kickshaws, strangers to our view + Sin' fairn-year. + + Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra, + And fling your sorrows far awa'; + Then come and gie's the tither blaw + O' reaming ale, + Mair precious than the Well of Spa, + Our hearts to heal. + + Then, though at odds wi' a' the warl', + Amang oursells we'll never quarrel; + Though Discord gie a cankered snarl + To spoil our glee, + As lang's there's pith into the barrel + We'll drink and 'gree. + + Fiddlers, your pins in temper fix, + And roset weel your fiddlesticks; + But banish vile Italian tricks + From out your quorum, + Nor _fortes_ wi' _pianos_ mix-- + Gie's 'Tullochgorum'! + + For naught can cheer the heart sae weel + As can a canty Highland reel; + It even vivifies the heel + To skip and dance: + Lifeless is he wha canna feel + Its influence. + + Let mirth abound; let social cheer + Invest the dawning of the year; + Let blithesome innocence appear, + To crown our joy; + Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, + Our bliss destroy. + + And thou, great god of _aqua vitae!_ + Wha sways the empire of this city,-- + When fou we're sometimes caperneity,-- + Be thou prepared + To hedge us frae that black banditti, + The City Guard. + + + + + ANONYMOUS + + + ABSENCE + + When I think on the happy days + I spent wi' you, my dearie; + And now what lands between us lie, + How can I be but eerie! + + How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, + As ye were wae and weary! + It was na sae ye glinted by + When I was wi' my dearie. + + + + + JOHN LANGHORNE + + + FROM THE COUNTRY JUSTICE + + GENERAL MOTIVES FOR LENITY + + Be this, ye rural Magistrates, your plan: + Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. + He whom the mighty master of this ball + We fondly deem, or farcically call, + To own the patriarch's truth however loth, + Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth. + Frail in his genius, in his heart, too, frail, + Born but to err, and erring to bewail; + + Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, + And give to life one human weakness more? + Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; + Still mark the strong temptation and the need; + On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, + At least more lenient let thy justice fall. + + + APOLOGY FOR VAGRANTS + + For him who, lost to every hope of life, + Has long with fortune held unequal strife, + Known, to no human love, no human care, + The friendless, homeless object of despair; + For the poor vagrant, feel while he complains, + Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. + Alike, if folly or misfortune brought + Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; + Believe with social mercy and with me, + Folly's misfortune in the first degree. + + Perhaps on some inhospitable shore + The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore, + Who, then no more by golden prospects led, + Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed; + Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, + Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain, + Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, + The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, + Gave the sad presage of his future years, + The child of misery, baptized in tears! + + + * * * * * + + + + + AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY + + + ROCK OF AGES + + Rock of Ages, cleft for me, + Let me hide myself in Thee! + Let the water and the blood + From Thy riven side which flowed, + Be of sin the double cure, + Cleanse me from its guilt and power. + + Not the labors of my hands + Can fulfil Thy law's demands; + Could my zeal no respite know, + Could my tears forever flow, + All for sin could not atone; + Thou must save, and Thou alone. + + Nothing in my hand I bring; + Simply to Thy cross I cling; + Naked, come to Thee for dress; + Helpless, look to Thee for grace; + Foul, I to the fountain fly; + Wash me, Saviour, or I die! + + While I draw this fleeting breath, + When my eyestrings break in death, + When I soar through tracts unknown, + See Thee on Thy judgment-throne; + Book of Ages, cleft for me, + Let me hide myself in Thee! + + * * * * * + + + + + JOHN SKINNER + + + TULLOCHGORUM + + Come gie's a sang! Montgomery cried, + And lay your disputes all aside; + What signifies 't for folk to chide + For what's been done before 'em? + Let Whig and Tory all agree, + Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, + Let Whig and Tory all agree + To drop their Whig-mig-morum! + Let Whig and Tory all agree + To spend the night in mirth and glee, + And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me, + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + O, Tullochgorum's my delight; + It gars us a' in ane unite; + And ony sumph' that keeps up spite, + In conscience I abhor him: + For blythe and cheery we's be a', + Blythe and cheery, blythe and cheery, + Blythe and cheery we's be a', + And mak a happy quorum; + For blythe and cheery we's be a', + As lang as we hae breath to draw, + And dance, till we be like to fa', + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + There needs na be sae great a phrase + Wi' dringing dull Italian lays; + I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys + For half a hundred score o' 'em: + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Wi' a' their variorum; + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Their _allegros_ and a' the rest; + They canna please a Scottish taste, + Compared wi' Tullochgorum. + + Let warldly minds themselves oppress + Wi' fears of want and double cess, + And sullen sots themselves distress + Wi' keeping up decorum: + Shall we sae sour and sulky sit? + Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, + Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, + Like auld Philosophorum? + Shall we so sour and sulky sit, + Wi' neither sense nor mirth nor wit, + Nor ever rise to shake a fit + To the reel o' Tullochgorum? + + May choicest blessings still attend + Each honest, open-hearted friend; + And calm and quiet be his end, + And a' that's good watch o'er him! + May peace and plenty be his lot, + Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, + May peace and plenty be his lot, + And dainties a great store o' em! + May peace and plenty be his lot, + Unstained by any vicious spot, + And may he never want a groat + That's fond o' Tullochgorum! + + But for the dirty, yawning fool + Who wants to be Oppression's tool, + May envy gnaw his rotten soul, + And discontent devour him! + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + And nane say 'wae's me' for him! + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, + Whae'er he be, that winna dance + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + * * * * * + + + + THOMAS CHATTERTON + + + [SONGS FROM "AELLA, A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE, + WROTENN BIE THOMAS ROWLEIE"] + + [THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES + ATTE THE LYGHTE] + + FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE + + The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; + The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue; + Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte; + The nesh yonge coweslepe blendethe wyth the dewe; + The trees enlefèd, yntoe Heavenne straughte, + Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys brought. + + The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge; + The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne; + Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe; + Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne; + I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, + Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle. + + + SECONDE MYNSTRELLE + + So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse, + All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde; + Ynn Womman alleyne mannès pleasaunce lyes; + As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde. + Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see + Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charm for thee. + + + THYRDE MYNSTRELLE + + Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere, + With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe, + Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, + Beerynge uponne hys backe the ripèd shefe; + Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte; + Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte; + + Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie, + Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde; + When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die, + Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde; + Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre, + Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steyncèd wyth somme care. + + + SECONDE MYNSTRELLE + + Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde; + Angelles alleyne fromme chafe desyre bee free: + Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde, + Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot styllèd bee; + Ne seynete yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere, + Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre; + + Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne, + Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire; + Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne, + Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre; + Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete + The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete. + + Albeytte wythout wommen menne were pheeres + To salvage kynde, and wulde botte lyve to slea, + Botte wommenne efte the spryghte of peace so cheres, + Tochelod yn Angel joie heie Angeles bee; + Go, take thee swythyn to thie bedde a wyfe; + Bee bante or blessed hie yn proovynge marryage lyfe. + + + [O, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE] + + O, synge untoe mie roundelaie! + O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee! + Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie; + Lycke a reynynge ryver bee: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, + Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, + Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte; + Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, + Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, + Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote; + O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Alle underre the wyllowe tree. + + Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, + In the briered delle belowe; + Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, + To the nyghte-mares as heie goe: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; + Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude, + Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, + Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, + Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, + Nee one hallie Seyncte to save + Al the celness of a mayde: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Alle under the wyllowe tree. + + Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres + Rounde his hallie corse to gre; + Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres, + Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne + Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; + Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, + Daunce bie nete, or feaste by dale: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, + Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. + I die! I comme! mie true love waytes.-- + Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. + + + AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE + + AS WROTEN BIE THE GODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464 + + In Virgynè the sweltrie sun gan sheene, + And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie; + The apple rodded from its palie greene, + And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; + The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; + 'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode, of the yeare, + And eke the grounde was dighte in its most defte aumere. + + The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, + Deadde still the aire, and eke the welkea blue; + When from the sea arist in drear arraie + A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, + The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, + Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face, + And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace. + + Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side + Which dide unto Seynete Godwine's covent lede, + A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide, + Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede, + Longe bretful of the miseries of neede; + Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie? + He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie. + + Look in his glommèd face, his spright there scanne: + Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade! + Haste to thie church-glebe-house, ashrewed manne; + Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dorture bedde: + Cale as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde + Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; + Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves. + + The gathered storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; + The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; + The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, + And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; + Dashde from the cloudes, the waters flott againe; + The welkin opes, the yellow levynne flies, + And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. + + Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound + Cheves slowie on, and then embollen clangs, + Shakes the hie spyre, and, losst, dispended, drowned, + Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges; + The windes are up, the lofty elmen swanges; + Again the levynne and the thunder poures, + And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers. + + Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, + The Abbote of Seyncte Godwyne's convente came: + His chapournette was drented with the reine, + And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame; + He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same. + The storme encreasen, and he drew aside + With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide. + + His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, + With a gold button fastened neere his chynne; + His autremete was edged with golden twynne, + And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne-- + Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne; + The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, + For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. + + 'An almes, sir prieste!' the droppynge pilgrim saide; + 'O let me waite within your covente dore, + Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, + And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer. + Helpless and ould am I, alas! and poor; + No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; + All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche.' + + 'Varlet,' replyd the Abbatte, 'cease your dinne! + This is no season almes and prayers to give. + Mie porter never lets a faitour in; + None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.' + And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, + And shettynge on the ground his glairie raie: + The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. + Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde: + Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen, + Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; + His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; + A Limitoure he was of order seene, + And from the pathwaie side then turnèd bee, + Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree, + + 'An almes, sir priest!' the droppynge pilgrim sayde, + 'For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake!' + The Limitoure then loosened his pouche threade, + And did thereoute a groate of silver take: + The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. + 'Here, take this silver; it maie eathe thie care: + We are Goddes stewards all, nete of our owne we bare. + + 'But ah, unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me + Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. + Here, take my semecope--thou arte bare, I see; + 'Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.' + He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. + Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, + Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power! + + + + + THOMAS DAY + + + FROM THE DESOLATION OF AMERICA + + I see, I see, swift bursting through the shade, + The cruel soldier, and the reeking blade. + And there the bloody cross of Britain waves, + Pointing to deeds of death an host of slaves. + To them unheard the wretched tell their pain, + And every human sorrow sues in vain: + Their hardened bosoms never knew to melt; + Each woe unpitied, and each pang unfelt.-- + See! where they rush, and with a savage joy, + Unsheathe the sword, impatient to destroy. + Fierce as the tiger, bursting from the wood, + With famished jaws, insatiable of blood! + + Yet, yet a moment, the fell steel restrain; + Must Nature's sacred ties all plead in vain? + Ah! while your kindred blood remains unspilt, + And Heaven allows an awful pause from guilt, + Suspend the war, and recognize the bands, + Against whose lives you arm your impious hands!-- + Not these, the boast of Gallia's proud domains, + Nor the scorched squadrons of Iberian plains; + Unhappy men! no foreign war you wage, + In your own blood you glut your frantic rage; + And while you follow where oppression leads, + At every step, a friend, or brother, bleeds. + + * * * * * + + Devoted realm! what now avails thy claim, + To milder virtue, or sublimer flame? + Or what avails, unhappy land! to trace + The generous labours of thy patriot race? + Who, urged by fate, and fortitude their guide, + On the wild surge their desperate fortune tried; + Undaunted every toil and danger bore, + And fixed their standards on a savage shore; + What time they fled, with an averted eye, + The baneful influence of their native sky, + Where slowly rising through the dusky air, + The northern meteors shot their lurid glare. + In vain their country's genius sought to move, + With tender images of former love, + Sad rising to their view, in all her charms, + And weeping wooed them to her well-known arms. + The favoured clime, the soft domestic air, + And wealth and ease were all below their care, + Since there an hated tyrant met their eyes + And blasted every blessing of the skies. + + * * * * * + + And now, no more by nature's bounds confined + He[A] spreads his dragon pinions to the wind. + The genius of the West beholds him near, + And freedom trembles at her last barrier. + + In vain she deemed in this sequestered seat + To fix a refuge for her wandering feet; + To mark one altar sacred to her fame, + And save the ruins of the human name. + + * * * * * + + Lo! Britain bended to the servile yoke, + Her fire extinguished, and her spirit broke, + Beneath the pressure of [a tyrant's] sway, + Herself at once the spoiler and the prey, + Detest[s] the virtues she can boast no more + And envies every right to every shore! + At once to nature and to pity blind, + Wages abhorred war with humankind; + And wheresoe'er her ocean rolls his wave, + Provokes an enemy, or meets a slave. + + But free-born minds inspired with noble flame, + Attest their origin, and scorn the claim. + Beyond the sweets of pleasure and of rest, + The joys which captivate the vulgar breast; + Beyond the dearer ties of kindred blood; + Or Brittle life's too transitory good; + The sacred charge of liberty they prize, + That last, and noblest, present of the skies. + + * * * * * + + Yet, gracious Heaven! though clouds may intervene, + And transitory horrors shade the scene; + Though for an instant virtue sink depressed, + While vice exulting rears her bloody crest; + Thy sacred truth shall still inspire my mind, + To cast the terrors of my fate behind! + Thy power which nature's utmost hound pervades, + Beams through the void, and cheers destruction's shades, + Can blast the laurel on the victor's head, + And smooth the good man's agonizing bed, + To songs of triumph change the captive's groans, + And hurl the powers of darkness from their thrones! + + [Footnote A: The monster, tyranny.] + + + + + GEORGE CRABBE + + + From THE LIBRARY + + When the sad soul, by care and grief oppressed, + Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest; + When every object that appears in view, + Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too; + Where shall affliction from itself retire? + Where fade away and placidly expire? + Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain; + Care blasts the honours of the flowery plain: + Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, + Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream; + For when the soul is labouring in despair, + In vain the body breathes a purer air. + + * * * * * + + Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find; + The curious here, to feed a craving mind; + Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; + And here the poet meets his fav'ring Muse. + With awe, around these silent walks I tread; + These are the lasting mansions of the dead:-- + 'The dead!' methinks a thousand tongues reply, + 'These are the tombs of such as cannot die! + Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, + And laugh at all the little strife of time.' + + * * * * * + + Lo! all in silence, all in order stand, + And mighty folios first, a lordly band; + Then quartos their well-ordered ranks maintain, + And light octavos fill a spacious plain: + See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows, + A humbler band of duodecimos; + While undistinguished trifles swell the scene, + The last new play and frittered magazine. + + * * * * * + + But who are these, a tribe that soar above, + And tell more tender tales of modern love? + + A _novel_ train! the brood of old Romance, + Conceived by Folly on the coast of France, + That now with lighter thought and gentler fire, + Usurp the honours of their drooping sire: + And still fantastic, vain, and trifling, sing + Of many a soft and inconsistent thing,-- + Of rakes repenting, clogged in Hymen's chain, + Of nymph reclined by unpresuming swain, + Of captains, colonels, lords, and amorous knights, + That find in humbler nymphs such chaste delights. + Such heavenly charms, so gentle, yet so gay, + That all their former follies fly away: + Honour springs up, where'er their looks impart + A moment's sunshine to the hardened heart; + A virtue, just before the rover's jest, + Grows like a mushroom in his melting breast. + Much too they tell of cottages and shades. + Of balls, and routs, and midnight masquerades, + Where dangerous men and dangerous mirth reside, + And Virtue goes----on purpose to be tried. + These are the tales that wake the soul to life, + That charm the sprightly niece and forward wife, + That form the manners of a polished age, + And each pure easy moral of the stage. + + + FROM THE VILLAGE + + The village life, and every care that reigns + O'er youthful peasants and declining swains; + What labour yields, and what, that labour past, + Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; + What form the real picture of the poor, + Demand a song--the Muse can give no more. + + Fled are those times when, in harmonious strains, + The rustic poet praised his native plains; + No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse, + Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse: + Yet still for these we frame the tender strain; + Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, + And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal-- + The only pains, alas! they never feel. + + On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign, + If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, + Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong, + Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? + From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, + Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way? + Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains, + Because the Muses never knew their pains. + They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now + Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough, + And few amid the rural tribe have time + To number syllables and play with rhyme: + Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share + The poet's rapture and the peasant's care, + Or the great labours of the field degrade + With the new peril of a poorer trade? + + From this chief cause these idle praises spring-- + That themes so easy few forbear to sing, + For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask; + To sing of shepherds is an easy task: + The happy youth assumes the common strain, + A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain; + With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer, + But all, to look like her, is painted fair. + + I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms + For him that grazes or for him that farms; + But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace + The poor laborious natives of the place, + And see the mid-day sun with fervid ray + On their bare heads and dewy temples play, + While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts + Deplore their fortune yet sustain their parts, + Then shall I dare these real ills to hide + In tinsel trappings of poetic pride? + + No; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast, + Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast; + Where other cares than those the Muse relates, + And other shepherds dwell with other mates; + By such examples taught, I paint the cot + As Truth will paint it and as bards will not. + Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain: + To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; + O'ercome by labour and bowed down by time, + Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? + Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, + By winding myrtles round your ruined shed? + Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower, + Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? + + Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, + Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor; + From thence a length of burning sand appears, + Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; + Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, + Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye: + There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, + And to the ragged infant threaten war; + There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil; + There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; + Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, + The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; + O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, + And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; + With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, + And a sad splendour vainly shines around. + + * * * * * + + Here, wandering long, amid these frowning fields, + I sought the simple life that Nature yields: + Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurped her place, + And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; + Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe, + The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, + Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, + On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye, + Which to their coast directs its venturous way; + Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. + + As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, + And wait for favouring winds to leave the land; + While still for flight the ready wing is spread: + So waited I the favouring hour, and fled; + Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, + And cried, 'Ah! hapless they who still remain: + Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, + Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore; + + Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway + Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; + When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, + And begs a poor protection from the poor!' + + But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand + Gave a spare portion to the famished land; + Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain + Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain; + But yet in other scenes more fair in view, + Where Plenty smiles--alas! she smiles for few-- + And those who taste not, yet behold her store, + Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore-- + The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. + Or will you deem them amply paid in health, + Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth? + Go, then! and see them rising with the sun, + Through a long course of daily toil to run; + See them beneath the Dog-star's raging heat, + When the knees tremble and the temples beat; + Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er + The labour past, and toils to come explore; + See them alternate suns and showers engage, + And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; + Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, + When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; + Then own that labour may as fatal be + To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee. + + Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride + Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; + There may you see the youth of slender frame + Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; + Yet, urged along, and proudly both to yield, + He strives to join his fellows of the field; + Till long-contending, nature droops at last, + Declining health rejects his poor repast, + His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees, + And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. + + Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, + Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; + Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare, + Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share! + + Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, + Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; + Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such + As you who praise, would never deign to touch. + + Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, + Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; + Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share, + Go look within, and ask if peace be there; + If peace be his, that drooping weary sire; + Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; + Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand + Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand, + + Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these + Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; + For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age + Can with no cares except its own engage; + Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see + The bare arms broken from the withering tree, + On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough, + Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. + + He once was chief in all the rustic trade; + His steady hand the straightest furrow made; + Full many a prize he won, and still is proud + To find the triumphs of his youth allowed; + A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes. + He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs; + For now he journeys to his grave in pain; + The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain: + Alternate masters now their slave command, + Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, + And, when his age attempts its task in vain, + With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. + + Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, + His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep; + Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow + O'er his white locks and bury them in snow, + When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn, + He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn:-- + + 'Why do I live, when I desire to be + At once from life and life's long labour free? + Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away, + Without the sorrows of a slow decay; + I, like you withered leaf, remain behind, + Nipped by the frost, and shivering in the wind; + There it abides till younger buds come on + As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; + Then from the rising generation thrust, + It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. + + 'These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, + Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; + To me the children of my youth are lords, + Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words: + Wants of their own demand their care; and who + Feels his own want and succours others too? + A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, + None need my help, and none relieve my woe; + Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, + And men forget the wretch they would not aid.' + + Thus groan the old, till by disease oppressed, + They taste a final woe, and then they rest. + + Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, + Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; + There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, + And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; + There children dwell who know no parents' care; + Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! + Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, + Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; + Dejected widows with unheeded tears, + And crippled age with more than childhood fears; + The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! + The moping idiot, and the madman gay. + Here too the sick their final doom receive, + Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, + Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, + Mixed with the clamours of the crowd below; + Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, + And the cold charities of man to man: + Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, + And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; + But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, + And pride embitters what it can't deny. + + Say, ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes, + Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; + Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance + With timid eye to read the distant glance; + Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease + To name the nameless, ever-new, disease; + Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, + Which real pain, and that alone, can cure; + How would ye bear in real pain to lie, + Despised, neglected, left alone to die? + How would, ye bear to draw your latest breath + Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? + + Such is that room which one rude beam divides, + And naked rafters form the sloping sides; + Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, + And lath and mud are all that lie between, + Save one dull pane that, coarsely patched, gives way + To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: + Here on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, + The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; + For him no hand the cordial cup applies, + Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; + No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, + Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. + + But soon a load and hasty summons calls, + Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; + Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, + All pride and business, bustle and conceit; + With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe, + With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, + He bids the gazing throng around him fly, + And carries fate and physic in his eye: + A potent quack, long versed in human ills, + Who first insults the victim whom he kills; + Whose murderous hand a drowsy Bench protect, + And whose most tender mercy is neglect. + Paid by the parish for attendance here, + He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer; + In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies, + Impatience marked in his averted eyes; + And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, + Without reply he rushes on the door: + His drooping patient, long inured to pain, + And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain; + He ceases now the feeble help to crave + Of man; and silent sinks into the grave. + + But ere his death some pious doubts arise, + Some simple fears, which 'bold bad' men despise; + Fain would he ask the parish-priest to prove + His title certain to the joys above: + For this he sends the murm'ring nurse, who calls + The holy stranger to these dismal walls: + And doth not he, the pious man, appear, + He, 'passing rich with forty pounds a year?' + Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock, + And far unlike him, feeds this little flock: + A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task + As much as God or man can fairly ask; + The rest he gives to loves and labours light, + To fields the morning, and to feasts the night; + None better skilled the noisy pack to guide, + To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide; + A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, + And, skilled at whist, devotes the night to play: + Then, while such honours bloom around his head, + Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed, + To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal + To combat fears that e'en the pious feel? + + * * * * * + + And hark! the riots of the green begin, + That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn; + What time the weekly pay was vanished all, + And the slow hostess scored the threatening wall; + What time they asked, their friendly feast to close, + A final cup, and that will make them foes; + When blows ensue that break the arm of toil, + And rustic battle ends the boobies' broil. + + Save when to yonder hall they bend their way, + Where the grave justice ends the grievous fray; + He who recites, to keep the poor in awe, + The law's vast volume--for he knows the law:-- + To him with anger or with shame repair + The injured peasant and deluded fair. + Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears, + Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears; + And while she stands abashed, with conscious eye, + Some favourite female of her judge glides by, + Who views with scornful glance the strumpet's fate, + And thanks the stars that made her keeper great; + Near her the swain, about to bear for life + One certain, evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife; + But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath, + Consents to wed, and so secures them both. + + Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate, + Why make the poor as guilty as the great? + To show the great, those mightier sons of pride, + How near in vice the lowest are allied; + Such are their natures and their passions such, + But these disguise too little, those too much: + So shall the man of power and pleasure see + In his own slave as vile a wretch as he; + In his luxurious lord the servant find + His own low pleasures and degenerate mind; + And each in all the kindred vices trace + Of a poor, blind, bewildered, erring race; + Who, a short time in varied fortune past, + Die, and are equal in the dust at last. + + + + + JOHN NEWTON + + + A VISION OF LIFE IN DEATH + + In evil long I took delight, + Unawed by shame or fear, + Till a new object struck my sight, + And stopped my wild career; + I saw One hanging on a Tree + In agonies and Blood, + Who fixed His languid eyes on me, + As near His cross I stood. + + Sure never till my latest breath + Can I forget that look: + It seemed to charge me with His death, + Though not a word he spoke: + My conscience felt and owned the guilt, + And plunged me in despair; + I saw my sins His blood had spilt, + And helped to nail Him there. + + Alas! I know not what I did! + But now my tears are vain: + Where shall my trembling soul be hid? + For I the Lord have slain! + A second look He gave, which said, + 'I freely all forgive; + The blood is for thy ransom paid; + I die, that thou may'st live.' + + Thus, while His death my sin displays + In all its blackest hue, + Such is the mystery of grace, + It seals my pardon too. + With pleasing grief and mournful joy, + My spirit now is filled + That I should such a life destroy,-- + Yet live by Him I killed. + + + + + WILLIAM COWPER + + From TABLE TALK + + [THE POET AND RELIGION] + + Pity Religion has so seldom found + A skilful guide into poetic ground! + The flowers would spring where'er she deigned to stray, + And every muse attend her in her way. + Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, + And many a compliment politely penned, + But unattired in that becoming vest + Religion weaves for her, and half undressed, + Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, + A wintry figure, like a withered thorn. + + The shelves are full, all other themes are sped, + Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread; + Satire has long since done his best, and curst + And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst; + Fancy has sported all her powers away + In tales, in trifles, and in children's play; + And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, + Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. + 'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, + Touched with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre, + And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, + With more than mortal music on his tongue, + That He who died below, and reigns above, + Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. + + + From CONVERSATION + + [THE DUBIOUS AND THE POSITIVE] + + Dubious is such a scrupulous good man,-- + Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. + He would not with a peremptory tone + Assert the nose upon his face his own; + With hesitation admirably slow, + He humbly hopes--presumes--it may be so. + His evidence, if he were called by law + To swear to some enormity he saw, + For want of prominence and just relief, + Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. + Through constant dread of giving truth offence, + He ties up all his hearers in suspense; + Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not; + What he remembers seems to have forgot; + His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, + Centering at last in having none at all. + Yet though he tease and baulk your listening ear, + He makes one useful point exceeding clear; + Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme + A sceptic in philosophy may seem, + Reduced to practice, his beloved rule + Would only prove him a consummate fool; + Useless in him alike both brain and speech, + Fate having placed all truth above his reach; + His ambiguities his total sum, + He might as well be blind and deaf and dumb. + + Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, + The positive pronounce without dismay, + Their want of light and intellect supplied + By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride: + Without the means of knowing right from wrong, + They always are decisive, clear, and strong; + Where others toil with philosophic force, + Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course, + Flings at your head conviction in the lump, + And gains remote conclusions at a jump; + Their own defect, invisible to them, + Seen in another, they at once condemn, + And, though self-idolized in every case, + Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. + The cause is plain and not to be denied, + The proud are always most provoked by pride; + Few competitions but engender spite, + And those the most where neither has a right. + + + TO A YOUNG LADY + + Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, + Apt emblem of a virtuous maid-- + Silent and chaste she steals along, + Far from the world's gay busy throng: + With gentle yet prevailing force, + Intent upon her destined course; + Graceful and useful all she does. + Blessing and blest where'er she goes; + Pure-bosomed as that watery glass + And Heaven reflected in her face. + + + THE SHRUBBERY + + O happy shades! to me unblest! + Friendly to peace, but not to me! + How ill the scene that offers rest, + And heart that cannot rest, agree! + + This glassy stream, that spreading pine, + Those alders quivering to the breeze, + Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, + And please, if anything could please. + + But fixed unalterable Care + Foregoes not what she feels within, + Shows the same sadness everywhere, + And slights the season and the scene. + + For all that pleased in wood or lawn + While Peace possessed these silent bowers, + Her animating smile withdrawn, + Has lost its beauties and its powers. + + The saint or moralist should tread + This moss-grown alley, musing, slow, + They seek like me the secret shade, + But not, like me, to nourish woe! + + Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste + Alike admonish not to roam; + These tell me of enjoyments past, + And those of sorrows yet to come. + + + From THE TASK + + [Love of Familiar Scenes] + + Scenes that soothed + Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find + Still soothing and of power to charm me still. + And witness, dear companion of my walks, + Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive + Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, + Confirmed by long experience of thy worth + And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire, + Witness a joy that them hast doubled long. + Thou knowest my praise of nature most sincere, + And that my raptures are not conjured up + To serve occasions of poetic pomp, + But genuine, and art partner of them all. + + How oft upon yon eminence our pace + Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne + The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, + While admiration feeding at the eye, + And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. + Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned + The distant plough slow moving, and beside + His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, + The sturdy swain diminished to a boy. + Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain + Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, + Conducts the eye along his sinuous course + Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, + Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms, + That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; + While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, + That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, + The sloping land recedes into the clouds; + Displaying on its varied side the grace + Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, + Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells + Just undulates upon the listening ear; + Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. + Scenes must be beautiful which, daily viewed, + Please daily, and whose novelty survives + Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: + Praise justly due to those that I describe. + + + [MAN'S INHUMANITY] + + Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, + Some boundless contiguity of shade, + Where rumour of oppression and deceit, + Of unsuccessful or successful war, + Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, + My soul is sick, with every day's report + Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. + There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, + It does not feel for man; the natural bond + Of brotherhood is severed as the flax + That falls asunder at the touch of fire. + He finds his fellow guilty of a skin + + Not coloured like his own, and, having power + T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause + Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey, + Lands intersected by a narrow frith. + Abhor each other. Mountains interposed + Make enemies of nations who had else + Like kindred drops been mingled into one. + Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; + And worse than all, and most to be deplored, + As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, + Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat + With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, + Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. + Then what is man? And what man seeing this, + And having human feelings, does not blush + And hang his head, to think himself a man? + I would not have a slave to till my ground, + To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, + And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth + That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. + No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's + Just estimation prized above all price, + I had much rather be myself the slave + And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. + We have no slaves at home: then why abroad? + And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave + That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. + Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs + Receive our air, that moment they are free; + They touch our country, and their shackles fall. + That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud + And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, + And let it circulate through every vein + Of all your empire; that where Britain's power + Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. + + + [LOVE OF ENGLAND] + + England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, + My country! and, while yet a nook is left + Where English minds and manners may be found, + Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime + + Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed + With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, + I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies + And fields without a flower, for warmer France + With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves + Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. + To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime + Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire + Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; + But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake + Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart + As any thunderer there. And I can feel + Thy follies too, and with a just disdain + Frown at effeminates, whose very looks + Reflect dishonour on the land I love. + How, in the name of soldiership and sense, + Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth + And tender as a girl, all-essenced o'er + With odours, and as profligate as sweet, + Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, + And love when they should fight,--when such as these + Presume to lay their hand upon the ark + Of her magnificent and awful cause? + Time was when it was praise and boast enough + In every clime, and travel where we might, + That we were born her children; praise enough + To fill the ambition of a private man, + That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, + And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. + Farewell those honours, and farewell with them + The hope of such hereafter! They have fallen + Each in his field of glory, one in arms, + And one in council--Wolfe upon the lap + Of smiling Victory that moment won, + And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame! + They made us many soldiers. Chatham still + Consulting England's happiness at home, + Secured it by an unforgiving frown + If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, + Put so much of his heart into his act, + That his example had a magnet's force, + And all were swift to follow whom all loved. + + Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! + Or all that we have left is empty talk + Of old achievements, and despair of new. + + + [COWPER, THE RELIGIOUS RECLUSE] + + I was a stricken deer that left the herd + Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed + My panting side was charged, when I withdrew + To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. + There was I found by One who had Himself + Been hurt by th' archers. In His side He bore, + And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars. + With gentle force soliciting the darts, + He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live. + Since then, with few associates, in remote + And silent woods I wander, far from those + My former partners of the peopled scene, + With few associates, and not wishing more. + Here much I ruminate, as much I may, + With other views of men and manners now + Than once, and others of a life to come. + I see that all are wanderers, gone astray + Each in his own delusions; they are lost + In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed + And never won; dream after dream ensues, + And still they dream that they shall still succeed, + And still are disappointed: rings the world + With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind. + And add two-thirds of the remaining half, + And find the total of their hopes and fears + Dreams, empty dreams. + + + [THE ARRIVAL OF THE POST] + + Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge, + That with its wearisome but needful length + Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon + Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright, + He comes, the herald of a noisy world, + With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, + News from all nations lumbering at his back, + True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, + + Yet careless what he brings, his one concern + Is to conduct it to the destined inn, + And, having dropped th' expected bag, pass on. + He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, + Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief + Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, + To him indifferent whether grief or joy. + Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, + Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet + With tears that trickled down the writers cheeks + Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, + Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains + Or nymphs responsive, equally affect + His horse and him, unconscious of them all. + But oh th' important budget, ushered in + With such heart-shaking music, who can say + What are its tidings? Have our troops awaked, + Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, + Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave? + Is India free, and does she wear her plumed + And jewelled turban with a smile of peace, + Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, + The popular harangue, the tart reply, + The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, + And the loud laugh--I long to know them all; + I burn to set th' imprisoned wranglers free, + And give them voice and utterance once again. + + Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, + Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round; + And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn + Throws up a steamy column, and the cups + That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, + So let us welcome peaceful evening in. + + + [THE BASTILE] + + Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more + To France than all her losses and defeats + Old or of later date, by sea or land, + Her house of bondage worse than that of old + Which God avenged on Pharaoh--the Bastile! + Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, + Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, + That monarchs have supplied from age to age + With music such as suits their sovereign ears-- + The sighs and groans of miserable men, + There's not an English heart that would not leap + To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know + That even our enemies, so oft employed + In forging chains for us, themselves were free: + For he that values liberty, confines + His zeal for her predominance within + No narrow bounds; her cause engages him + Wherever pleaded; 'tis the cause of man. + There dwell the most forlorn of human kind, + Immured though unaccused, condemned untried. + Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. + There, like the visionary emblem seen + By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, + And filleted about with hoops of brass, + Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. + To count the hour-bell and expect no change; + And ever as the sullen sound is heard, + Still to reflect that though a joyless note + To him whose moments all have one dull pace, + Ten thousand rovers in the world at large + Account it music--that it summons some + To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; + The wearied hireling finds it a release + From labour; and the lover, who has chid + Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke + Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight: + To fly for refuge from distracting thought + To such amusements as ingenious woe + Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools-- + To read engraven on the muddy walls, + In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, + A sad memorial, and subjoin his own; + To turn purveyor to an overgorged + And bloated spider, till the pampered pest + Is made familiar, watches his approach, + Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend; + To wear out time in numbering to and fro + The studs that thick emboss his iron door, + Then downward and then upward, then aslant + And then alternate, with a sickly hope + By dint of change to give his tasteless task + Some relish, till, the sum exactly found + In all directions, he begins again:-- + Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around + With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel + And beg for exile or the pangs of death? + That man should thus encroach on fellow-man, + Abridge him of his just and native rights, + Eradicate him, tear him from his hold + Upon th' endearments of domestic life + And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, + And doom him for perhaps an heedless word + To barrenness and solitude and tears, + Moves indignation; makes the name of king + (Of king whom such prerogative can please) + As dreadful as the Manichean god, + Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. + + + [MEDITATION IN WINTER] + + The night was winter in his roughest mood, + The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, + Upon the southern side of the slant hills, + And where the woods fence off the northern blast, + The season smiles, resigning all its rage, + And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue + Without a cloud, and white without a speck + The dazzling splendour of the scene below. + Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, + And through the trees I view the embattled tower + Whence all the music. I again perceive + The soothing influence of the wafted strains, + And settle in soft musings as I tread + The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, + Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. + The roof, though moveable through all its length + As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, + And intercepting in their silent fall + The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. + + No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. + The redbreast warbles still, but is content + With slender notes, and more than half suppressed: + Pleased with, his solitude, and flitting light + From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes + From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, + That tinkle in the withered leaves below. + Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, + Charms more than silence. Meditation here + May think down hours to moments. Here the heart + May give a useful lesson to the head, + And learning wiser grow without his books. + Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, + Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells + In heads replete with thoughts of other men, + Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. + Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, + The mere materials with which wisdom builds, + 'Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, + Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. + Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; + Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. + Books are not seldom talismans and spells, + By which the magic art of shrewder wits + Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. + Some to the fascination of a name + Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style + Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds + Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. + While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear + The insupportable fatigue of thought, + And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice, + The total grist unsifted, husks and all. + But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course + Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, + And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs, + And lanes in which the primrose ere her time + Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, + Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth, + Not shy as in the world, and to be won + By slow solicitation, seize at once + The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. + + + [KINDNESS TO ANIMALS] + + I would not enter on my list of friends, + Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, + Yet wanting sensibility, the man + Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. + An inadvertent, step may crush the snail + That crawls at evening in the public path; + But he that has humanity, forewarned, + Will tread aside and let the reptile live. + The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, + And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, + A visitor unwelcome, into scenes + Sacred to neatness and repose--th' alcove, + The chamber, or refectory,--may die: + A necessary act incurs no blame. + Not so when, held within their proper bounds + And guiltless of offence, they range the air, + Or take their pastime in the spacious field: + There they are privileged; and he that hunts + Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, + Disturbs th' economy of Nature's realm, + Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. + + + ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE + + O that those lips had language! Life has passed + With me but roughly since I heard thee last. + Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, + The same that oft in childhood solaced me; + Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, + 'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!' + The meek intelligence of those dear eyes + (Blest be the art that can immortalize, + The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim + To quench it) here shines on me still the same. + + Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, + O welcome guest, though unexpected here! + Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, + Affectionate, a mother lost so long, + I will obey, not willingly alone, + But gladly, as the precept were her own: + And, while that face renews my filial grief, + Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, + Shall steep me in Elysian revery, + A momentary dream that thou art she. + + My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, + Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? + Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, + Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? + Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; + Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- + Ah, that maternal smile! it answers 'Yes,' + I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, + I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, + And, turning from my nursery window, drew + A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! + But was it such? It was: where thou art gone + Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. + May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, + The parting word shall pass my lips no more! + Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, + Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. + What ardently I wished I long believed, + And, disappointed still, was still deceived, + By expectation every day beguiled, + Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. + Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, + Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, + I learnt at last submission to my lot, + But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. + + Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more: + Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; + And where the gardener Robin, day by day, + Drew me to school along the public way, + Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped + In scarlet, mantle warm, and velvet-capped, + 'Tis now become a history little known + That once we called the pastoral house our own. + Short-lived possession! But the record fair + That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, + Still outlives many a storm that has effaced + A thousand other themes less deeply traced. + Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, + That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; + Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, + The biscuit or confectionary plum; + The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed + By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; + All this, and, more endearing still than all, + Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, + Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks + That humour interposed too often makes; + All this, still legible on memory's page, + And still to be so to my latest age, + Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay + Such honours to thee as my numbers may, + Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, + Not scorned in heaven though little noticed here. + + Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours + When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, + The violet, the pink, the jessamine, + I pricked them into paper with a pin + (And thou wast happier than myself the while, + Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), + Could those few pleasant days again appear, + Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? + I would not trust my heart--the dear delight + Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. + But no--what here we call our life is such, + So little to be loved, and thou so much, + That I should ill requite thee to constrain + Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. + + Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, + The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed, + Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, + Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, + There sits quiescent on the floods, that show + Her beauteous form reflected clear below, + While airs impregnated with incense play + Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, + So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore + 'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,' + And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide + Of life long since has anchored by thy side. + + But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, + Always from port withheld, always distressed, + Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, + Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, + And day by day some current's thwarting force + Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. + Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he, + That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. + My boast is not that I deduce my birth + From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; + But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- + The son of parents passed into the skies! + + And now, farewell. Time unrevoked has run + His wonted course, yet what I wished is done: + By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, + I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again, + To have renewed the joys that once were mine, + Without the sin of violating thine; + And while the wings of Fancy still are free, + And I can view this mimic show of thee, + Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- + Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. + + + TO MARY + + The twentieth year is well-nigh past, + Since first our sky was overcast; + Ah, would that this might be the last! + My Mary! + + Thy spirits have a fainter flow, + 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 playedst 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 uttered 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 pressed, press gently mine, + My Mary! + + Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, + That now at every step thou movest + Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, + My Mary! + + And still to love, though pressed with ill, + In wintry age to feel no chill, + With me is to be lovely still, + My Mary! + + But ah! by constant heed I know, + 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! + + + THE CASTAWAY + + Obscurest night involved the sky, + The Atlantic billows roared, + When such a destined wretch as I, + Washed headlong from on board, + Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, + His floating home forever left. + + No-braver chief could Albion boast + Than he with whom he went, + Nor ever ship left Albion's coast + With warmer wishes sent. + He loved them both, but both in vain, + Nor him beheld, nor her again, + + Not long beneath the whelming brine, + Expert to swim, he lay; + Nor soon he felt his strength decline, + Or courage die away; + But waged with death a lasting strife, + Supported by despair of life. + + He shouted: nor his friends had failed + To check the vessel's course, + But so the furious blast prevailed, + That, pitiless perforce, + They left their outcast mate behind, + And scudded still before the wind. + + Some succour yet they could afford; + And such as storms allow, + The cask, the coop, the floated cord, + Delayed not to bestow. + But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, + Whate'er they gave, should visit more. + + Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he + Their haste himself condemn, + Aware that flight, in such a sea, + Alone could rescue them; + Yet bitter felt it still to die + Deserted, and his friends so nigh. + + He long survives, who lives an hour + In ocean, self-upheld; + And so long he, with unspent power, + His destiny repelled; + And ever, as the minutes flew, + Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!' + + At length, his transient respite past, + His comrades, who before + Had heard his voice in every blast, + Could catch the sound no more: + For then, by toil subdued, he drank + The stifling wave, and then he sank. + + No poet wept him; but the page + Of narrative sincere, + That tells his name, his worth, his age, + Is wet with Anson's tear: + And tears by bards or heroes shed + Alike immortalize the dead. + + I therefore purpose not, or dream, + Descanting on his fate, + To give the melancholy theme + A more enduring date: + But misery still delights to trace + Its semblance in another's case. + + No voice divine the storm allayed, + No light propitious shone, + When, snatched from all effectual aid, + We perished, each alone: + But I beneath a rougher sea, + And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. + + + + + WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES + + + EVENING + + Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend, + Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, + The lonely battlement, the farthest hill + And wood, I think of those who have no friend; + Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led, + From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, + Retiring, wander to the ringdove's haunts + Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed + Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye + Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind + Might rest beyond the murmurs of mankind, + Nor hear the hourly moans of misery! + Alas for man! that Hope's fair views the while + Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! + + + DOVER CLIFFS + + On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood + Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet + Hear not the surge that has for ages beat, + How many a lonely wanderer has stood! + And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, + And o'er the distant billows the still eve + Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave + To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; + Of social scenes, from which he wept to part! + Oh! if, like me, he knew how fruitless all + The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, + Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, + And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide-- + The world his country, and his God his guide. + + + + + ROBERT BURNS + + + MARY MORISON + + O Mary, at thy window be; + It is the wished, the trysted hour! + Those smiles and glances let me see + That make the miser's treasure poor! + How blythely wad I bide the stoure, + 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 sighed, and said amang them a', + 'Ye are na 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 wilt na gie, + At least be pity to me shown! + A thought ungentle canna be + The thought o' Mary Morison. + + + THE HOLY FAIR + + Upon a simmer Sunday morn, + When Nature's face is fair, + I walkèd forth to view the corn, + An' snuff the caller air. + The rising sun, owre Galston muirs, + Wi' glorious light was glintin; + The hares were hirplin down the furs, + The lav'rocks they were chantin + Fu' sweet that day. + + As lightsomely I glowered abroad, + To see a scene sae gay, + Three hizzies, early at the road, + Cam skelpin up the way. + Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, + But ane wi' lyart lining; + The third, that gaed a wee a-back, + Was in the fashion shining + Fu' gay that day. + + The twa appeared like sisters twin, + In feature, form, an' claes; + Their visage withered, lang an'thin, + An' sour as onie slaes: + The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, + As light as onie lambie, + An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, + As soon as e'er she saw me, + Fu' kind that day. + + Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass, + I think ye seem to ken me; + I'm sure I've seen that bonie face, + But yet I canna name ye.' + Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, + An'taks me by the han's, + 'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck + Of a' the Ten Comman's + A screed some day. + + 'My name is Fun--your cronie dear, + The nearest friend ye hae; + An'this is Superstition here, + An'that's Hypocrisy. + I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, + To spend an hour in daffin: + Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, + We will get famous laughin + At them this day.' + + Quoth I, 'Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't: + I'll get my Sunday's sark on, + An' meet you on the holy spot; + Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!' + Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, + An' soon I made me ready; + For roads were clad frae side to side + Wi' monie a wearie body, + In droves that day. + + Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, + Gaed hoddin by their cotters; + There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, + Are springin owre the gutters. + The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, + In silks an' scarlets glitter; + Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, + An' farls baked wi' butter, + Fu' crump that day. + + When by the plate we set our nose, + Weel heapèd up wi' ha'pence, + A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, + An' we maun draw our tippence. + Then in we go to see the show: + On every side they're gath'rin, + Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, + An' some are busy bleth'rin + Right loud that day. + + Here stands a shed to fend the showers, + An' screen our countra gentry, + There Racer Jess, and twa-three whores, + Are blinkin' at the entry. + Here sits a raw of tittlin' jads, + Wi' heavin breasts an' bare neck; + An'there a batch o' wabster lads. + Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, + For fun this day. + + Here some are thinkin on their sins, + An' some upo' their claes; + Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, + Anither sighs and prays; + On this hand sits a chosen swatch, + Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces; + On that a set o' chaps, at watch, + Thrang winkln on the lasses + To chairs that day. + + O happy is that man an' blest + (Nae wonder that it pride him!) + Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, + Conies clinkin down beside him! + Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back, + He sweetly does compose him; + Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, + An's loof upon her bosom, + Unkend that day. + + Now a' the congregation o'er + Is silent expectation; + For Moodie speels the holy door + Wi' tidings o' damnation. + Should Hornie, as in ancient days, + 'Mang sons o' God present him, + The vera sight o' Moodie's face + To 's ain het hame had sent him + Wi' fright that day. + + Hear how he clears the points o' faith + Wi' rattlin an wi' thumpin! + Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, + He's stampin an' he's jumpin! + His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, + His eldritch squeel an' gestures, + O how they fire the heart devout-- + Like cantharidian plaisters, + On sic a day! + + But hark! the tent has changed its voice; + There's peace an' rest nae langer; + For a' the real judges rise, + They canna sit for anger: + Smith opens out his cauld harangues + On practice and on morals; + An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, + To gie the jars an' barrels + A lift that day. + + What signifies his barren shine + Of moral pow'rs an' reason? + His English style an' gesture fine + Are a' clean out o' season. + Like Socrates or Antonine, + Or some auld pagan heathen, + The moral man he does define, + But ne'er a word o' faith in + That's right that day. + + In guid time comes an antidote + Against sic poisoned nostrum; + For Peebles, frae the water-fit, + Ascends the holy rostrum: + See, up he's got the word o' God, + An' meek an' mim has viewed it, + While Common Sense has taen the road, + An' aff, an' up the Cowgate + Fast, fast that day. + + Wee Miller niest the guard relieves, + An' orthodoxy raibles, + Tho' in his heart he weel believes + An'thinks it auld wives' fables; + But faith! the birkie wants a manse, + So cannilie he hums them, + Altho' his carnal wit an' sense + Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him + At times that day, + + Now butt an' ben the change-house fills + Wi' yill-caup commentators; + Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, + An'there the pint-stowp clatters; + While thick an'thrang, an' loud an' lang, + Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture, + They raise a din that in the end + Is like to breed a rupture + O' wrath that day. + + Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair + Than either school or college; + It kindles wit, it waukens lear, + It pangs us fou o' knowledge. + Be 't whisky-gill or penny-wheep, + Or onie stronger potion, + It never fails, on drinkin deep, + To kittle up our notion, + By night or day. + + The lads an' lasses, blythely bent + To mind baith saul an' body, + Sit round the table weel content, + An' steer about the toddy. + On this ane's dress an'that ane's leuk + They're makin observations; + While some are cozie i' the neuk, + An' formin assignations + To meet some day. + + But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, + Till a' the hills are rairin, + And echoes back return the shouts; + Black Russell is na spairin: + His piercin words, like Highlan' swords, + Divide the joints an' marrow; + His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, + Our verra 'sauls does harrow' + Wi' fright that day! + + A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit, + Filled fou o' lowin brunstane, + Whase ragin flame an' scorchin heat + Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! + The half-asleep start up wi' fear, + An'think they hear it roarin, + When presently it does appear + 'Twas but some neebor snorin, + Asleep that day. + + 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell + How monie stories passed, + An' how they crouded to the yill, + When they were a' dismissed; + How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, + Amang the furms an' benches, + An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, + Was dealt about in lunches + An' dawds that day. + + In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, + An' sits down by the fire, + Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; + The lasses they are shyer; + The auld guidmen about the grace + Frae side to side they bother, + Till some ane by his bonnet lays + And gi'es them 't, like a tether, + Fu' lang that day. + + Waesueks for him that gets nae lass, + Or lasses that hae naething! + Sma' need has he to say a grace, + Or melvie his braw claithing! + O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel + How bonie lads ye wanted, + An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel + Let lasses be affronted + On sic a day! + + Now Clinkumbell, w' rattlin tow, + Begins to jow an' croon; + Some swagger hame the best they dow, + Some wait the afternoon, + At slaps the billies halt a blink, + Till lasses strip their shoon; + Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, + They're a' in famous tune + For crack that day. + + How monie hearts this day converts + O' sinners and o' lasses! + Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaen + As saft as onie flesh is. + There's some are fou o' love divine, + There's some are fou o' brandy; + An' monie jobs that day begin, + May end in houghmagandie + Some ither day. + + + TO A LOUSE + + ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH + + Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? + Your impudence protects you sairly; + I canna say but ye strunt rarely + Ower gauze and lace, + Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely + On sic a place, + + Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, + Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner, + How daur ye set your fit upon her, + Sae fine a lady! + Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner + On some poor body. + + Swith! in some beggar's hauffet squattle; + There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattle + Wi' ither kindred jumping cattle, + In shoals and nations, + Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle + Your thick plantations. + + Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight, + Below the fatt'rils, snug an'tight; + Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right + Till ye've got on it, + The vera tapmost, tow'ring height + O' Miss's bonnet. + + My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, + As plump an' grey as onie grozet; + O for some rank, mercurial rozet + Or fell red smeddum! + I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't + Wad dress your droddum! + + I wad na been surprised to spy + You on an auld wife's flainen toy, + Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, + On's wyliecoat; + But Miss's fine Lunardi--fie! + How daur ye do't! + + O Jenny, dinna toss your head, + An' set your beauties a' abread! + Ye little ken what cursèd speed + The blastie's makin! + Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread, + Are notice takin! + + O wad some Power the giftie gie us + To see oursels as ithers see us! + It wad frae monie a blunder free us, + An' foolish notion; + What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, + An' ev'n devotion! + + + FROM EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK + + I am nae poet, in a sense, + But just a rhymer like by chance, + An' hae to learning nae pretence; + Yet what the matter? + Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, + I jingle at her. + + Your critic-folk may cock their nose, + And say, 'How can you e'er propose, + You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, + To mak a sang?' + But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes, + Ye're maybe wrang. + + What's a' your jargon o' your schools, + Your Latin names for horns an' stools? + If honest Nature made you fools, + What sairs your grammers? + Ye'd better taen up spades and shools + Or knappin-hammers. + + A set o' dull, conceited hashes + Confuse their brains in college classes; + They gang in stirks, and come out asses, + Plain truth to speak; + An' syne they think to climb Parnassus + By dint o' Greek! + + Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, + That's a' the learning I desire; + Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire + At pleugh or cart, + My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, + May touch the heart. + + + THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT + + My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! + No mercenary bard his homage pays; + With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, + My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise: + To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, + The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; + The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, + What Aiken in a cottage would have been; + Ah, though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! + + November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; + The shortening winter-day is near a close; + The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; + The blackening trains o' craws to their repose: + The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes-- + This night his weekly moil is at an end,-- + Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, + Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, + And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. + + At length his lonely cot appears in view, + Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; + Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through + To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. + His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, + His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, + The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, + Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, + And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. + + Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, + At service out amang the farmers roun'; + Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin. + A cannie errand to a neebor town. + Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, + In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, + Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, + Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, + To help her parents dear if they in hardship be. + + With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, + And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; + The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; + Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. + The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; + Anticipation forward points the view. + The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, + Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; + The father mixes a' wi' admonition due: + + Their master's and their mistress's command + The younkers a' are warnèd to obey, + And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, + And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: + 'And O be sure to fear the Lord alway, + And mind your duty duly, morn and night; + Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, + Implore His counsel and assisting might: + They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' + + But hark! a rap comes gently to the door. + Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, + Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, + To do some errands and convoy her hame. + The wily mother sees the conscious flame + Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; + With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name, + While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; + Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. + + With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben: + A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; + Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen; + The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. + The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, + But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; + The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy + What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave, + Weel-pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. + + Oh happy love, where love like this is found! + Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! + I've pacèd much this weary, mortal round, + And sage experience bids me this declare: + 'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, + One cordial in this melancholy vale, + 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair + In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, + Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.' + + Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, + A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! + That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, + Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? + Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! + Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? + Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, + Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? + Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? + + But now the supper crowns their simple hoard: + The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: + The soupe their only hawkie does afford, + That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood. + The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, + To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuek, fell; + And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; + The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell + How 'twas a towmond auld sin' lint was i' the bell. + + The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face + They round the ingle form a circle wide; + The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, + The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride; + His bonnet reverently is laid aside, + His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; + Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, + He wales a portion with judicious care, + And 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air. + + They chant their artless notes in simple guise; + They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: + Perhaps 'Dundee's' wild-warbling measures rise, + Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the name; + Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heavenward flame, + The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. + Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; + The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; + Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. + + The priest-like father reads the sacred page; + How Abram was the friend of God on high; + Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage + With Amalek's ungracious progeny; + Or how the royal bard did groaning lie + Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; + Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; + Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; + Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. + + Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme: + How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; + How He Who bore in Heaven the second name + Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; + How His first followers and servants sped; + The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; + How he, who lone in Patmos banishèd, + Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, + And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. + + Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, + The saint, the father, and the husband prays; + Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' + That thus they all shall meet in future days, + There ever bask in uncreated rays, + No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, + Together hymning their Creator's praise, + In such society, yet still more dear, + While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. + + Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, + In all the pomp of method and of art, + When men display to congregations wide + Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart! + The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, + The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; + But haply, in some cottage far apart, + May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, + And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. + + Then homeward all take off their several way; + The youngling cottagers retire to rest; + The parent-pair their secret homage pay, + And proffer up to Heaven the warm request + And He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, + And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, + Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, + For them and for their little ones provide, + But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. + + From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, + That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: + Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, + 'An honest man's the noblest work of God.' + And certes in fair virtue's heavenly road, + The cottage leaves the palace far behind: + What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, + Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, + Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! + + O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! + For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! + Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil + Be blest with health and peace and sweet content! + And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent + From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! + Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, + A virtuous populace may rise the while, + And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. + + O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tide + That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, + Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, + Or nobly die, the second glorious part! + (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, + His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) + Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert, + But still the patriot and the patriot-bard + In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! + + + TO A MOUSE + + ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, + NOVEMBER, 1785 + + Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, + O what a panic's in thy breastie! + Thou need na start awa sae hasty, + Wi' bickering brattle! + I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, + Wi' murdering pattle! + + I'm truly sorry man's dominion + Has broken Nature's social union, + An' justifies that ill opinion + Which makes thee startle + At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, + An' fellow-mortal! + + I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; + What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! + A daimen icker in a thrave + 'S a sma' request; + I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, + An' never miss 't! + + Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! + Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! + An' naething now to big a new ane, + O' foggage green! + An' bleak December's win's ensuin, + Baith snell an' keen! + + Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, + An' weary winter comin fast, + An' cozie here, beneath the blast, + Thou thought to dwell-- + Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed + Out thro' thy cell. + + That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble + Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! + Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, + But house or hald, + To thole the winter's sleety dribble, + An' cranreuch cauld! + + But mousie, thou art no thy lane + In proving foresight may be vain: + The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men + Gang aft agley, + An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain + For promised joy! + + Still, thou art bleat compared wi' me! + The present only toucheth thee: + But och! I backward cast my e'e, + On prospects drear! + An' forward, tho' I canna see, + I guess an' fear! + + + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY + + ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 + + Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r, + Thou's met me in an evil hour, + For I maun crush amang the stoure + Thy slender stem; + To spare thee now is past my pow'r, + Thou bonie gem. + + Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, + The bonie lark, companion meet, + Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, + Wi' spreckled breast, + When upward springing, blythe, to greet + The purpling east. + + Cauld blew the bitter-biting north + Upon thy early, humble birth; + Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth + Amid the storm, + Scarce reared above the parent-earth + Thy tender form. + + The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, + High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; + But thou, beneath the random bield + O' clod or stane, + Adorns the histie stibble-field, + Unseen, alane. + + There, in thy scanty mantle clad, + Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, + Thou lifts thy unassuming head + In humble guise; + But now the share uptears thy bed, + And low thou lies! + + Such is the fate of artless maid, + Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! + By love's simplicity betray'd, + And guileless trust, + Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid, + Low i' the dust. + + Such is the fate of simple bard, + On life's rough ocean luckless starred! + Unskilful he to note the card + Of prudent lore, + Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, + And whelm him o'er! + + Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, + Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, + By human pride or cunning driv'n + To mis'ry's brink; + Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, + He, ruined, sink! + + Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, + That fate is thine--no distant date; + Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, + Full on thy bloom, + Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight + Shall be thy doom! + + + EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND + + I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend + A something to have sent you, + Tho' it should serve nae ither end + Than just a kind memento. + But how the subject-theme may gang, + Let time and chance determine; + Perhaps it may turn out a sang, + Perhaps turn out a sermon. + + Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; + And, Andrew dear, believe me, + Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, + And muckle they may grieve ye: + For care and trouble set your thought, + Ev'n when your end's attainèd; + And a' your views may come to nought, + Where ev'ry nerve is strainèd. + + I'll no say men are villains a'; + The real, harden'd wicked, + Wha hae nae check but human law, + Are to a few restricket; + But, och! mankind are unco weak, + An' little to be trusted; + If self the wavering balance shake, + It's rarely right adjusted! + + Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, + Their fate we shouldna censure, + For still th' important end of life + They equally may answer; + A man may hae an honest heart, + Tho' poortith hourly stare him; + A man may tak a neebor's part, + Yet hae nae cash to spare him. + + Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, + When wi a bosom crony; + But still keep something to yoursel + Ye scarcely tell to ony. + Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can + Frae critical dissection; + But keek thro' ev'ry other man, + Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. + + The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, + Luxuriantly indulge it; + But never tempt th' illicit rove, + Tho' naething should divulge it; + I ware the quantum o' the sin, + The hazard of concealing; + But, och! it hardens a' within, + And petrifies the feeling! + + To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, + Assiduous wait upon her; + And gather gear by ev'ry wile + That's justified by honour; + Not for to hide it in a hedge, + Nor for a train attendant; + But for the glorious privilege + Of being independent. + + The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, + To haud the wretch in order; + But where ye feel your honour grip, + Let that aye be your border; + Its slightest touches, instant pause;-- + Debar a' side-pretences; + And resolutely keep its laws, + Uncaring consequences. + + The great Creator to revere, + Must sure become the creature; + But still the preaching cant forbear, + And ev'n the rigid feature; + Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, + Be complaisance extended; + An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange + For Deity offended! + + When ranting round in pleasure's ring, + Religion may be blinded; + Or, if she gie a random sting, + It may be little minded; + But when on life we're tempest-driv'n-- + A conscience but a canker, + A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n + Is sure a noble anchor! + + Adieu, dear amiable Youth! + Your heart can ne'er be wanting! + May prudence, fortitude, and truth, + Erect your brow undaunting! + In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' + Still daily to grow wiser; + And may you better reck the rede, + Than ever did th' adviser! + + + A BARD'S EPITAPH + + Is there a whim-inspirèd fool, + Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, + Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool? + Let him draw near; + And owre this grassy heap sing dool, + And drap a tear. + + Is there a bard of rustic song, + Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, + That weekly this area throng?-- + Oh, pass not by! + But with a frater-feeling strong + Here heave a sigh. + + Is there a man whose judgment clear + Can others teach the course to steer, + Yet runs himself life's mad career + Wild as the wave?-- + Here pause--and thro' the starting tear + Survey this grave. + + The poor inhabitant below + Was quick to learn and wise to know, + And keenly felt the friendly glow + And softer flame; + But thoughtless follies laid him low, + And stain'd his name! + + Reader, attend! whether thy soul + Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, + Or darkling grubs this earthly hole + In low pursuit; + Know, prudent, cautious self-control + Is wisdom's root. + + + ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS + + O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, + Sae pious and sae holy, + Ye've nought to do but mark and tell + Your neebour's fauts and folly! + Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, + Supplied wi' store o' water, + The heapet happer's ebbing still, + And still the clap plays clatter,-- + + Hear me, ye venerable core, + As counsel for poor mortals + That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door + For glaikit Folly's portals; + I for their thoughtless, careless sakes + Would here propone defences-- + Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, + Their failings and mischances. + + Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, + And shudder at the niffer; + But cast a moment's fair regard, + What maks the mighty differ? + Discount what scant occasion gave, + That purity ye pride in, + And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) + Your better art o' hidin. + + Think, when your castigated pulse + Gies now and then a wallop, + What ragings must his veins convulse + That still eternal gallop: + Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, + Right on ye scud your sea-way; + But in the teeth o' baith to sail, + It maks an unco leeway. + + See Social Life and Glee sit down, + All joyous and unthinking, + Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown + Debauchery and Drinking: + O would they stay to calculate + Th' eternal consequences, + Or--your more dreaded hell to state-- + Damnation of expenses! + + Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, + Tied up in godly laces, + Before ye gie poor Frailty names, + Suppose a change o' cases: + A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, + A treach'rous inclination-- + But, let me whisper i' your lug, + Ye're aiblins nae temptation. + + Then gently scan your brother man, + Still gentler sister woman; + Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, + To step aside is human: + One point must still be greatly dark, + The moving _why_ they do it; + And just as lamely can ye mark + How far perhaps they rue it. + + Who made the heart, 'tis He alone + Decidedly can try us; + He knows each chord, its various tone, + Each spring, its various bias: + Then at the balance, let's be mute, + We never can adjust it; + What's done we partly may compute, + But know not what's resisted. + + + JOHN ANDEKSON, MY JO + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + When we were first acquent, + Your locks were like the raven, + Your bonie brow was brent: + But now your brow is beld, John, + Your locks are like the snaw; + But blessings on your frosty pow, + John Anderson, my jo! + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + We clamb the hill thegither; + And monie a cantie day, John, + We've had wi' ane anither: + Now we maun totter down, John, + And hand in hand we'll go, + And sleep thegither at the foot, + John Anderson, my jo! + + + THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS + + The lovely lass of Inverness, + Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; + For e'en to 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 mony a heart thou hast made sair + That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!' + + + A RED, RED ROSE + + O, my luv is like a red, red rose, + That's newly sprung in June: + O, my luv is like the melodie + That's sweetly played in tune. + + As fair art thou, my bonie 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; + And 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 awhile! + And I will come again, my luve, + Tho' it were ten thousand mile! + + + AULD LANG SYNE + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to mind? + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And auld lang syne? + + _Chorus:_ + + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne! + + And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, + And surely I'll be mine; + And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet + For auld lang syne! + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pou'd the gowans fine; + But we've wander'd monie a weary fit + Sin' auld lang syne. + + We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, + Frae morning sun till dine; + But seas between us braid hae roar'd + Sin' auld lang syne. + + And there'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! + + + SWEET AFTON + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes! + Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise! + My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream! + + Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, + Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, + Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, + I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair! + + How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, + Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills! + There daily I wander as noon rises high, + My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. + + How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, + Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! + There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, + The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. + + Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, + And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! + How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, + As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave! + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes! + Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! + My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream! + + + THE HAPPY TRIO + + O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, + And Bob and Allan cam to see; + Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, + Ye wad na found in Christendie. + + _Chorus_: + + We are na fou, we're nae that fou, + But just a drappie in our e'e; + The cock may craw, the day may daw, + And ay we'll taste the barley bree! + + Here are we met, three merry boys, + Three merry boys, I trow, are we; + And mony a night we've merry been, + And mony mae we hope to be! + + It is the moon, I ken her horn, + That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; + She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, + But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee! + + Wha first shall rise to gang awa, + A cuckold, coward loun is he! + Wha first beside his chair shall fa', + He is the King amang us three! + + + TO MARY IN HEAVEN + + Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, + That lov'st to greet the early morn, + Again thou usher'st in the day + My Mary from my soul was torn, + O Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + That sacred hour can I forget, + Can I forget the hallowed grove, + Where by the winding Ayr we met + To live one day of parting love? + Eternity cannot efface + Those records dear of transports past, + Thy image at our last embrace-- + Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! + + Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, + O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; + The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar + Twined amorous round the raptured scene: + The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, + The birds sang love on every spray, + Till too, too soon the glowing west + Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day. + + Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, + And fondly broods with miser care! + Time but th' impression stronger makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear. + My Mary, dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + + TAM O' SHANTER: A TALE + + Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. + --GAWIN DOUGLAS. + + When chapman billies leave the street, + And drouthy neebors neebors meet, + As market-days are wearing late, + An' folk begin to tak the gate, + While we sit bousing at the nappy, + An' getting fou and unco happy, + We think na on the lang Scots miles, + The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, + That lie between us and our hame, + Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, + Gathering her brows like gathering storm, + Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. + + This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, + As he frae Ayr ae night did canter + (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses + For honest men and bonie lasses). + + O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise + As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! + She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, + A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum, + That frae November till October + Ae market-day thou was nae sober; + That ilka melder wi' the miller + Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; + That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on + The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; + That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, + Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. + She prophesied that, late or soon, + Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, + Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk + By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk. + + Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet + To think how monie counsels sweet, + How monie lengthened, sage advices, + The husband frae the wife despises! + + But to our tale. Ae market-night + Tam had got planted unco right, + Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, + Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; + And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, + His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie: + Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; + They had been fou for weeks thegither. + The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, + And ay the ale was growing better; + The landlady and Tam grew gracious, + Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious; + The souter tauld his queerest stories, + The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; + The storm without might rair and rustle, + Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. + + Care, mad to see a man sae happy, + E'en drowned himself amang the nappy. + As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, + The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure: + Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, + O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! + + But pleasures are like poppies spread-- + You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; + Or like the snow falls in the river, + A moment white--then melts forever; + Or like the borealis race, + That flit ere you can point their place; + Or like the rainbow's lovely form, + Evanishing amid the storm. + Nae man can tether time or tide: + The hour approaches Tam maun ride; + That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, + That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in, + And sic a night he taks the road in + As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. + + The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last: + The rattling showers rose on the blast; + The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; + Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: + That night, a child might understand, + The Deil had business on his hand. + + Weel-mounted on his gray mare Meg, + A better never lifted leg, + Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, + Despising wind and rain and fire; + Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, + Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, + While glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, + Lest bogles catch him unawares: + Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, + Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. + + By this time he was cross the ford, + Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; + And past the birks and meikle stane, + Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; + And thro' the whins and by the cairn, + Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; + And near the thorn, aboon the well, + Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. + Before him Doon pours all his floods; + The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; + The lightnings flash from pole to pole; + Near and more near the thunders roll; + When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, + Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze: + Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, + And loud resounded mirth and dancing. + + Inspiring bold John Barleycorn, + What dangers thou canst make us scorn! + Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; + Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil! + The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, + Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. + But Maggie stood, right sair astonished, + Till, by the heel and hand admonished, + She ventured forward on the light; + And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! + + Warlocks and witches in a dance; + Nae cotillion, brent new frae France, + But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, + Put life and mettle in their heels. + A winnock-bunker in the east, + There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast; + A towsie tyke, black, grim, and large, + To gie them music was his charge: + He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, + Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. + Coffins stood round, like open presses, + That shawed the dead in their last dresses, + And, by some devilish cantraip sleight, + Each in its cauld hand held a light: + By which heroic Tam was able + To note, upon the haly table, + A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns; + Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; + A thief, new-cutted frae a rape-- + Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; + Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; + Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; + A garter which a babe had strangled; + A knife a father's throat had mangled, + Whom, his ain son o' life bereft-- + The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; + Wi' mair of horrible and awfu', + Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. + + As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, + The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: + The piper loud and louder blew, + The dancers quick and quicker flew; + They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, + Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, + And coost her duddies to the wark, + And linket at it in her sark! + + Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, + A' plump and strapping in their teens! + Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, + Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! + Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, + That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, + I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, + For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! + + But withered beldams, auld and droll, + Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, + Louping and flinging on a crummock, + I wonder didna turn thy stomach! + + But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie: + There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, + That night enlisted in the core, + Lang after kend on Carrick shore + (For monie a beast to dead she shot, + An' perished monie a bonie boat, + And shook baith meikle corn and bear, + And kept the country-side in fear). + Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, + That while a lassie she had worn, + In longitude tho' sorely scanty, + It was her best, and she was vauntie.-- + Ah, little kend thy reverend grannie + That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, + Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), + Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! + + But here my Muse her wing maun cour; + Sic flights are far beyond her power: + To sing how Nannie lap and flang + (A souple jad she was and strang), + And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, + And thought his very een enriched. + Even Satan glowered and fidged fu' fain, + And hotched and blew wi' might and main; + Till first ae caper, syne anither, + Tam tint his reason a' thegither, + And roars out, 'Weel done, Cutty-sark!' + And in an instant all was dark; + And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, + When out the hellish legion sallied. + + As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, + When plundering herds assail their byke; + As open pussie's mortal foes, + When, pop! she starts before their nose; + As eager runs the market-crowd, + When 'Catch the thief' resounds aloud; + So Maggie runs, the witches follow, + Wi' monie an eldritch skriech and hollo. + + Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! + In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! + In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! + Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! + Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, + And win the key-stane of the brig; + There at them thou thy tail may toss-- + A running stream they dare na cross! + But ere the key-stane she could make, + The fient a tail she had to shake! + For Nannie, far before the rest, + Hard upon noble Maggie prest, + And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; + But little wist she Maggie's mettle! + Ae spring brought off her master hale, + But left behind her ain grey tail: + The carlin claught her by the rump, + And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. + + Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, + Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: + Whene'er to drink you are inclined, + Or cutty sarks run in your mind, + Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear; + Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. + + + AE FOND KISS + + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! + Ae farewell, and then forever! + 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 forever. + 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 farewell, alas, forever! + Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; + Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. + + + DUNCAN GRAY + + Duncan Gray cam here to woo + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!), + On blythe Yule Night when we were fou + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Maggie coost her head fu' high, + Looked asklent and unco skeigh, + Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!); + Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Duncan sighed baith out and in, + Grat his een baith bleer't an' blin', + Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Time and chance are but a tide + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Slighted love is sair to bide + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + 'Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he, + 'For a haughty hizzie die? + She may gae to--France for me!'-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + How it comes let doctors tell + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Meg grew sick as he grew hale + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!); + Something in her bosom wrings, + For relief a sigh she brings; + And O her een, they spak sic things!-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Duncan was a lad o' grace + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Maggie's was a piteous case + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Duncan could na be her death, + Swelling pity smoored his wrath; + Now they're crouse and canty baith-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + + 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 Summer first unfald her robes, + And there the langest tarry! + For there I took the last fareweel + O' my sweet Highland Mary. + + How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, + How rich the hawthorn's blossom, + As, underneath their fragrant shade, + I clasped 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 locked embrace, + Our parting was fu' tender; + And, pledging aft to meet again, + We tore oursels asunder. + But O 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 kissed sae fondly! + And closed for ay 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! + + + SCOTS, WHA HAE + + Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, + Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, + Welcome to your gory bed, + Or to victorie! + + Now's the day, and now's the hour! + See the front o' battle lour! + See approach proud Edward's power-- + Chains and slaverie! + + Wha will be a traitor knave? + Wha can fill a coward's grave? + Wha sae base as be a slave? + Let him turn and flee! + + Wha for Scotland's king and law + Freedom's sword will strongly draw, + Freeman stand or freeman fa', + Let him follow me! + + By Oppression's woes and pains! + By your sons in servile chains! + We will drain our dearest veins, + But they shall be free! + + Lay the proud usurpers low! + Tyrants fall in every foe! + Liberty's in every blow! + Let us do or die! + + + IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY + + [A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT] + + Is there for honest poverty + That hings his head, an' a' that? + The coward slave, we pass him by,-- + We dare be poor for a' that! + For a' that, an' a' that, + Our toils obscure, an' a' that: + The rank is but the guinea's stamp; + The man's the gowd for a' that. + + What though on hamely fare we dine, + Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that? + Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,-- + A man's a man for a' that, + For a' that, an' a' that, + Their tinsel show, an' a' that: + The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, + Is king o' men for a' that. + + Ye see yon birkie ca'd 'a lord,' + Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; + Tho' hundreds worship at his word, + He's but a cuif for a' that, + For a' that, an' a' that, + His ribband, star, an' a' that: + The man o' independent mind, + He looks an' laughs at a' that. + + A prince can mak a belted knight, + A marquis, duke, an' a' that! + But an honest man's aboon his might; + Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! + For a' that, an' a' that, + Their dignities, an' a' that: + The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth + Are higher rank than a' that. + + Then let us pray that come it may + (As come it will for a' that), + That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, + Shall bear the gree, an' a' that: + For a' that, an' a' that, + It's comin yet for a' that, + That man to man, the world o'er, + Shall brithers be for a' that. + + + LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER + + Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, + And sair wi' his love he did deave me: + I said there was naething I hated like men; + The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, + The deuce gae wi'm to believe me! + + He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een, + And vowed for my love he was dyin: + I said he might die when he liket for Jean; + The Lord forgie me for lyin, for lyin, + The Lord forgie me for lyin! + + A weel-stoeket mailen, himsel for the laird, + And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: + I never loot on that I kenned it or cared; + But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, + But thought I might hae waur offers. + + But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less-- + The Deil tak his taste to gae near her!-- + He up the Gate Slack to my black cousin Bess: + Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her, could bear her! + Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her! + + But a' the niest week as I petted wi' care, + I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, + And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? + I glowered as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, + I glowered as I'd seen a warlock. + + But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, + Lest neebours might say I was saucy: + My wooer he capered as he'd been in drink, + And vowed I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, + And vowed I was his dear lassie! + + I spiered for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, + Gin she had recovered her hearin, + And how her new shoon fit her auld shachled feet-- + But, heavens, how he fell a swearin, a swearin! + But, heavens, how he fell a swearin! + + He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, + Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; + So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow! + + + O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST + + O, wert thou in the cauld blast, + On yonder lea, on yonder lea, + My plaidie to the angry airt, + I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; + + Or did misfortune's bitter storms + Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, + Thy bield should be my bosom, + To share it a', to share it a'. + + Or were I in the wildest waste, + Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, + The desert were a paradise + If thou wert there, if thou wert there; + Or were I monarch of the globe, + Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, + The brightest jewel in my crown + Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. + + + + + ERASMUS DARWIN + + + FROM THE BOTANIC GARDEN + + [PROCUL ESTE, PROFANI] + + Stay your rude steps! whose throbbing breasts infold + The legion-fiends of glory or of gold! + Stay! whose false lips seductive simpers part, + While cunning nestles in the harlot-heart!-- + For you no Dryads dress the roseate bower, + For you no Nymphs their sparkling vases pour; + Unmarked by you, light Graces swim the green, + And hovering Cupids aim their shafts, unseen. + + But thou! whose mind the well-attempered ray + Of taste and virtue lights with purer day; + Whose finer sense each soft vibration owns + With sweet responsive sympathy of tones; + (So the fair flower expands its lucid form + To meet the sun, and shuts it to the storm); + For thee my borders nurse the fragrant wreath, + My fountains murmur, and my zephyrs breathe; + + Slow slides the painted snail, the gilded fly + Smooths his fine down, to charm thy curious eye; + On twinkling fins my pearly nations play, + Or win with sinuous train their trackless way; + My plumy pairs, in gay embroidery dressed, + Form with ingenious bill the pensile nest, + To love's sweet notes attune the listening dell, + And Echo sounds her soft symphonious shell. + + And if with thee some hapless maid should stray, + Disastrous love companion of her way, + Oh, lead her timid steps to yonder glade, + Whose arching cliffs depending alders shade; + There, as meek evening wakes her temperate breeze, + And moonbeams glimmer through the trembling trees, + The rills that gurgle round shall soothe her ear, + The weeping rocks shall number tear for tear; + There as sad Philomel, alike forlorn, + Sings to the night from her accustomed thorn; + While at sweet intervals each falling note + Sighs in the gale, and whispers round the grot; + The sister-woe shall calm her aching breast, + And softer slumbers steal her cares to rest. + + [THE SENSITIVE PLANT] + + Weak with nice sense, the chaste Mimosa stands, + From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands; + Oft as light clouds o'erpass the summer-glade, + Alarmed she trembles at the moving shade; + And feels, alive through all her tender form, + The whispered murmurs of the gathering storm; + Shuts her sweet eyelids to approaching night, + And hails with freshened charms the rising light. + Veiled, with gay decency and modest pride, + Slow to the mosque she moves, an eastern bride, + There her soft vows unceasing love record, + Queen of the bright seraglio of her lord. + + + + + WILLIAM BLAKE + + + TO WINTER + + 'O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: + The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark + Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, + Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.' + + He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep + Rides heavy; his storms are unchained, sheathèd + In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, + For he hath reared his sceptre o'er the world. + + Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings + To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: + He withers all in silence, and in his hand + Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. + + He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner + Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st + With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster + Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla. + + + SONG + + Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year + Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car; + Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, + And rising glories beam around my head. + + My feet are winged, while o'er the dewy lawn, + I meet my maiden risen like the morn: + O bless those holy feet, like angels' feet; + O bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light. + + Like as an angel glittering in the sky + In times of innocence and holy joy; + The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song + To hear the music of an angel's tongue. + + So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; + So when we walk, nothing impure comes near; + Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat; + Each village seems the haunt of holy feet. + + But that sweet village where my black-eyed maid + Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade, + Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire + Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire. + + + 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 enjoyed in you! + The languid strings do scarcely move! + The sound is forced, the notes are few! + + + INTRODUCTION TO SONGS 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 sang 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 vanished from my sight, + And I plucked a hollow reed, + + And I made a rural pen, + And I stained the water clear, + And I wrote my happy songs + Every child may joy to hear. + + + THE LAMB + + Little Lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee? + Gave thee life and bid thee feed + By the stream and o'er the mead; + Gave thee clothing of delight, + Softest clothing, woolly, bright; + Gave thee such a tender voice, + Making all the vales rejoice? + Little Lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee? + + Little Lamb, I'll tell thee; + Little Lamb, I'll tell thee: + He is callèd by thy name, + For He calls himself a Lamb. + He is meek, and He is mild; + He became a little child. + I a child, and thou a lamb, + We are callèd by His name. + Little Lamb, God bless thee! + Little Lamb, God bless thee! + + + 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 kissèd me, + And, pointing to the east, began to say: + + 'Look on 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 + Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove. + + 'For when our souls have learned 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 kissèd 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. + + + A CRADLE SONG + + Sweet dreams, form a shade + O'er my lovely infant's head; + Sweet dreams of pleasant streams + By happy, silent, moony beams. + + Sweet sleep, with soft down + Weave thy brows an infant crown. + Sweet sleep, Angel mild, + Hover o'er my happy child. + + Sweet smiles, in the night + Hover over my delight; + Sweet smiles, mother's smiles, + All the livelong night beguiles. + + Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, + Chase not slumber from thy eyes. + Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, + All the dovelike moans beguiles. + + Sleep, sleep, happy child, + All creation slept and smiled; + Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, + While o'er thee thy mother weep. + + Sweet babe, in thy face + Holy image I can trace. + Sweet babe, once like thee, + Thy Maker lay and wept for me, + + Wept for me, for thee, for all, + When He was an infant small. + Thou His image ever see, + Heavenly face that smiles on thee, + + Smiles on thee, on me, on all; + Who became an infant small. + Infant smiles are His own smiles; + Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. + + + HOLY THURSDAY + + 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, + The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green, + Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, + Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow. + + O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! + Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own. + The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, + Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. + + Now like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song, + Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among, + Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor; + Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. + + + THE DIVINE IMAGE + + To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + All pray in their distress; + And to these virtues of delight + Return their thankfulness. + + For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + Is God, our Father dear, + And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + Is man, His child and care. + + For Mercy has a human heart, + Pity a human face, + And Love, the human form divine, + And Peace, the human dress. + + Then every man, of every clime, + That prays in his distress, + Prays to the human form divine, + Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. + + And all must love the human form, + In heathen, Turk, or Jew; + Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell + There God is dwelling too. + + + ON ANOTHER'S SORROW + + Can I see another's woe, + And not be in sorrow too? + Can I see another's grief, + And not seek for kind relief? + + Can I see a falling tear, + And not feel my sorrow's share? + Can a father see his child + Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? + + Can a mother sit and hear + An infant groan, an infant fear? + No, no! never can it be! + Never, never can it be! + + And can He who smiles on all + Hear the wren with sorrows small, + Hear the small bird's grief and care, + Hear the woes that infants bear, + + And not sit beside the nest, + Pouring pity in their breast; + And not sit the cradle near, + Weeping tear on infant's tear; + + And not sit both night and day, + Wiping all our tears away? + O, no! never can it be! + Never, never can it be! + + He doth give His joy to all; + He becomes an infant small; + He becomes a man of woe; + He doth feel the sorrow too. + + Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, + And thy Maker is not by; + Think not thou canst weep a tear, + And thy Maker is not near. + + O! He gives to us His joy + That our grief He may destroy; + Till our grief is fled and gone + He doth sit by us and moan. + + + THE BOOK OF THEL + + _Thel's Motto + Does the Eagle know what is in the pit: + Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? + Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod, + Or Love in a golden bowl?_ + + I + + The daughters of [the] Seraphim led round their sunny flocks-- + All but the youngest: she in paleness sought the secret air, + To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day: + Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard, + And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew:-- + + 'O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water? + Why fade these children of the spring, born but to smile and fall? + Ah! Thel is like a watery bow, and like a parting cloud; + Like a reflection in a glass; like shadows in the water; + Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant's face; + Like the dove's voice; like transient day; like music in the air. + Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head, + And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice + Of Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time.' + + The Lily of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass, + Answerèd the lovely maid and said: 'I am a wat'ry weed, + And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales; + So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. + Yet I am visited from heaven, and He that smiles on all + Walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads His hand, + Saying, "Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lily flower, + Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks; + For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna, + Till summer's heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs, + To flourish in eternal vales." Then why should Thel complain? + Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?' + + She ceased, and smiled in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine. + + Thel answered: 'O thou little Virgin of the peaceful valley, + Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'er-tired; + Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells thy milky garments, + He crops thy flowers while thou sittest smiling in his face, + Wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all contagious taints. + Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume, + Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs, + Revives the milkèd cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed. + But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun: + I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?' + + 'Queen of the vales,' the Lily answered, 'ask the tender Cloud, + And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky, + And why it scatters its bright beauty through the humid air. + Descend, O little Cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel.' + + The Cloud descended, and the Lily bowèd her modest head, + And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass. + + II + + 'O little Cloud,' the Virgin said, I charge thee tell to me + Why thou complainest not, when in one hour thou fade away; + Then we shall seek thee, but not find. Ah! Thel is like to thee: + I pass away; yet I complain, and no one hears my voice.' + + The Cloud then showed his golden head, and his bright form emerged, + Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel. + 'O Virgin, know'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs + Where Luvah doth renew his horses? Look'st thou on my youth, + And fearest thou, because I vanish and am seen no more, + Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away, + It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy: + Unseen descending, weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers, + And court the fair-eyed dew, to take me to her shining tent: + The weeping virgin, trembling, kneels before the risen sun, + Till we arise, linked in a golden band and never part, + But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers.' + + 'Dost thou, O little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee, + For I walk through the vales of Har, and smell the sweetest flowers, + But I feed not the little flowers; I hear the warbling birds, + But I feed not the warbling birds; they fly and seek their food: + But Thel delights in these no more, because I fade away; + And all shall say, "Without a use this shining woman lived, + Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?"' + + The Cloud reclined upon his airy throne, and answered thus:-- + + 'Then if thou art the food of worms, O Virgin of the skies, + How great thy use, how great thy blessing! Everything that lives + Lives not alone nor for itself. Fear not, and I will call + The weak Worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice. + Come forth, Worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive Queen.' + + The helpless Worm arose, and sat upon the Lily's leaf, + And the bright Cloud sailed on, to find his partner in the vale. + + III + + Then Thel astonished viewed the Worm upon its dewy bed. + + 'Art thou a Worm? Image of weakness, art thou but a Worm? + I see thee like an infant wrappèd in the Lily's leaf. + Ah! weep not, little voice, thou canst not speak, but thou canst weep. + Is this a Worm? I see thee lay helpless and naked, weeping, + And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother's smiles.' + The Clod of Clay heard the Worm's voice, and raised her pitying head; + She bowed over the weeping infant, and her life exhaled + In milky fondness: then on Thel she fixed her humble eyes. + + 'O Beauty of the vales of Har! we live not for ourselves. + Thou seest me, the meanest thing, and so I am indeed. + My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark; + But He that loves the lowly pours His oil upon my head, + And kisses me, and binds His nuptial bands around my breast, + And says: "Thou mother of my children, I have lovèd thee, + And I have given thee a crown that none can take away." + But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know; + + I ponder, and I cannot ponder; yet I live and love.' + The daughter of beauty wiped her pitying tears with her white veil, + And said: 'Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep. + That God would love a worm I knew, and punish the evil foot + That wilful bruised its helpless form; but that He cherished it + With milk and oil, I never knew, and therefore did I weep; + And I complained in the mild air, because I fade away, + And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot.' + + 'Queen of the vales,' the matron Clay answered, 'I heard thy sighs, + And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have called them down. + Wilt thou, O queen, enter my house? 'Tis given thee to enter, + And to return: fear nothing; enter with thy virgin feet.' + + IV + + The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar; + Thel entered in, and saw the secrets of the land unknown. + She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous root + Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists: + A land of sorrows and of tears where never smile was seen. + + She wandered in the land of clouds through valleys dark, listening + Dolours and lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy grave + She stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground, + Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down, + And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit. + + 'Why cannot the ear be closèd to its own destruction? + Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile? + Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn, + Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie, + Or an eye of gifts and graces showering fruits and coinèd gold? + + Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind? + Why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? + Why a nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and affright? + Why a tender curb upon the youthful, burning boy? + Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?' + + The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek + Fled back unhindered till she came into the vales of Har. + + + From THE FRENCH REVOLUTION + + [DEMOCRACY AND PEACE] + + Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in his + hand; + A cold orb of disdain revolved round him, and coverèd his soul with + snows eternal. + Great Henry's soul shudderèd, a whirlwind and fire tore furious from + his angry bosom; + He indignant departed on horses of Heaven. Then the Abbé de Sieyès + raised his feet + On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm, + the Abbé followed + The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father that bows to + his son, + Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of + the people bowèd + Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewèd. + + 'Hear, O heavens of France! the voice of the people, arising from + valley and hill, + O'erclouded with power. Hear the voice of valleys, the voice of meek + cities, + Mourning oppressèd on village and field, till the village and field is + a waste. + For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of + trumpets consume + The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to the + deadly slaughter. + + When the heavens were sealed with a stone, and the terrible sun closed + in an orb, and the moon + Rent from the nations, and each star appointed for watchers of night, + The millions of spirits immortal were bound in the ruins of sulphur + heaven + To wander enslaved; black, depressed in dark ignorance, kept in awe with + the whip + To worship terrors, bred from the blood of revenge and breath of desire + In bestial forms, or more terrible men; till the dawn of our peaceful + morning, + Till dawn, till morning, till the breaking of clouds, and swelling of + winds, and the universal voice; + Till man raise his darkened limbs out of the caves of night. His eyes + and his heart + Expand--Where is Space? where, O sun, is thy dwelling? where thy tent, + O faint slumbrous Moon? + Then the valleys of France shall cry to the soldier: "Throw down thy + sword and musket, + And run and embrace the meek peasant." Her nobles shall hear and shall + weep, and put off + The red robe of terror, the crown of oppression, the shoes of contempt, + and unbuckle + The girdle of war from the desolate earth. Then the Priest in his + thunderous cloud + Shall weep, bending to earth, embracing the valleys, and putting his + hand to the plough, + Shall say, "No more I curse thee; but now I will bless thee: no more in + deadly black + Devour thy labour; nor lift up a cloud in thy heavens, O laborious + plough; + That the wild raging millions, that wander in forests, and howl in + law-blasted wastes, + Strength maddened with slavery, honesty bound in the dens of + superstition, + May sing in the village, and shout in the harvest, and woo in pleasant + gardens + Their once savage loves, now beaming with knowledge, with gentle awe + adornèd; + And the saw, and the hammer, the chisel, the pencil, the pen, and the + instruments + Of heavenly song sound in the wilds once forbidden, to teach the + laborious ploughman + And shepherd, delivered from clouds of war, from pestilence, from + night-fear, from murder, + From falling, from stifling, from hunger, from cold, from slander, + discontent, and sloth, + That walk in beasts and birds of night, driven back by the sandy desert, + Like pestilent fogs round cities of men; and the happy earth sing in its + course, + The mild peaceable nations be openèd to heaven, and men walk with their + fathers in bliss." + Then hear the first voice of the morning: "Depart, O clouds of night, + and no more + Return; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors depart, nor around + our peaceable city + Breathe fires; but ten miles from Paris let all be peace, nor a soldier + be seen!"' + + + From A SONG OF LIBERTY + + The Eternal Female groaned! It was heard over all the earth. + + Albion's coast is sick, silent. The American meadows faint! + + Shadows of Prophecy shiver along by the lakes and the + rivers, and mutter across the ocean. France, rend down, + thy dungeon! + + * * * * * + + Look up! look up! O citizen of London, enlarge thy + countenance! O Jew, leave counting gold! return to thy + oil and wine. O African! black African! Go, wingèd + thought, widen his forehead! + + * * * * * + + With thunder and fire, leading his starry hosts through + the waste wilderness, he promulgates his ten commands, + glancing his beamy eyelids over the deep in dark dismay. + + Where the son of fire in his eastern cloud, while the + morning plumes her golden breast, + + Spurning the clouds written with curses, stamps the + stony law to dust, loosing the eternal horses from the dens + of night, crying: _Empire is no more! and now the lion + and wolf shall cease_. + + CHORUS + + Let the Priests of the Raven of dawn no longer, in + deadly black, with hoarse note curse the sons of joy! Nor + his accepted brethren--whom, tyrant, he calls free--lay + the bound or build the roof! Nor pale Religion's lechery + call that virginity that wishes but acts not! + + For everything that lives is holy! + + + THE FLY + + Little Fly, + Thy summer's play + My thoughtless hand + Has brushed away. + + Am not I + A fly like thee? + Or art not thou + A man like me? + + For I dance, + And drink, and sing, + Till some blind hand + Shall brush my wing. + + If thought is life + And strength and breath, + And the want + Of thought is death; + + Then am I + A happy fly, + If I live + Or if I die. + + + 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 watered 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? + + + HOLY THURSDAY + + Is this a holy thing to see + In a rich and fruitful land, + Babes reduced to misery, + Fed with cold and usurous hand? + + Is that trembling cry a song? + Can it be a song of joy? + And so many children poor? + It is a land of poverty! + + And their sun does never shine, + And their fields are bleak and bare, + And their ways are filled with thorns: + It is eternal winter there. + + For where'er the sun does shine, + And where'er the rain does fall, + Babe can never hunger there, + Nor poverty the mind appal. + + + THE GARDEN OF LOVE + + I went to the Garden of Love, + And saw what I never had seen: + A chapel was built in the midst, + Where I used to play on the green. + + And the gates of this chapel were shut, + And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; + So I turned to the Garden of Love, + That so many sweet flowers bore; + + And I saw it was fillèd with graves, + And tombstones where flowers should be; + And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, + And binding with briars my joys and desires. + + + A LITTLE BOY LOST + + 'Nought loves another as itself, + Nor venerates another so, + Nor is it possible to Thought + A greater than itself to know: + + 'And, Father, how can I love you + Or any of my brothers more? + I love you like the little bird + That picks up crumbs around the door.' + + The Priest sat by and heard the child, + In trembling zeal he seized his hair: + He led him by his little coat, + And all admired the priestly care. + + And standing on the altar high, + 'Lo! what a fiend is here!' said he, + 'One who sets reason up for judge + Of our most holy Mystery.' + + The weeping child could not be heard, + The weeping parents wept in vain; + They stripped him to his little shirt, + And bound him in an iron chain; + + And burned him in a holy place, + Where many had been burned before: + The weeping parents wept in vain. + Are such things done on Albion's shore? + + + THE SCHOOLBOY + + I love to rise in a summer morn + When the birds sing on every tree; + The distant huntsman winds his horn, + And the skylark sings with me. + O! what sweet company. + + But to go to school in a summer morn, + O! it drives all joy away; + Under a cruel eye outworn, + The little ones spend the day + In sighing and dismay. + + Ah! then at times I drooping sit, + And spend many an anxious hour, + Nor in my book can I take delight, + Nor sit in learning's bower, + Worn through with the dreary shower. + + How can the bird that is born for joy + Sit in a cage and sing? + How can a child, when fears annoy, + But droop his tender wing, + And forget, his youthful spring? + + O! father and mother, if buds are nipped + And blossoms blown away, + And if the tender plants are stripped + Of their joy in the springing day, + By sorrow--and care's dismay, + + How shall the summer arise in joy, + Or the summer fruits appear? + Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, + Or bless the mellowing year, + When the blasts of winter appear? + + + LONDON + + I wander through each chartered street, + Near where the chartered Thames does flow, + And mark in every face I meet + Marks of weakness, marks of woe. + + In every cry of every man, + In every infant's cry of fear, + In every voice, in every ban, + The mind-forged manacles I hear. + + How the chimney-sweeper's cry + Every blackening church appals; + And the hapless soldier's sigh + Runs in blood down palace walls + + But most through midnight streets I hear + How the youthful harlot's curse + Blasts the new-born infant's tear, + And blights with plagues the marriage hearse. + + + From AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE + + _To see a World in a grain of sand, + And a Heaven in a wild flower, + Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, + And Eternity in an hour_. + + A robin redbreast in a cage + Puts all Heaven in a rage. + A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons + Shudders hell through all its regions. + A dog starved at his master's gate + Predicts the ruin of the state. + A horse misused upon the road + Calls to Heaven for human blood. + Each outcry of the hunted hare + A fibre from the brain does tear. + A skylark wounded in the wing, + A cherubim does cease to sing. + The game-cock clipped and armed for fight + Does the rising sun affright. + Every wolf's and lion's howl + Raises from hell a human soul. + The wild deer, wandering here and there, + Keeps the human soul from care. + The lamb misused breeds public strife, + And yet forgives the butcher's knife. + The bat that flits at close of eve + Has left the brain that won't believe. + The owl that calls upon the night + Speaks the unbeliever's fright. + He who shall hurt the little wren + Shall never be beloved by men. + He who the ox to wrath has moved + Shall never be by woman loved. + The wanton boy that kills the fly + Shall feel the spider's enmity. + He who torments the chafer's sprite + Weaves a bower in endless night. + The caterpillar on the leaf + Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. + Kill not the moth nor butterfly, + For the Last Judgment draweth nigh. + He who shall train the horse to war + Shall never pass the polar bar. + The beggar's dog and widow's cat, + Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat. + + * * * * * + + The babe that weeps the rod beneath + Writes revenge in realms of death. + The beggar's rags fluttering in air, + Does to rags the heavens tear. + The soldier, armed with sword and gun, + Palsied strikes the summer's sun. + The poor man's farthing is worth more + Than all the gold on Afric's shore. + One mite wrung from the labourer's hands + Shall buy and sell the miser's lands; + Or, if protected from on high, + Does that whole nation sell and buy. + He who mocks the infant's faith + Shall be mocked in age and death. + He who shall teach the child to doubt + The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. + He who respects the infant's faith + Triumphs over hell and death. + + + FROM MILTON + + And did those feet in ancient time + Walk upon England's mountains green? + And was the holy Lamb of God + On England's pleasant pastures seen? + + And did the countenance divine + Shine forth upon our clouded hills? + And was Jerusalem builded here + Among these dark Satanic mills? + + Bring me my bow of burning gold! + Bring me my arrows of desire! + Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! + Bring me my chariot of fire! + + I will not cease from mental fight, + Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, + Till we have built Jerusalem + In England's green and pleasant land. + + [REASON AND IMAGINATION] + + The negation is the Spectre, the reasoning power in man: + This is a false body, an incrustation over my immortal + Spirit, a selfhood which must be put off and annihilated alway. + To cleanse the face of my spirit by self-examination, + To bathe in the waters of life, to wash off the not human, + I come in self-annihilation and the grandeur of inspiration; + To cast off rational demonstration by faith in the Saviour, + To cast off the rotten rags of memory by inspiration, + To cast off Bacon, Locke, and Newton from Albion's covering, + To take off his filthy garments and clothe him with imagination; + To cast aside from poetry all that is not inspiration, + That it no longer shall dare to mock with the aspersion of madness + Cast on the inspirèd by the tame high finisher of paltry blots + Indefinite or paltry rhymes, or paltry harmonies, + Who creeps into state government like a caterpillar to destroy; + To cast off the idiot questioner, who is always questioning, + But never capable of answering; who sits with a sly grin + Silent plotting when to question, like a thief in a cave; + Who publishes doubt and calls it knowledge; whose science is despair, + Whose pretence to knowledge is envy, whose whole science is + To destroy the wisdom of ages, to gratify ravenous envy + That rages round him like a wolf, day and night, without rest. + He smiles with condescension; he talks of benevolence and virtue, + And those who act with, benevolence and virtue they murder time on time. + These are the destroyers of Jerusalem! these are the murderers + Of Jesus! who deny the faith and mock at eternal life, + Who pretend to poetry that they may destroy imagination + By imitation of nature's images drawn from remembrance. + These are the sexual garments, the abomination of desolation, + Hiding the human lineaments, as with an ark and curtains + Which Jesus rent, and now shall wholly purge away with fire, + Till generation is swallowed up in regeneration. + + + FROM JERUSALEM + + [TO THE DEISTS] + + I saw a Monk of Charlemaine + Arise before my sight: + I talked with the Grey Monk as we stood + In beams of infernal light. + + Gibbon arose with a lash of steel, + And Voltaire with a racking wheel; + The schools, in clouds of learning rolled, + Arose with war in iron and gold. + + 'Thou lazy Monk!' they sound afar, + 'In vain condemning glorious war; + And in your cell you shall ever dwell: + Rise, War, and bind him in his cell!' + + The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side, + His hands and feet were wounded wide, + His body bent, his arms and knees + Like to the roots of ancient trees. + + When Satan first the black bow bent + And the moral law from the Gospel rent, + He forged the law into a sword, + And spilled the blood of mercy's Lord. + + Titus! Constantine! Charlemaine! + O Voltaire! Rousseau! Gibbon! Vain + Your Grecian mocks and Roman sword + Against this image of his Lord; + + For a tear is an intellectual thing; + And a sigh is the sword of an angel king; + And the bitter groan of a martyr's woe + Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow. + + * * * * * + + + + + GEORGE CANNING + + + From THE PROGRESS OF MAN + + [MATRIMONY IN OTAHEITE] + + There laughs the sky, there zephyrs frolic train, + And light-winged loves, and blameless pleasures reign: + There, when two souls congenial ties unite, + No hireling bonzes chant the mystic rite; + Free every thought, each action unconfined, + And light those fetters which no rivets bind. + There in each grove, each sloping bank along, + And flowers and shrubs, and odorous herbs among, + Each shepherd clasped, with undisguised delight, + His yielding fair one--in the captain's sight; + Each yielding fair, as chance or fancy led, + Preferred new lovers to her sylvan bed. + Learn hence each nymph, whose free aspiring mind + Europe's cold laws, and colder customs bind; + O! learn what Nature's genial laws decree! + What Otaheite is, let Britain be! + + * * * * * + + Of whist or cribbage mark th' amusing game; + The partners changing, but the sport the same: + Else would the gamester's anxious ardour cool, + Dull every deal, and stagnant every pool. + --Yet must one man, with one unceasing wife, + Play the long rubber of connubial life. + Yes! human laws, and laws esteemed divine, + The generous passion straighten and confine; + And, as a stream, when art constrains its course, + Pours its fierce torrent with augmented force, + So passion, narrowed to one channel small, + Unlike the former,--does not flow at all. + For Love then only flaps his purple wings + When uncontrolled by priestcraft or by kings. + + + FROM THE NEW MORALITY + + [ANTI-PATRIOTISM AND SENTIMENTALITY] + + With unsparing hand, + Oh, lash these vile impostures from the land! + + First, stern Philanthropy,--not she who dries + The orphan's tears, and wipes the widow's eyes; + Not she who, sainted Charity her guide, + Of British bounty pours the annual tide,-- + But French Philanthropy,--whose boundless mind + Glows with the general love of all mankind; + Philanthropy, beneath whose baneful sway + Each patriot passion sinks, and dies away. + Taught in her school t' imbibe thy mawkish strain, + Condorcet! filtered through the dregs of Paine, + Each pert adept disowns a Briton's part, + And plucks the name of England from his heart. + What! shall a name, a word, a sound, control + Th' aspiring thought, and cramp th' expansive soul? + Shall one half-peopled island's rocky round + A love that glows for all creation bound? + And social charities contract the plan + Framed for thy freedom, universal man? + No--through th' extended globe his feelings run + As broad and general as th' unbounded sun! + No narrow bigot he: his reasoned view + Thy interests, England, ranks with thine, Peru! + France at our doors, he seeks no danger nigh, + But heaves for Turkey's woes th' impartial sigh; + A steady patriot of the world alone, + The friend of every country but his own. + Next comes a gentler virtue.--Ah, beware + Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare. + Visit her not too roughly; the warm sigh + Breathes on her lips; the tear-drop gems her eye. + Sweet Sensibility, who dwells inshrined + In the fine foldings of the feeling mind; + With delicate Mimosa's sense endued, + Who shrinks, instinctive, from a hand too rude; + Or, like the anagillis, prescient flower, + Shuts her soft petals at th' approaching shower. + + Sweet child of sickly fancy! her of yore + From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore; + And while 'midst lakes and mountains wild he ran, + Full of himself, and shunned the haunts of man, + Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine steep + To lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep; + Taught her to cherish still in either eye, + Of tender tears a plentiful supply, + And pour them in the brooks that babbled by: + Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong, + False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong; + For the crushed beetle first, the widowed dove, + And all the warbled sorrows of the grove, + Next for poor suffering guilt,--and last of all, + For parents, friends, a king and country's fall. + + Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief, + With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief, + Droop in soft sorrow o'er a faded flower, + O'er a dead jackass pour the pearly shower: + But hear, unmoved, of Loire's ensanguined flood + Choked up with slain; of Lyons drenched in blood; + Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame, + Foul crimes, but sicklied o'er with freedom's name,-- + Altars and thrones subverted, social life + Trampled to earth, the husband from the wife, + Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn; + Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn + In friendless exile; of the wise and good + Staining the daily scaffold with their blood. + Of savage cruelties that scare the mind, + The rage of madness with hell's lusts combined, + Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast, + They hear--and hope, that all is for the best! + + + + + CAROLINA, LADY NAIRNE + + + 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 oh! we grudged her sair + To the land o' the leal. + But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, + And joy's a-comin' fast, John, + The joy that's aye to last + In the land o' the leal. + + Sae dear that joy was bought, John, + Sae free the battle fought, John, + That sinfu' man e'er brought + To the land o' the leal. + Oh! dry your glistening e'e, John, + My soul langs to be free, John, + And angels beckon me + To the land o' the leal. + + Oh! hand 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. + + + +GLOSSARY: + + +A', all. +Abeigh, off. +Aboon, above. +Abarde, went on. +Abread, abroad. +Acquent, acquainted. +Ae, one. +Aff, off. +Aften, often. +Agley, askew. +Aiblins, maybe. +Ain, own. +Airt, direction, quarter. +Aith, oath. +Alane, alone. +Alang, along. +Albeytie, albeit. +Alestake, alehouse sign. +Alleyne, alone. +Almer, beggar. +Amaist, almost. +Amang, aming, among. +An, if. +Ance, once. +Ane, one. +Arist, arose. +Ashrewed, accursed. +Asklent, askance. +Asteer, astir. +Astonied, stunned. +Atte, at. +Attene, at one. +Auld, old. +Aumere, mantle. +Autremete, robe. +Ava, at all. +Awa, away. +Aynewarde, backward. + +Bairn, child. +Baith, both. +Bake, biscuit. +Bandsters, binder of sheaves. +Bane, bone. +Bante, cursed. +Barefit, Barefeet. +Bauk, cross-beam. +Bauldly, boldly. +Bear, barley. +Bederoll, string of beads. +Beet, fan, kindle. +Beld, bald. +Bell, flower. +Belyve, by and by. +Ben, inner roon, parlour, inside. +Bicker, bowl. +Bickering, hurrying. +Bield, shelter. +Big, build. +Bigonet, linen cap. +Bittle, fellow. +Birk, birch. +Birkie, conceited fellow. +Bizz, buzz. +Black-bonnet, elder. +Blake, bleak. +Blastit, damned. +Blaw, blow, draught. +Bleer't, bleared. +Bleeze, blaze. +Blellum, babbler. +Blethering, gabbling. +Blin, blind. +Blink, glance, moment. +Bloshes, blushes. +Bluid, blood. +Boddynge, budding. +Bogollis, hobgoblins. +Bogle, bogie. +Bonie, pretty. +Bonilie, prettily. +Bonnet, cap. +Bore, chink. +Botte, but. +Bra, fine. +Brae, hillside. +Braid, broad. +Braid-claith, broadcloth. +Brak, broke. +Braste, burst. +Brattle, scamper, clatter. +Braw, brawlie, fine. +Bree, liquor. +Breeks, breeches. +Brectful, brimful. +Brent, straight. +Brig, bridge. +Brither, brother. +Brogues, breeches. +Brownyis, brownies. +Browster, brewer. +Brunstane, brimstone. +Bught, pen, inclosure. +Buke, book. +Burdies, girls. +Burn, brook. +Busk, dress, make ready. +Bustine, fustion. +But, butt, outer room, kitchen without. +Byke, hive. + +Ca', call, drive. +Cadgy, cheerful, gay. +Cairn, heap of stones. +Caldrife, cool, spiritless. +Cale, cold. +Caller, cool. +Canna, cannot. +Cannie, careful, crafty. +Cannilie, craftily. +Cantie, canty, cheerful, jolly. +Cantraip, magic, witchcraft. +Capernoity, ill-natured. +Carlin, old woman. +Cates, dainties. +Cauld, cold. +Caup, cup. +Celness, coldness. +Cess, excise, tax. +Chafe, chafing. +Change-house, tavern. +Chapman, peddler. +Chapournelie, hat. +Chelandri, goldfinch. +Cheres, cheers. +Cheves, moves. +Chirm, chirp. +Church-giebe-house, grave. +Claes, clothes. +Claithing, clothing. +Clamb, climbed. +Claught, catch up. +Clinkin, smartly. +Clinkumbell, the bell-ringer. +Clymmynge, noisy. +Cockernony, woman's hair gathered up with a band. +Cofte, bought. +Cog, basin. +Cood, cud. +Coost, cast. +Corbie, raven. +Core, company. +Cotter, tenant of a cottage. +Coulier, ploughshare. +Cour, stoop. +Couth, couthy, sociable, affable. +Crack, chat, instant. +Craig, rock. +Cranreuch, hoar-frost. +Craw, crow. +Creeshic, greasy. +Croon, loll, murmur. +Crouche, crucifix. +Croun, crown. +Crouse, proud, lively. +Crowdie, porridge, breakfast. +Crowlin, crawling. +Crummock, crooked staff. +Crump, crisp. +Cryne, hair. +Curchie, curtsy. +Cutty, short. + + +Daffing, frolicking. +Daft, foolish. +Dail, board, plank. +Daimen, rare, occasional. +Daur, dare, +Daw, dawn, +Dawd, lump. +Deave, deafen. +Dee die. +Defeat, defeated. +Defte, neat. +Deil, devil. +Dente, fasten. +Dheere, there. +Die, dye. +Differ, difference. +Dine, noon. +Dirl, vibrate, ring. +Dit, shut. +Domes, volumes. +Donsie, reckless. +Dool, pain, grief. +Dorture, slumber. +Douce, grave, prudent. +Douff, dull, sad. +Dow, can. +Dowie, drooping, gloomy. +Drappie, small drop. +Drenche, drink. +Drented, drenched. +Dringing, droning. +Droddum, breach. +Drouthy, thirsty. +Drowsyhed, drowsiness. +Drumlie, muddy. +Dub, puddle. +Duddie, ragged. +Duddies, rags. +Dwyning, failing, pining. +Dyke, wall. +Dynne, noise. + +E'e, eye. +Een, eyes. +Eerie, uncanny, timorous. +Efte, often. +Eftsoons, forthwith. +Eldritch, unearthly. +Embollen, swollen. +Enlefed, leafed out. +Ermelin, Ermine. +Ettle, aim. +Eydent, diligent. + +F'a, befall, fall. +Fairin', a gift from a fair. +Fairn-year, last year. +Faitour, vagabond. +Fand, found. +Farl, meal cake. +Fash, bother. +Fatt'rils, falderals, finery. +Faut, fault. +Feck, bulk. +Fell, deadly, pungent. +Fend, keep off. +Ferlie, ferly, wonder. +Fetive, festive. +Fidge, fidget. +Fient, fiend, devil. +Fiere, chum. +Fit, foot. +Flainen, flannen, flannel. +Flang, kicked. +Fleech, wheedle. +Flet, remonstrated. +Flitchering, fluttering. +Fling, waving. +Flott, fly. +Flourettes, flowers. +Foggage, coarse grass. +Forswat, sunburned. +Forwindm dried up. +Fou, very, drunk, full. +Fourth, fouth, abundance, plenty. +Frae, from. +Fructyle, fruitful. +Fu', full, very. +Furm, long seat. +Fyke, fuss. +Fyle, soil. + +Gab, mouth. +Gabbing, talking. +Gae, go. +Gaed, gaid, went. +Gallard, frightened. +Gane, gone. +Gang, go. +Gar, make. +Gart, made. +Gash, shrewd, self-complacent. +Gat, got. +Gate, way. +Gaun, gawn, going. +Gawsie, buxom, jolly. +Gear, things, goods. +Geck, mock. +Ghaist, ghost. +Ghastness, ghastliness. +Gibbet-airn, gibbet-iron. +Gie, gi'e, give. +Gie's, give us, give me. +Giftie, gift. +Gill, glass of whisky. +Gin, if, by. +Glaikil, foolish. +Glint, flash. +Glommed, gloomy. +Gloure, glory. +Gowan, wild daisy.' +Gowd, gold. +Gowk, fool. +Grane, groan. +Grat, wept. +Gre, grow. +Gree, prize. +'Gree, agree. +Greet, weep. +Grein, long for. +Grozet, gooseberry. +Gude, guid, good. +Gudeman, Guidman, husband. +Guidwife, married woman, mistress of the house. +Guidwillie, full of good will. +Gusty, savory. +Guylteynge, gilding. + +Ha', hall. +Hae, have. +Haffets, temples, sidelocks. +Hafftins, half. +Hafftins-wise, about half. +Hairst, harvest-time. +Hald, holding, possession. +Halesome, wholesome. +Hallan, partition. +Hallie, holy. +Halline, gladness. +Haly, holy. +Hamely, homely. +Hap-step-an'-loup, hop, step and jump. +Harn, coarse linen, + +Hartsome, hearty, +Hash, stupid, fellow, dolt. +Haud, hold, keep. +Hawkie, cow. +Hawslock, throat-lock, choicest wool. +Heapet, heaped. +Heie, they. +Het, hot. +Hie, high, highly. +Hight, was called. +Hiltring, hiding. +Hing, hang. +Hinny, honey, sweet. +Hirple, hop. +Histie, bare, dry. +Hizzie, girl, jade. +Hoddin, jogging. +Hoddin grey, undyed woolen. +Holme, evergreen oak. +Hornie, the Devil. +Hotch, jerk. +Houghmagandie, fornication, disgrace. +Houlet, owl. +Hound, incite to pursuit. +Hum, humbug. +Hurdies, buttocks. + +Icker, ear of grain. +Ilka, each, every. +Ingle, fireside. + +Jad, jade. +jape, surplice. +Jauds, jades. +Jaw, strike, dash. +Jo, sweetheart. +Joicie, juicy. +Jow, swing. + +Kebbuck, cheese. +Kebbuck-heel, last bit of cheese. +Keek, peep. +Kelpie, water-spirit. +Ken, know. +Kend, known. +Kennin, trifle. +Kest, cast. +Kiaugh, fret. +Kickshaws, delicacies. +Killit, tucked up. +Kirk, church. +Kiste, coffin. +Kittle, tickle. +Knapping-hammer, hammer for breaking stone. +Kye, kine, cattle. +Kynde, nature, species, womankind. + +Lade, load. +Laird, lord, land-owner. +Laith, loath. +Laithfu' sheepish, bashful. +Landscip, landscape. +Lane, lone. +Lang, long. +Lap, leaped. +Lave, rest. +Lav'rock, lark. +Lear, learning. +Leel, loyal. +Lee-lang, live-long. +Leeze me on, commend me to. +Leglen, leglin, milk-pail. +Lemes, gleams. +Leugh, laughed. +Leuk, look. +Levynne, lightning. +Lift, sky. +Lilt, sing merrily. +Limitour, begging friar. +Linkan, tripping. +Linket, tripped. +Linn, waterfall. +Lint, flax. +Loan, loaning, lane, path. +Loo'ed, loved. +Loof, palm. +Loot, let. +Loun, clown, rascal. +Loup, leap. +Loverds, lords. +Lowe, flame. +Lowin, flaming. +Lowings, flashes. +Lowp, leap. +Lug, ear. +Lunardi, balloon, bonnet. +Luv, love. +Lyart, gray, gray-haired. + +Mailen, farm. +Mair, more. +Mantels, mantles. +Mar, more. +Maun, must. +Maut, malt. +Mees, meadows. +Meikle, big. +Melder, grinding of grain. +Melvie, soil with meal. +Mim, prim. +Mirk, dark. +Misca'd, miscalled. +Mist, poor. +Mittie, mighty. +Moe, more. +Mole, soft. +Moneynge, moaning. +Monie, mony, many. +Mou, mouth. +Muckle, much, great. +Muir, heath. + +Na, nae, no, not. +Naething, nothing. +Naig, nag. +Nappy, ale. +Ne, no. +Neebor, neighbour. +Neidher, neither. +Neist, next. +Nesh, tender. +Nete, night, naught. +Neuk, nook, corner. +Niffer, exchange. +No, not. + +Onie, ony, any. +Ouphant, elfin. +Owr, owre, ower, over. + +Paidle, paddle, wade. +Pall, appal. +Pang, cram. +Parritch, porridge. +Pattle, plough-staff. +Peed, pied. +Pencte, painted. +Penny-wheep, small beer. +Peres, pears. +Perishe, destroy. +Pet, be in a pet. +Pheeres, mates. +Pint-stowp, two-Quart measure, flagon. +Plaidie, shawl used as cloak. +Plaister, plaster. +Pleugh, plough. +Pou, pull, pluck. +Poorith, poverty. +Pow, pate. +Prankt, gayly adorned. +Press, cupboard. +Propine, propone, present. +Pund, pound. +Pussie, hare. +Pyke, peaked. + +Quean, lass. +Quorum, company. + +Raible, rattle off. +Rair, roar. +Rant, song, lay. +Rape, rope. +Raw, row. +Reaming, foaming. +Reck, observe. +Rede, counsel. +Red up, cleared up. +Reek, smoke. +Reike, (smoky), Edinburgh. +Restricket, restricted. +Reveled, ravelled, trouble-some. +Reynynge, running. +Reytes, water-flags, iris. +Rig, ridge. +Rigwoodie, lean, tough. +Rin, run. +Rodde, roddie, ruddy. +Rodded, grew red. +Rode, skin. +Roset, rozet, rosin. +Rowan, rolling. +Rudde, ruddy. +Runkled, wrinkled. + +Sabbing, sobbing. +Sae, so. +Saftly, softly. +Sair, serve, sore, sorely. +Sang, song. +Sark, shirt, chemise. +Saul, soul. +Saunt, saint. +Saut, salt. +Scantlins, scarcely. +Scoured, ran. +Screed, rip, rent. +Sede, seed. +Semescope, jacket. +Sets, patterns. +Seventeen-hunder, very fine (linen). +Shachled, feeble, shapeless. +Shaw, show. +Shiel, shelter. +Shool, shovel. +Shoon, shoes. +Shouther, shoulder. +Sic, such. +Siller, silver, money. +Sin', since. +Skeigh, skittish. +Skellum, good-for-nothing. +Skelp, run quickly. +Skiffing, moving along lightly. +Skirl, squeal, scream. +Skriech, screech. +Slaes, sloes. +Slap, gap in a fence. +Slea, slay. +Sleekit, sleek. +Slid, smooth. +Smeddum, powder. +Smethe, smoke. +Smoor, smother. +Smothe, vapor. +Snaw, snow. +Snell, bitter. +Snooded, bound up with a fillet. +Snool, cringe. +Solan, gannet. +Soote, sweet. +Souter, cobbler. +Spak, spoke. +Spean, wean. +Speel, climb. +Spier, ask, inquire. +Spraing, stripe. +Sprattle, scramble. +Spreckled, speckled. +Spryte, spirit. +Squattle, squat. +Stacher, stagger, totter. +Stane, stone. +Steer, stir. +Steyned, stained. +Stibble, stubble. +Still, ever. +Stirk, young steer. +Stole, robe. +Stonen, stony. +Stote, stout. +Stoure, dust, struggle. +Stown, stolen. +Strang, strong. +Strath, river-valley. +Strathspeys, dances for two persons. +Straughte, stretched. +Strunt, strut. +Sugh, sough, moan. +Sumph', blockhead. +Swanges, swings. +Swankie, strapping youth. +Swatch, sample. +Swats, foaming new ale. +Swith, shoo! begone! +Swote, sweet. +Swythyn, quickly. +Syne, since, then. + +Taen, taken. +Tapmost, topmost. +Tauld, told. +Tent, watch. +Tere, muscle. +Thae, those. +Thieveless, useless. +Thilk, that same. +Thir, these. +Thole, endure. +Thrang, throng, thronging, busy. +Thrave, twenty-four sheaves. +Thraw, twist. +Thrawart, perverse. +Tint, lost. +Tippeny, twopenny (ale). +Tither, the other. +Tittlin', whispering. +Tochelod, dowered? dipped? +Tod, fox. +Tout, toot, blast. +Tow, rope. +Townmond, twelvemonth. +Towsie, shaggy. +Toy, cap. +Transmugrify'd, changed, metamorphosed. +Tryste, appointment, fair. +Twa, tway, two. +Tyke, cur, dog. + +Unco, uncommon, very. +Uncos, news, wonders. +Unfald, unfold. +Ungentle, mean. +Unhailie, unhappy. +Unkend, unknown, disregarded. +Usquabae, whiskey. + +Vauntie, proud. +Vera, verra, very. +Vest, robe. +View, appearance. +Virginè, the Virgin (in the zodiac). + +Wabster, weaver. +Wad, would. +Wae, woe, sad. +Waff, stray, wandering. +Wale, choice. +Wark, work. +Warld, world. +Warlock, wizard. +Wa's, walls. +Water-fit, river's mouth. +Waught, draught. +Wauking, waking. +Wawlie, goodly. +Wear up, gather in. +Wede, passed, faded. +Weede, attire. +Weel, well. +Weel-hained, carefully saved. +Ween, believe. +Weet, wet. +Weir, war. +Wha, who. +Wham, whom. +Whang, large piece, slice. +Whare, where. +Whase, whose. +Whestling, whistling. +Whig-mig-morum, talking politics. +Whinging, whining. +Whunstane, hard rock, millstone. +Whyles, sometimes. +Winna, will not. +Winnock-bunker, window-seat. +Woddie, woody. +Wonner, wonder. +Woo, wool. +Wood, mad +Wordy, worthy. +Wrack, wreck. +Wraith, spectre. +Wrang, wrong. +Wyle, lure, entice. + +Yanne, than. +Yatte, that. +Yolent, blended. +Yer, your. +Yestreen, last night. +Yill, ale. +Ymolten, molted. +Yunutile, useless. +Younkers, youngsters. +Yites, its. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Poets of the Eighteenth Century +by Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH POETS *** + +***** This file should be named 10161-8.txt or 10161-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/1/6/10161/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Jayam Subramanian and PG +Distributed Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: + https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + + diff --git a/old/10161-8.zip b/old/10161-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..16e4ffa --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10161-8.zip diff --git a/old/10161.txt b/old/10161.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0bff3fa --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10161.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17233 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of English Poets of the Eighteenth Century +by Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: English Poets of the Eighteenth Century + +Author: Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum + +Release Date: November 21, 2003 [EBook #10161] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH POETS *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Jayam Subramanian and PG +Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +ENGLISH POETS + +OF THE + +EIGHTEENTH CENTURY + + + + +SELECTED AND EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION + + +BY + + +ERNEST BERNBAUM + +PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AT THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS + + + + +1918 + + + + + +PREFACE + +The text of this collection of poetry is authentic and not bowdlerized. +The general reader will, I hope, be gratified to find that its pages +display no pedantic or scholastic traits. His pleasure in the poetry +itself will not be distracted by a marginal numbering of the lines; by +index-figures and footnotes; or by antiquated peculiarities of spelling, +capitalization, and elision. Except where literal conventions are +essential to the poet's purpose,--as in _The Castle of Indolence, The +Schoolmistress_, or Chatterton's poems,--I have followed modern usage. +Dialect words are explained in the glossary; and the student who may wish +to consult the context of any passage will find the necessary references +in the unusually full table of contents. Whenever the title of a poem +gives too vague a notion of its substance, or whenever its substance is +miscellaneous, I have supplied [bracketed] captions for the extracts; +except for these, there is nothing on the pages of the text besides the +poets' own words. + +Originality is not the proper characteristic of an anthologist, and in +the choice of extracts I have rarely indulged my personal likings when +they conflicted with time-honored preferences; yet this anthology,--the +first published in a projected series of four or five volumes comprising +the English poets from Elizabethan to Victorian times,--has certain minor +features that may be deemed objectionably novel. Much the greater portion +of the volume has of course, as usual, been given to those poems (by +Pope, Thomson, Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, Crabbe, Cowper, and Burns) which +have been loved or admired from their day to our own. But I have ventured +to admit also a few which, though forgotten to-day, either were popular +in the eighteenth century or possess marked historical significance. In +other words, I present not solely what the twentieth century considers +enduringly great in the poetry of the eighteenth, but also a +little--proportionately very little--of what the eighteenth century +itself (perhaps mistakenly) considered interesting. This secondary +purpose accounts for my inclusion of passages from such neglected authors +as Mandeville, Brooke, Day, and Darwin. The passages of this sort are too +infrequent to annoy him who reads for aesthetic pleasure only; and to the +student they will illustrate movements in the spirit of the age which +would otherwise be unrepresented, and which, as the historical +introduction points out, are an integral part of its thought and feeling. +The inclusion of passages from "Ossian," though almost unprecedented, +requires, I think, no defense against the literal-minded protest that +they are written in "prose." + +Students of poetical history will find it illuminating to read the +passages in chronological order (irrespective of authorship); and in +order to facilitate this method I have given in the table of contents the +date of each poem. + +E. B. + + + +CONTENTS + +JOHN POMFRET + THE CHOICE (1700) + +DANIEL DEFOE + THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN (1701), + ll. 119-132, 189-228, 312-321 + A HYMN TO THE PILLORY (1703), + STANZAS 1, 3, 5-6, 28-30 + +JOSEPH ADDISON + THE CAMPAIGN (1704), + ll. 259-292 + DIVINE ODE (1712) + +MATTHEW PRIOR + TO A CHILD OF QUALITY (1704) + TO A LADY (1704) + THE DYING HADRIAN TO HIS SOUL (1704) + A BETTER ANSWER (1718) + +BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE + THE GRUMBLING HIVE (1705, 1714), + ll. 1-6, 26-52, 149-156, 171-186, + 198-239, 327-336, 377-408 + +ISAAC WATTS + THE HAZARD OF LOVING THE CREATURES (1706) + THE DAY OF JUDGMENT (1709) + O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST (1719) + A CRADLE HYMN (1719) + +ALEXANDER POPE + AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM (1711), + ll. 1-18, 46-51, 68-91, 118-180, + 215-423, 560-577, 612-642 + THE RAPE OF THE LOCK (1714), + CANTOS II AND III + TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD, BOOK VI (1717), + ll. 562-637 + AN ESSAY ON MAN (1733-34), + EPISTLE I; 11, 1-18; IV, 93-204, 361-398 + MORAL ESSAYS, EPISTLE II (1735), + ll. 1-16, 87-180, 199-210, 231-280 + EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT (1735), + ll. 1-68, 115-214, 261-304, 334-367, 389-419 + FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED (1737), + ll. 23-138, 161-296, 338-347 + EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES (1738), DIALOGUE II, ll. 208-223 + THE DUNCIAD (1728-43), BOOK i, ll. 28-84, 107-134; iv. 627-656 + +LADY WINCHILSEA + TO THE NIGHTINGALE (1713) + A NOCTURNAL REVERIE (1713) + +JOHN GAY + RURAL SPORTS (1713), ll. 91-106 + THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK: THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL (1714), + ll. 5-14, 49-60, 83-136 + TRIVIA (1716), BOOK II, ll. 25-64 + SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN (1720) + MY OWN EPITAPH (1720) + +SAMUEL CROXALL + THE VISION (1715), ll. 41-56 + +THOMAS TICKELL + ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON (1721), ll. 9-46, 67-82 + +THOMAS PARNELL + A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH (1721), ll. 1-70 + A HYMN OF CONTENTMENT (1721) + +ALLAN RAMSAY + THE GENTLE SHEPHERD: PATIE AND ROGER (1721), + ll. 1-52, 59-68, 135-202 + +AMBROSE PHILIPS + TO MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER MOTHER'S ARMS (1725) + +JOHN DYER + GRONGAR HILL (1726) + +GEORGE BERKELEY + VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND + LEARNING IN AMERICA (WR. c. 1726; PUBL. 1752) + +JAMES THOMSON + THE SEASONS (1726-30) + WINTER, ll. 223-358 + SUMMER, ll. 1630-1645 + SPRING, ll. 1-113, 846-876 + AUTUMN, ll. 950-1003 + A HYMN + RULE, BRITANNIA (1740) + THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE (1748), STANZAS 1-11, 20, 57-59 + +EDWARD YOUNG + LOVE OF FAME: SATIRES V-VI (1727-28), + SATIRE V, ll. 227-246, 469-484; VI, 393-462 + NIGHT-THOUGHTS (1742-45), NIGHT I, ll. 68-90; + III, 325-342; IV, 201-233; VII, 253-323 + +ANONYMOUS + THE HAPPY SAVAGE (1732) + +SOAME JENYNS + AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE (1734), ll. 148-165, 170-183, 189-199 + +PHILIP DODDRIDGE + SURSUM (1735?) + +WILLIAM SOMERVILLE + THE CHASE (1735), BOOK II, ll. 119-171 + +HENRY BROOKE + UNIVERSAL BEAUTY (1735), BOOK III, ll. 1-8, 325-364; + V, 282-297, 330-339, 361-384 + PROLOGUE TO GUSTAVUS VASA (1739) + CONRADE, A FRAGMENT (WR. 1743?, PUBL. 1778), ll. 1-26 + +MATTHEW GREEN + THE SPLEEN (1737), ll. 89-110, 624-642 + +WILLIAM SHENSTONE + THE SCHOOLMISTRESS (1737), STANZAS 6, 8, 18-20, 23, 28 + WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY (1764) + +JONATHAN SWIFT + THE BEASTS' CONFESSION (1738), ll. 1-128, 197-220 + VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT (1739), + ll. 39-66, 299-338, 455-482 + +CHARLES WESLEY + FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY (1739) + FOR EASTER-DAY (1739) + IN TEMPTATION: JESU, LOVER OF MY SOUL (1740) + +WRESTLING JACOB (1742) + ROBERT BLAIR + THE GRAVE (1743), ll. 28-44, 56-84, 750-767 + +WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + ON RIDICULE (1743), ll. 27-52, 153-171, 225-226, 233-236, 287-301 + THE ENTHUSIAST (1754) + +MARK AKENSIDE + THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION (1744), BOOK I, ll. 34-43, 113-124; + III, 515-535, 568-633 + +JOSEPH WARTON + THE ENTHUSIAST; OR, THE LOVER OF NATURE (1744), + ll. 1-20, 26-38, 87-103, 167-244 + +JOHN GILBERT COOPER + THE POWER OF HARMONY (1745), BOOK II, ll. 35-51, 125-140, 330-343 + +WILLIAM COLLINS + ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 (1746) + ODE TO EVENING (1746) + ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER (1746) + THE PASSIONS (1746) + ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS + (WR. 1749, PUBL. 1788) + +THOMAS WARTON + THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY (1747), ll. 28-69, 153-165, 196-210 + THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR (1777), ll. 31-74 + SONNET WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON (1777) + SONNET WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE (1777) + SONNET TO THE RIVER LODON (1777) + +THOMAS GRAY + AN ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE (1747) + HYMN TO ADVERSITY (1748) + ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD (1751) + THE PROGRESS OF POESY (1757) + THE BARD (1757) + THE FATAL SISTERS (1768) + ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE (1775) + +SAMUEL JOHNSON + THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES (1749), ll. 99-118, + 133-160, 189-220, 289-308, 341-366 + +RICHARD JAGO + THE GOLDFINCHES (1753), STANZAS 3-10 + +JOHN DALTON + A DESCRIPTIVE POEM (1755), ll. 222-227, 238-257, 265-272, 279-290 + +JANE ELLIOT + THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST (WR. 1756) + +CHARLES CHURCHILL + THE ROSCIAD (1761), ll. 963-986 + THE GHOST (1762), BOOK II, ll. 653-676 + +JAMES MACPHERSON + + "TRANSLATIONS" FROM OSSIAN + FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM (1762), BOOK VI, Sec.Sec. 10-14 + THE SONGS OF SELMA (1762), Sec.Sec. 4-8, 20-21 + +CHRISTOPHER SMART + A SONG TO DAVID (1763), ll. 451-516 + +OLIVER GOLDSMITH + THE TRAVELLER (1764), ll. 51-64, 239-280, 423-438 + THE DESERTED VILLAGE (1770) + RETALIATION (1774), ll. 29-42, 61-78, 93-124, 137-146 + +JAMES BEATTIE + THE MINSTREL, BOOK I (1771), STANZAS 4-5, 16, 22, 32-33, 52-55 + +LADY ANNE LINDSAY + AULD ROBIN GRAY (WR. 1771) + +JEAN ADAMS + THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE (c. 1771) + +ROBERT FERGUSSON + THE DAFT DAYS (1772) + +ANONYMOUS + ABSENCE (c. 1773?) + +JOHN LANGHORNE + THE COUNTRY JUSTICE, PART I (1774), ll. 132-165 + +AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY + ROCK OF AGES (1775) + +JOHN SKINNER + TULLOCHGORUM (1776) + +THOMAS CHATTERTON + SONGS FROM AELLA (1777) + THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES ATTE THE LYGHTE + O, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE + AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE + +THOMAS DAY + THIS DESOLATION OF AMERICA (1777), ll. 29-53, 279-299, + 328-335, 440-458, 489-501 + +GEORGE CRABBE + THE LIBRARY (1781), ll. 1-12, 99-110, 127-134, + AND A COMMONLY OMITTED PASSAGE FOLLOWING l. 594 + THE VILLAGE (1783), BOOK I, ll. 1-78, 109-317; II, 63-100 + +JOHN NEWTON + A VISION OF LIFE IN DEATH (1779?) + +WILLIAM COWPER + TABLE TALK (1782), ll. 716-739 + CONVERSATION (1782), ll. 119-162 + TO A YOUNG LADY (1782) + THE SHRUBBERY (1782) + THE TASK (1785), BOOK I, ll. 141-180; II, 1-47, 206-254; + III, 108-l33; IV, 1-41; V, 379-445; VI, 56-117, 560-580 + ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE (1798) + TO MARY (WR. c. 1795, PUBL. 1803) + THE CASTAWAY (WR. c. 1799, PUBL. 1803) + +WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES + EVENING (1789) + DOVER CLIFFS (1789) + +ROBERT BURNS + MARY MORISON (WR. 1784?, PUBL. 1800) + THE HOLY FAIR (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786) + TO A LOUSE (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786) + EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK (WR. 1785, PUBL. 1786), STANZAS 9-13 + THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT (WR. 1785-86, PUBL. 1786) + TO A MOUSE (1786) + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY (1786) + EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND (1786) + A BARD'S EPITAPH (1786) + ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID (1787) + JOHN ANDERSON, MY Jo (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1790) + THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + A RED, RED ROSE (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + AULD LANG SYNE (WR. c. 1788, PUBL. 1796) + SWEET AFTON (WR. c. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + THE HAPPY TRIO (WR. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + TO MARY IN HEAVEN (WR. 1789, PUBL. 1796) + TAM O' SHANTER (WR. 1790, PUBL. 1791) + AE FOND KISS (WR. 1791, PUBL. 1792) + DUNCAN GRAY (WR. 1792, PUBL. 1798) + HIGHLAND MARY (WR. 1792, PUBL. 1799) + SCOTS, WHA HAE (WR. 1793, PUBL. 1794) + IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY (WR. 1794, PUBL. 1795) + LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER (WR. c. 1795, PUBL. 1799) + O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST (WR. 1796, PUBL. 1800) + +ERASMUS DARWIN + THE BOTANIC GARDEN (1789-92), PART I, CANTO I, ll. 1-38; + PART II, CANTO I, ll. 299-310 + +WILLIAM BLAKE + TO WINTER (1783) + SONG: FRESH FROM THE DEWY HILL (1783) + TO THE MUSES (1783) + INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OF INNOCENCE (1789) + THE LAMB (1789) + THE LITTLE BLACK BOY (1789) + A CRADLE SONG (1789) + HOLY THURSDAY (1789) + THE DIVINE IMAGE (1789) + ON ANOTHER'S SORROW (1789) + THE BOOK OF THEL (1789) + THE FRENCH REVOLUTION (PRINTED 1791), ll, 198-240 + A SONG OP LIBERTY (c. 1792), Sec.Sec. 1-3, 12, 18-20, AND CHORUS + THE FLY (1794) + THE TIGER (1794) + HOLY THURSDAY (1794) + THE GARDEN OF LOVE (1794) + A LITTLE BOY LOST (1794) + THE SCHOOL-BOY (1794) + LONDON (1794) + AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE (WR. c. 1801-03), LL. 1-44, 73-90 + VERSES FROM "MILTON" (ENGRAVED c. 1804) + AND DID THOSE FEET IN ANCIENT TIME + REASON AND IMAGINATION + VERSES FROM "JERUSALEM" (ENGRAVED c. 1804-11) + TO THE DEISTS + +GEORGE CANNING + THE PROGRESS OF MAN (1798), CANTO XXIII, ll. 7-16, 17-30 + THE NEW MORALITY (1798), ll. 87-157 + +CAROLINA, LADY NAIRNE + THE LAND O' THE LEAL (WR. 1798) + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +I. ORTHODOXY AND CLASSICISM QUIESCENT (1700-1725) The clearest portrayal +of the prominent features of an age may sometimes be seen in poems which +reveal what men desire to be rather than what they are; and which express +sentiments typical, even commonplace, rather than individual. John +Pomfret's _Choice_ (1700) is commonplace indeed; it was never deemed +great, but it was remarkably popular. "No composition in our language," +opined Dr. Johnson, "has been oftener perused,"--an opinion quite +incredible until one perceives how intimately the poem harmonizes with +the prevalent mood of its contemporary readers. It was written by a +clergyman (a circumstance not insignificant); its form is the heroic +couplet; its content is a wish, for a peaceful and civilized mode of +existence. And what; is believed to satisfy that longing? A life of +leisure; the necessaries of comfort plentifully provided, but used +temperately; a country-house upon a hillside, not too distant from the +city; a little garden bordered by a rivulet; a quiet-study furnished with +the classical Roman poets; the society of a few friends, men who know the +world as well as books, who are loyal to their nation and their church, +and whose; conversation is intellectually vigorous but always polite; the +occasional companionship of a woman of virtue, wit, and poise of manner; +and, above all, the avoidance of public or private contentions. Culture +and peace--and the greater of these is peace! The sentiment characterizes +the first quarter of the eighteenth century. + +The poets of that period had received an abundant heritage from the +Elizabethans, the Cavaliers, Dryden, and Milton. It was a poetry of +passionate love, chivalric honor, indignant satire, and sublime faith. +Much of it they admired, but their admiration was tempered with +fear. They heard therein the tones of violent generations,--of men whose +intensity, though yielding extraordinary beauty and grandeur, yielded +also obscurity and extravagance; men whom the love of women too often +impelled to utter fantastic hyperbole, and the love of honor to glorify +preposterous adventures; quarrelsome men, who assailed their opponents +with rancorous personalities; doctrinaires, who employed their fiery +energy of mind in the creation of rigid systems of religion and +government; uncompromising men, who devoted to the support of those +systems their fortunes and lives, drenched the land in the blood of a +civil war, executed a king, presently restored his dynasty, and finally +exiled it again, thus maintaining during half a century a general +insecurity of life and property which checked the finer growths of +civilization. Their successors trusted that the compromise of 1688 had +reduced political and sectarian affairs to a state of calm equilibrium; +and they desired to cultivate the fruits of serenity by fostering in all +things the spirit of moderation. In poetry, as in life, they tended more +and more to discountenance manifestations of vehemence. Even the poetry +of Dryden, with its reflections of the stormy days through which he had +struggled, seemed to them, though gloriously leading the way toward +perfection, to fall short of equability of temper and smoothness of form. +To work like Defoe's _True-Born Englishman_ (1701) and _Hymn to the +Pillory_ (1703), combative in spirit and free in style, they gave only +guarded and temporary approval. + +Inevitably the change of mood entailed losses. Sir Henry Wotton's +_Character of a Happy Life_ (c. 1614) treats the same theme as Pomfret's +_Choice_; but Pomfret's contemporaries were rarely if ever visited by +such gleams as shine in Wotton's lines describing the happy man as one + + who never understood + How deepest wounds are given by praise, + +and as one + + Who God doth late and early pray + More of his grace than gifts to lend. + +Such touches of penetrative wisdom and piety, like many other precious +qualities, are of an age that had passed. In the poetry of 1700-1725, +religion forgoes mysticism and exaltation; the intellectual life, daring +and subtlety; the imagination, exuberance and splendor. Enthusiasm for +moral ideals declines into steadfast approval of ethical principles. Yet +these were changes in tone and manner rather than in fundamental views. +The poets of the period were conservatives. They were shocked by the +radicalism of Mandeville, the Nietzsche of his day, who derided the +generally accepted moralities as shallow delusions, and who by means of a +clever fable supported a materialistic theory which implied that in the +struggle for existence nothing but egotism could succeed: + + Fools only strive + To make a great and honest hive. + +Obloquy buried him; he was a sensational exception to the rule. As a +body, the poets of his time retained the orthodox traditions concerning +God, Man, and Nature. + +Their theology is evidenced by Addison, Watts, and Parnell. It is a +Christianity that has not ceased to be stern and majestic. In Addison's +_Divine Ode_, the planets of the firmament proclaim a Creator whose power +knows no bounds. In the hymns of Isaac Watts, God is as of old a jealous +God, obedience to whose eternal will may require the painful sacrifice +of temporal earthly affections, even the sacrifice of our love for our +fellow-creatures; a just God, who by the law of his own nature cannot +save unrepentant sin from eternal retribution; yet an adored God, whose +providence protects the faithful amid stormy vicissitudes,-- + + Under the shadow of whose throne + The saints have dwelt secure. + +Spirits as gentle and kindly as Parnell insist that the only approach +to happiness lies through a religious discipline of the feelings, and +protest that death is not to be feared but welcomed--as the passage from +a troublous existence to everlasting peace. In most of the poetry of +the time, religion, if at all noticeable, is a mere undercurrent; but +whenever it rises to the surface, it reflects the ancient creed. + +Traditional too is the general conception of human character. Man is +still thought of as a complex of lofty and mean qualities, widely +variable in their proportion yet in no instance quite dissevered. To +interpret--not God or Nature--but this self-contradictory being, in both +his higher and his lower manifestations and possibilities, remains the +chief vocation of the poets. They have not ceased the endeavor to lend +dignity to life by portraying its nobler features. Addison, in _The +Campaign_, glorifies the national hero whose brilliant victories thwarted +the great monarch of France on his seemingly invincible career toward +the hegemony of Europe, the warrior Marlborough, serene of soul amid the +horror and confusion of battle. Tickell, in his noble elegy on Addison, +not only, while voicing his own grief, illustrates the beauty of +devoted friendship, but also, when eulogizing his subject, holds up to +admiration, as a type to be revered, the wise moralist, cultured and +versatile man of letters, and adept in the art of virtuous life. Pope, +in the most ambitious literary effort of the day, his translation of the +_Iliad_, labors to enrich the treasury of English poetry with an epic +that sheds radiance upon the ideals and manners of an heroic age. In such +attempts to exalt the grander phases of human existence, the poets were, +however, owing to their fear of enthusiasm, never quite successful. It is +significant that though most critics consider Pope's Homer no better than +a mediocre performance, none denies that his _Rape of the Lock_ is, in +its kind, perfection. + +Here, as in the _vers de societe_ of Matthew Prior and Ambrose Philips, +the age was illuminating with the graces of poetry something it really +understood and delighted in,--the life of leisure and fashion; and here, +accordingly, is its most original and masterly work. _The Rape of the +Lock_ is the product of a society which had the good sense and good +breeding to try to laugh away incipient quarrels, and which greeted with +airy banter the indiscreet act of an enamoured young gallant,--the kind +of act which vulgarity meets with angry lampoons or rude violence. The +poem is an idyll quite as much as a satire. The follies of fashionable +life are treated with nothing severer than light raillery; and its +actually distasteful features,--its lapses into stupidity, its vacuous +restlessness, its ennui,--are cunningly suppressed. But all that made it +seem the height of human felicity is preserved, and enhanced in charm. +"Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames," one glides to Hampton Court +amid youth and gayety and melting music; and for the nonce this realm of +"airs, flounces, and furbelows," of merry chit-chat, and of pleasurable +excitement, seems as important as it is to those exquisite creatures of +fancy that hover about the heroine, assiduous guardians of her "graceful +ease and sweetness void of pride." Of that admired world likewise are the +lovers that Matthew Prior creates, who woo neither with stormy passion +nor with mawkish whining, but in a courtly manner; lovers who deem +an epigram a finer tribute than a sigh. So the tender fondness of a +middle-aged man for an infant is elevated above the commonplace by +assuming the tone of playful gallantry. + +The ignobler aspects of life,--nutriment of the comic sense,--were not +ignored. The new school of poets, however deficient in the higher vision, +were keen observers of actuality; and among them the satiric spirit, +though not militant as in the days of Dryden, was still active. The value +which they attached to social culture is again shown in the persistence +of the sentiment that as man grew in civility he became less ridiculous. +The peccadilloes of the upper classes they treated with comparatively +gentle humor, and aimed their strokes of satire chiefly against the +lower. Rarely did they idealize humble folk: Gay's _Sweet William's +Farewett to Black-Eyed Susan_ is in this respect exceptional. Their +typical attitude is seen in his _Shepherd's Week_, with its ludicrous +picture of rustic superstition and naive amorousness; and in Allan +Ramsay's _Gentle Shepherd_, where the pastoral, once remote from life, +assumes the manners and dialect of the countryside in order to arouse +laughter. + +The obvious fact that these poets centered their attention upon +Man, particularly in his social life, and that their most memorable +productions are upon that theme, led posterity to complain that they +wholly lacked interest in Nature, were incapable of delineating it, and +did not feel its sacred influence. The last point in the indictment,--and +the last only,--is quite true. No one who understood and believed, as +they did, the doctrines of orthodoxy could consistently ascribe divinity +to Nature. To them Nature exhibited the power of God, but not his will; +and the soul of Man gained its clearest moral light directly from a +_super_natural source. This did not, however, imply that Nature was +negligible. The celebrated essays of Addison on the pleasures of the +imagination (_Spectator_, Nos. 411-414) base those pleasures upon the +grandeur of Nature; upon its variety and freshness, as of "groves, +fields, and meadows in the opening of the Spring"; and upon its beauty of +form and color. The works of Nature, declares Addison, surpass those of +art, and accordingly "we always find the poet in love with a country +life." Such was the theory; the practice was not out of accord therewith. +Passages appreciative of the lovelier aspects of Nature, and not, despite +the current preference for general rather than specific terms, inaccurate +as descriptions, were written between 1700 and 1726 by Addison himself, +Pope, Lady Winchilsea, Gay, Parnell, Dyer, and many others. Nature +worshippers they were not. Nature lovers they can be justly styled,--if +such love may discriminate between the beautiful and the ugly aspects +of the natural. It is characteristic that Berkeley, in his _Prospect of +Planting Arts and Learning in America_, does not indulge the fancy that +the wilderness is of itself uplifting; it requires, he assumes, the aid +of human culture and wisdom,--"the rise of empire and of arts,"--to +develop its potentialities. + +A generation which placidly adhered to the orthodox sentiments of its +predecessors was of course not moved to revolutionize poetical theories +or forms. Its theories are authoritatively stated in Pope's _Essay on +Criticism_; they embrace principles of good sense and mature taste which +are easier to condemn than to confute or supersede. In poetical diction +the age cultivated clearness, propriety, and dignity: it rejected words +so minutely particular as to suggest pedantry or specialization; and +it refused to sacrifice simple appropriateness to inaccurate vigor of +utterance or meaningless beauty of sound. Its favorite measure, the +decasyllabic couplet, moulded by Jonson, Sandys, Waller, Denham, and +Dryden, it accepted reverently, as an heirloom not to be essentially +altered but to be polished until it shone more brightly than ever. Pope +perfected this form, making it at once more artistic and more natural. He +discountenanced on the one hand run-on lines, alexandrines, hiatus, and +sequence of monosyllables; on the other, the resort to expletives and the +mechanical placing of caesura. If his verse does not move with the "long +resounding pace" of Dryden at his best, it has a movement better suited +to the drawing-room: it is what Oliver Wendell Holmes terms + + The straight-backed measure with the stately stride. + +Thus in form as in substance the poetry of the period voiced the mood, +not of carefree youth, nor yet of vehement early manhood, but of still +vigorous middle age,--a phase of existence perhaps less ingratiating than +others, but one which has its rightful hour in the life of the race as of +the individual. The sincere and artistic expression of its feelings will +be denied poetical validity only by those whose capacity for appreciating +the varieties of poetry is limited by their lack of experience or by +narrowness of sympathetic imagination. + + +II. ORTHODOXY AND CLASSICISM ASSAILED (1726-1750) + +During the second quarter of the century, Pope and his group remained +dominant in the realm of poetry; but their mood was no longer pacific. +Their work showed a growing seriousness and acerbity. Partly the change +was owing to disappointment: life had not become so highly cultured, +literature had not prospered so much, nor displayed so broad a diffusion +of intelligence and taste, as had been expected. Pope's _Dunciad, Epistle +to Dr. Arbuthnot_, and ironic satire on the state of literature under +"Augustus" (George II, the "snuffy old drone from the German hive"), +brilliantly express this indignation with the intellectual and literary +shortcomings of the times. + +A cause of the change of mood which was to be of more lasting consequence +than the failure of the age to put the traditional ideal more generally +into practice, was the appearance of a distinctly new ideal,--one which +undermined the very foundations of the old. This new spirit may be termed +sentimentalism. In prose literature it had already been stirring for +about twenty-five years, changing the tone of comedy, entering into some +of the periodical essays, and assuming a philosophic character in the +works of Lord Shaftesbury. Its chief doctrines, rhapsodically promulgated +by this amiable and original enthusiast, were that the universe and all +its creatures constitute a perfect harmony; and that Man, owing to his +innate moral and aesthetic sense, needs no supernatural revelation of +religious or ethical truth, because if he will discard the prejudices +of tradition, he will instinctively, when face to face with Nature, +recognize the Spirit which dwells therein,--and, correspondingly, when +in the presence of a good deed he will recognize its morality. In other +words. God and Nature are one; and Man is instinctively good, his +cardinal virtue being the love of humanity, his true religion the love of +Nature. Be therefore of good cheer: evil merely appears to exist, sin is +a figment of false psychology; lead mankind to return to the natural, and +they will find happiness. + +The poetical possibilities of sentimentalism were not grasped by any +noteworthy poet before Thomson. _The Seasons_ was an innovation, and +its novelty lay not so much in the choice of the subject as in the +interpretation. Didactic as well as descriptive, it was designed not +merely to present realistic pictures but to arouse certain explicitly +stated thoughts and feelings. Thomson had absorbed some of Shaftesbury's +ideas. Such sketches as that of the hardships which country folk suffer +in winter, contrasted with the thoughtless gayety of city revelers, +and inculcating the lesson of sympathy, are precisely in the vein that +sentimentalism encouraged. So, too, the tendency of Shaftesbury to deify +Nature appears in several ardent passages. The choice of blank verse +as the medium of this liberal and expansive train of thought was +appropriate. It should not be supposed, however, that Thomson accepted +sentimentalism in its entirety or fully understood its ultimate bearings. +The author of _Rule, Britannia_ praised many things,--like commerce +and industry and imperial power,--that are not favored by the thorough +sentimentalist. Often he was inconsistent: his _Hymn to Nature_ is +in part a pantheistic rhapsody, in part a monotheistic Hebrew psalm. +Essentially an indolent though receptive mind, he made no effort to trace +the new ideas to their consequences; he vaguely considered them not +irreconcilable with the old. + +A keener mind fell into the same error. Pope, in the _Essay on Man_, +tried to harmonize the orthodox conception of human character with +sentimental optimism. As a collection of those memorable half-truths +called aphorisms, the poem is admirable; as an attempt to unite new +half-truths with old into a consistent scheme of life, it is fallacious. +No creature composed of such warring elements as Pope describes in the +superb antitheses that open Epistle II, can ever become in this world as +good and at the same time as happy as Epistle IV vainly asserts. Pope, +charged with heresy, did not repeat this endeavor to console mankind; he +returned to his proper element, satire. But his effort to unite the +new philosophy with the old psychology is striking evidence of the +attractiveness and growing vogue of Shaftesbury's theories. + +It was minor poets who first expressed sentimental ideas without +inconsistency. As early as 1732, anonymous lines in the _Gentleman's +Magazine_ advanced what must have seemed the outrageously paradoxical +thought that the savage in the wilderness was happier than civilized +man. Two years later Soame Jenyns openly assailed in verse the orthodox +doctrines of sin and retribution. These had long been assailed in prose; +and under the influence of the attacks, within the pale of the Church +itself, some ministers had suppressed or modified the sterner aspects of +the creed,--a movement which Young's satires had ridiculed in the person +of a lady of fashion who gladly entertained the notion that the Deity +was too well-bred to call a lady to account for her offenses. Jenyns +versified this effeminization of Christianity, charged orthodoxy with +attributing cruelty to God, and asserted that faith in divine and human +kindness would banish all wrong and discord from the world. In 1735 a far +more important poet of sentimentalism arose in Henry Brooke, an +undeservedly neglected pioneer, who, likewise drawing his inspiration +from Shaftesbury, developed its theories with unusual consistency and +fullness. His _Universal Beauty_ voiced his sense of the divine immanence +in every part of the cosmos, and emphasized the doctrine that animals, +because they unhesitatingly follow the promptings of Nature, are more +lovely, happy, and moral than Man, who should learn from them the +individual and social virtues, abandon artificial civilization, and +follow instinct. Brooke, in the prologue of his _Gustavus Vasa_, shows +that he foresaw the political bearings of this theory; it is, in his +opinion, peculiarly a people "guiltless of courts, untainted, and unread" +that, illumined by Nature, understands and upholds freedom: but this was +a thought too advanced to be general at this time even among Brooke's +fellow-sentimentalists. + +Though sentimental literature bore the seeds of revolution, its earliest +effect upon its devotees was to create, through flattery of human +character, a feeling of good-natured complacency. Against this optimism +the traditional school reacted in two ways,--derisive and hortatory. +Pope, Young, and Swift satirized with masterful skill the inherent +weaknesses and follies of mankind, the vigor of their strokes drawing +from the sentimentalist Whitehead the feeble but significant protest, +_On Ridicule_, deprecating satire as discouraging to benevolence. On the +other hand, Wesley's hymns fervently summoned to repentance and piety; +while Young's _Night Thoughts_, yielding to the new influence only in its +form (blank verse), reasserted the hollowness of earthly existence, +the justice of God's stern will, and the need of faith in heavenly +immortality as the only adequate satisfaction of the spiritual elements +in Man. The literary powers of Pope, Swift, and Young were far superior +to those of the opposed school, which might have been overborne had not a +second generation of sentimentalists arisen to voice its claims in a more +poetical manner. + +These newcomers,--Akenside, J.G. Cooper, the Wartons, and Collins,--all +of them very young, appeared between 1744 and 1747; and each rendered +distinct service to their common cause. The least original of the group, +John Gilbert Cooper, versified in _The Power of Harmony_ Shaftesbury's +cosmogony. More independently, Mark Akenside developed out of the same +doctrine of universal harmony the theory of aesthetics that was to guide +the school,--the theory that the true poet is created not by culture and +discipline at all, but owes to the impress of Nature--that beauty which +is goodness--his imagination, his taste, and his moral vision. Though +comparatively ardent and free in manner, Akenside pursued the customary, +didactic method. Less abstract, more nearly an utterance of personal +feeling, was Joseph Warton's _Enthusiast, or the Lover of Nature_, +historically a remarkable poem, which, through its expression of the +author's tastes and preferences, indicated briefly some of the most +important touchstones of the sentimentalism (_videlicet_, "romanticism") +of the future. Warton found odious such things as artificial gardens, +commercial interests, social and legal conventions, and a formal +Addisonian style; he yearned for mountainous wilds, unspoiled savages, +solitudes where the voice of Wisdom was heard above the storms, and +poetry that was "wildly warbled." His younger brother Thomas, who wrote +_The Pleasures of Melancholy_, and sonnets showing an interest in +non-classical antiquities, likewise felt the need of new literary gods to +sanction the practices of their school: Pope and Dryden were accordingly +dethroned; Spenser, Shakespeare, and the young Milton, all of whom were +believed to warble wildly, were invoked. + +William Collins was the most gifted of this band of enthusiasts. His +general views were theirs: poetry is in his mind associated with wonder +and ecstacy; and it finds its true themes, as the _Ode on Popular +Superstitions_ shows, in the weird legends, the pathetic mischances, and +the blameless manners of a simple-minded folk remote from cities. Unlike +his fellows, Collins had moments of great lyric power, and gave posterity +a few treasured poems. His further distinction is that he desired really +to create that poetical world about which Akenside theorized and for +which the Wartons yearned. Unhappily, however, he too often peopled it +with allegorical figures who move in a hazy atmosphere; and his melody is +then more apparent than his meaning. + +The hopeful spirit of these enthusiasts found little encouragement in the +poems with which the period closed,--Gray's _Ode on Eton_ and _Hymn to +Adversity_, and Johnson's _Vanity of Human Wishes_. + + Some bold adventurers disdain + The limits of their little reign, + +wrote Gray, adding with the wisdom of disillusion, + + Gay hopes are theirs, by fancy fed, + Less pleasing when possessed. + +He was speaking of schoolboys whose ignorance is bliss; but the general +tenor of his mind allows us to surmise that he also smiled pityingly upon +some of the aspirations of the youthful sentimentalists. Dr. Johnson's +hostility to them was, of course, outspoken. He laughed uproariously at +their ecstatic manner, and ridiculed the cant of sensibility; and in +solemn mood he struck in _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ another blow at the +heresy of optimism. In style the contrast between these poems and those +of the Wartons and Collins is marked. Heirs of the Augustans, Johnson and +Gray have perfect control over their respective diction and metres: here +are no obscurities or false notes; Johnson sustains with superb +dignity the tone of moral grandeur; Gray is ever felicitous. Up to the +mid-century then, despite assailants, the classical school held its +supremacy; for its literary art was incomparably more skillful than that +of its enemies. + + +III. THE PROGRESS OF SENTIMENTALISM + +(1751-1775) + +During the 1750's sentimental poetry did not fulfill the expectations +which the outburst of 1744 had seemed to promise. It sank to lower +levels, and its productions are noteworthy only as signs of the times and +presages of the future. Richard Jago wrote some bald verses intended to +foster opposition to hunting, and love for the lower animals,--according +to the sentimental view really the "little brothers" of Man. John +Dalton's crude _Descriptive Poem_ apostrophized what was regarded as the +"savage grandeur" of the Lake country; it is interesting only because it +mentions Keswick, Borrowdale, Lodore, and Skiddaw, half a century +later to become sacred ground. The practical dilemma of the +sentimentalist,--drawn toward solitude by his worship of Nature, and +toward society by his love for Man,--was described by Whitehead in _The +Enthusiast_, the humanitarian impulse being finally given the preference. +Though the last of these pieces is not contemptible in style, none +of these writers had sufficient ardor to compel attention; and if +sentimentalism had not been steadily disseminated through other literary +forms, especially the novel, it might well have been regarded as a lost +cause. + +The great poet of this decade was Gray, whose _Elegy Written in a Country +Churchyard_, by many held the noblest English lyric, appeared in 1751. +His classical ideal of style, according to which poetry should have, +in his words, "extreme conciseness of expression," yet be "pure, +perspicuous, and musical," was realized both in the _Elegy_ and in the +otherwise very different _Pindaric Odes_. The ethical and religious +implications of the _Elegy_, its piety, its sense of the frailties as +well as the merits of mankind, are conservative. Nor is there in the +_Pindaric Odes_ any violation of classical principles. Gray never +deviates into a pantheistic faith, a belief in human perfection, a +conception of poetry as instinctive imagination unrestrained, or any +other essential tenet of sentimentalism. Yet the influence of the new +spirit upon him may be discerned. It modified his choice of subjects, and +slightly colored their interpretation, without causing him to abandon the +classical attitude. The _Elegy_ treats with reverence what the Augustans +had neglected,--the tragic dignity of obscure lives; _The Progress of +Poesy_ emphasizes qualities (emotion and sublimity) which the _Essay on +Criticism_ had not stressed; and _The Bard_ presents a wildly picturesque +figure of ancient days. Gray felt that classicism might quicken its +spirit and widen its interests without surrendering its principles, that +a classical poem might be a popular poem; and the admiration of posterity +supports his belief. + +An astounding and epochal event was the publication (1760 ff.) of +the poems attributed to Ossian. Their "editor and translator," James +Macpherson, author of a forgotten sentimental epic, alleged that Ossian +was a Gaelic poet of the third century A.D., who sang the loves and wars +of the heroes of his people, brave warriors fighting the imperial legions +of Rome; and that his poems had been orally transmitted until now, +fifteen centuries later, they had been taken down from the lips of Scotch +peasants. It was a fabrication as ingenious as brazen. As a matter of +fact, Macpherson had found only an insignificant portion of his extensive +work in popular ballads; and what little he had found he had expanded and +changed out of all semblance to genuine ancient legend. Both the +guiding motive of his prose-poem (it is his as truly as _King Lear_ +is Shakespeare's), and the furore of welcome which greeted it, may be +understood by recalling the position of the sentimental school on the eve +of its appearance. The sentimentalists were maintaining that civilization +had corrupted tastes, morals, and poetry, that it had perverted Man from +his instinctive goodness, and that only by a return to communion with +Nature could humanity and poetry be redeemed. But all this was based +merely on philosophic theory, and could find no confirmation in history +or literature: history knew of no innocent savages; and even as +unsophisticated literature as Homer was then supposed to be, disclosed no +heroes perfect in the sentimental virtues. + +_Ossian_ appeared; and the truth of sentimentalism seemed historically +established. For here was poetry of the loftiest tone, composed in the +unlearned Dark Ages, and answering the highest expectations concerning +poetry inspired by Nature only. (Was not a distinguished Professor of +Rhetoric saying, "Ossian's poetry, more perhaps than that of any other +writer, deserves to be styled the poetry of the heart"?) And here was +the record of a nature-people whose conduct stood revealed as flawless. +"Fingal," Macpherson himself accommodatingly pointed out, "exercised +every manly virtue in Caledonia while Heliogabalus disgraced human nature +in Rome." More than fifty years afterwards Byron compared Homer's Hector, +greatly to his disadvantage, with Ossian's Fingal: the latter's conduct +was, in his admirer's words, "uniformly illustrious and great, without +one mean or inhuman action to tarnish the splendor of his fame." The +benevolent magnanimity of the heroes, the sweet sensibility of the +heroines, their harmony with Nature's moods (traits which Macpherson had +supplied from his own imagination), were the very traits that won +the enthusiasm of the public. The poem in its turn stimulated the +sentimentalism which had produced it; and henceforth the new school +contended on even terms with the old. + +One of the effects of the progress of sentimentalism was the decline of +satire. Peculiarly the weapon of the classical school, it had fallen into +unskillful hands: Churchill, though keen and bold, lacked the grace of +Pope and the power of Johnson. Goldsmith might have proved a worthier +successor; but though his genius for style was large, his capacity for +sustained indignation was limited. Even his _Retaliation_ is humorous in +spirit rather than satiric. He was a being of conflicting impulses; and +in his case at least, the style is not precisely the man. His temperament +was emotional and affectionate; by nature he was a sentimentalist. But +his inclinations were restrained, partly by the personal influence of Dr. +Johnson, partly by his own admiration for the artistic traditions of +the classicists. He despised looseness of style, considered blank verse +unfinished, and cultivated what seemed to him the more polished elegance +of the heroic couplet. The vacillation of his views appears in the +difference between the sentiments of _The Traveller_ and those of _The +Deserted Village_. The former is a survey of the nations of Europe, the +object being to discover a people wholly admirable. Merit is found in +Italians, Swiss, French, Dutch, and English,--but never perfection; even +the free and happy Swiss are disgusting in the vulgar sensuality of their +pleasures; happiness is nowhere. One is not surprised to learn that Dr. +Johnson contributed at least a few lines to a poem with so orthodox a +message. + +In _The Deserted Village_, on the other hand, Goldsmith employed the +classical graces to point a moral which from the classical point of view +was false. His sympathetic feelings had now been captivated by the notion +of rural innocence. The traits of character which he attributed to the +village inhabitants,--notably to the immortal preacher who, entertaining +the vagrants, + + Quite forgot their vices in their woe,-- + +are those exalted in the literature of sentimentalism, as, for example, +in his contemporary, Langhorne's _Country Justice_. _The Deserted +Village_ was in point of fact an imaginative idyll,--the supreme idyll of +English poetry; but Goldsmith insisted that it was a realistic record +of actual conditions. Yet he could never have observed such an English +village, either in its depopulated and decayed state (as Macaulay has +remarked), or in its rosy prosperity and unsullied virtue; his economic +history and theory were misleading. Like Macpherson, but through +self-delusion rather than intent, he was engaged in an effort to deceive +by giving sentimental doctrines a basis of apparent actuality. But the +world has forgotten or forgiven his pious fraud in its gratitude for the +loveliness of his art. + + +IV. THE TRIUMPH OF SENTIMENTALISM (1776-1800) + +Goldsmith's application of sentimental ideas to contemporary affairs +foreshadowed what was to be one of the marked tendencies of the movement +in the last quarter of the century. Thus in 1777 Thomas Day interpreted +the American Revolution as a conflict between the pitiless tyranny of a +corrupt civilization and the appealing virtues of a people who had found +in sequestered forests and prairies the abiding place of Freedom and the +only remaining opportunity "to save the ruins of the human name." At the +same time the justification of sentimentalism on historical grounds was +strengthened by the young antiquarian and poet, Thomas Chatterton. Like +Macpherson, he answers to Pope's description of archaizing authors,-- + + Ancients in words, mere moderns in their sense. + +He fabricated, in what he thought to be Middle English, a body of songs +and interludes, which he attributed to a monk named Thomas Rowleie, +and which showed that, in the supposedly unsophisticated simplicity of +medieval times, charity to Man and love for Nature had flourished as +beautifully as lyric utterance. Even more lamentable than Chatterton's +early death is the fact that his fanciful and musical genius was shrouded +in so grotesque a style. + +In 1781 appeared a new poet of real distinction, George Crabbe, now the +hope of the conservatives. Edmund Burke, who early in his great career +had assailed the radicals in his ironic _Vindication of Natural Society_, +and who to the end of his life contended against them in the arena of +politics, on reading some of Crabbe's manuscripts, rescued this cultured +and ingenuous man from obscurity and distress; and Dr. Johnson presently +aided him in his literary labors. In _The Library_ Crabbe expressed the +reverence of a scholarly soul for the garnered wisdom of the past, and +satirized some of the popular writings of the day, including sentimental +fiction. He would not have denied the world those consolations which flow +from the literature that mirrors our hopes and dreams; but his honest +spirit revolted when such literature professed to be true to life. +His acquaintance with actual conditions in humble circles, and with +hardships, was as personal as Goldsmith's; but he was not the kind of +poet who soothes the miseries of mankind by ignoring them. In _The +Village_ he arose with all the vigor and intensity of insulted common +sense to refute the dreamers who offered a rose-colored picture of +country life as a genuine portrayal of truth and nature. So evident +was his mastery of his subject, his clearness of perception, and his +earnestness of feeling, that he attracted immediate attention; and he +might well have led a new advance under the ancient standards. But +silence fell upon Crabbe for many years; and this proved, to be the last +occasion in the poetical history of the century that a powerful voice was +raised in behalf of the old cause. + +The poet who became the favorite of moderate sentimentalists, in what +were called "genteel" circles, was William Cowper. He presented little +or nothing that could affright the gentle emotions, and much that +pleasurably stimulated them. He enriched the poetry of the domestic +affections, and had a vein of sadness which occasionally, as in _To +Mary_, deepened into the most touching pathos. In _The Task_, a +discursive familiar essay in smooth-flowing blank verse, he dwelt fondly +upon those satisfactions which his life of uneventful retirement offered; +intimated that truth and wisdom were less surely found by poring upon +books than by meditating among beloved rural scenes; and, turning his sad +gaze toward the distant world of action, deplored that mankind strained +"the natural bond of brotherhood" by tolerating cruel imprisonments, +slavery, and warfare. Such humanitarian views, when they seek the aid of +religious ethics, ought normally to find support in that sentimentalized +Christianity which professes the entire goodness of the human heart; +but the discordant element in Cowper's mind was his inclination towards +Calvinism, which goes to the opposite extreme by insisting on total +depravity. Personally he believed that he had committed the unpardonable +sin (against the Holy Spirit),--a dreadful thought which underlies +his tragic poem, _The Castaway_; and probably unwholesome, though +well-intentioned, was the influence upon him of his spiritual adviser, +John Newton, whose gloomy theology may be seen in the hymn, _The Vision +of Life in Death_. Cowper's sense of the reality of evil not only +distracted his mind to madness, but also prevented him from carrying his +sentimental principles to their logical goal. What the hour demanded were +poets who, discountenancing any mistrust of the natural emotions, should +give them free rein. They were found at last in Burns and in Blake. + +The sentimentalists had long yearned for the advent of the ideal poet. +Macpherson had presented him,--but as of an era far remote; latterly +Beattie, in _The Minstrel_, had set forth his growth under the +inspiration of Nature,--but in a purely imaginary tale. Suddenly Burns +appeared: and the ideal seemed incarnated in the living present. The +Scottish bard was introduced to the world by his first admirers as "a +heaven-taught ploughman, of humble unlettered station," whose "simple +strains, artless and unadorned, seem to flow without effort from the +native feelings of the heart"; and as "a signal instance of true and +uncultivated genius." The real Burns, though indeed a genius of song, was +far better read than the expectant world wished to believe, particularly +in those whom he called his "bosom favorites," the sentimentalists +Mackenzie and Sterne; and his sense of rhythm and melody had been trained +by his emulation of earlier Scotch lyricists, whose lilting cadences flow +towards him as highland rills to the gathering torrent. Sung to the notes +of his native tunes, and infused with the local color of Scotch life, the +sentimental themes assumed the freshness of novelty. Giving a new ardor +to revolutionary tendencies,--Burns revolted against the orthodoxy of the +"Auld Lichts," depicting its representatives as ludicrously hypocritical. +He protested against distinctions founded on birth or rank, as in _A +Man's a Man for A' That_; and, on the other hand, he idealized the homely +feelings and manners of the "virtuous populace" in his immortal _Cotter's +Saturday Night_. He scorned academic learning, and protested that true +inspiration was rather to be found in "ae spark o' Nature's fire,"--or at +the nearest tavern: + + Leese me on drink! It gies us mair + Than either school or college. + +Like Sterne, who boasted that his pen governed him, Burns praised and +affected the impromptu: + + But how the subject theme may gang, + Let time or chance determine; + Perhaps it may turn out a sang, + Perhaps turn out a sermon. + +His Muse was to be the mood of the moment. Herein he brought to +fulfillment the sentimental desire for the liberation of the emotions; +but his work, taken as a whole, can scarcely be said to vindicate the +faith that the emotions, once freed, would manifest instinctive purity. +At his almost unrivalled best, he can sing in the sweetest strains the +raptures or pathos of innocent youthful love, as in _Sweet Afton_ or _To +Mary in Heaven_; but straightway sinking from that elevation of feeling +to the depths of vulgarity or grossness, he will chant with equal zest +and skill the indulgence of the animal appetites.[1] He hails the joys of +life, but without discriminating between the higher and the lower. Yet +these exuberant animal spirits which, unrestrained by conscience +or taste, drove him too often into scurrility, gave his work that +passion--warm, throbbing, and personal--which had been painfully wanting +in earlier poets of sensibility. It was his emotional intensity as well +as his lyric genius that made him the most popular poet of his time. + +In Burns, sentimentalism was largely temperamental, unreflective, and +concrete. In William Blake, the singularity of whose work long retarded +its due appreciation, sentimentalism was likewise temperamental; but, +unconfined to actuality, became far broader in scope, more spiritual, +and more consistently philosophic. Indeed, Blake was the ultimate +sentimentalist of the century. A visionary and symbolist, he passed +beyond Shaftesbury in his thought, and beyond any poet of the school +in his endeavor to create a new and appropriate style. His contemporary, +Erasmus Darwin, author of _The Botanic Garden_, was trying to give +sentimentalism a novel interpretation by describing the life of plants +in terms of human life; but, Darwin being destitute of artistic sense, +the result was grotesque. Blake, by training and vocation an engraver, +was primarily an artist; but, partly under Swedenborgian influences, he +had grasped the innermost character of sentimentalism, perceived all its +implications, and carried them fearlessly to their utmost bounds. To him +every atom of the cosmos was literally spiritual and holy; the divine +and the human, the soul and the flesh, were absolutely one; God and Man +were only two aspects of pervasive "mercy, pity, peace, and love." +Nothing else had genuine reality. The child, its vision being as yet +unclouded by false teachings, saw the universe thus truly; and Blake, +therefore, in _Songs of Innocence_, gave glimpses of the world as the +child sees it,--a guileless existence amid the peace that passes all +understanding. He hymned the sanctity of animal life: even the tiger, +conventionally an incarnation of cruelty, was a glorious creature of +divine mould; to slay or cage a beast was, the _Auguries of Innocence_ +protested, to incur anathema. The _Book of Thel_ allegorically showed +the mutual interdependence of all creation, and reprehended the maiden +shyness that shrinks from merging its life in the sacrificial union +which sustains the whole. + +To Blake the great enemy of truth was the cold logical reason, a +truncated part of Man's spirit, which was incapable of attaining wisdom, +and which had fabricated those false notions that governed the practical +world and constrained the natural feelings. Instances of the unhappiness +caused by such constraint, he gave in _Songs of Experience_, where _The +Garden of Love_ describes the blighting curse which church law had laid +upon free love. To overthrow intellectualism and discipline, Man must +liberate his most precious faculty, the imagination, which alone can +reveal the spiritual character of the universe and the beauty that life +will wear when the feelings cease to be unnaturally confined. Temporarily +Blake rejoiced when the French Revolution seemed to usher in the +millennium of freedom and peace; and his interpretation of its earlier +incidents in his poem on that theme[2] illustrates in style and spirit +the highly original nature of his mind. More than any predecessor he +understood how the peculiarly poetical possibilities of sentimentalism +might be elicited, namely by emphasizing its mystical quality. Thus +under his guidance mysticism, which in the early seventeenth century had +sublimated the religious poetry of the orthodox, returned to sublimate +the poetry of the radicals; and with that achievement the sentimental +movement reached its climax. + +Burns died in 1796; Blake, lost in a realm of symbolism, became +unintelligible; and temporarily sentimentalism suffered a reaction. The +French Revolution, with its Reign of Terror, and the rise of a military +autocrat, though supported, even after Great Britain had taken up arms +against Napoleon, by some "friends of humanity" who placed universal +brotherhood above patriotism, seemed to the general public to demonstrate +that the sentimental theories and hopes were untrue to life and led to +results directly contrary to those predicted. Once again, in Canning's +caustic satires of _The Anti-Jacobin_, conservatism raised its voice. But +by this time sentimentalism was too fully developed and widely spread to +be more than checked. Under the new leadership of Wordsworth, Coleridge, +and Southey, the movement, chastened and modified by experience, resumed +its progress; and the fame of its new leaders presently dimmed the memory +of those pioneers who in the eighteenth century had undermined the +foundations of orthodoxy, slowly upbuilt a new world of thought, +gradually fashioned a poetic style more suited to their sentiments than +the classical, and thus helped to plunge the modern world into that +struggle which, in life and in literature, rages about us still. + +ERNEST BERNBAUM + +[Footnote 1: In this edition, the poems of Burns, unlike those of the +other poets, are printed not in the order of their publication but as +nearly as ascertainable in that of their composition.] + +[Footnote 2: _The French Revolution_ was suppressed at the time, and +has been recovered only in our own day by Dr. John Sampson, who first +published it in the admirable Clarendon Press edition of Blake.] + + + + +ENGLISH POETS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY + + + + +JOHN POMFRET + + +THE CHOICE + + _If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, + That I might choose my method how to live; + And all those hours propitious fate should lend, + In blissful ease and satisfaction spend._ + +I. THE GENTLEMAN'S RETIREMENT + + Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, + Built uniform, not little, nor too great: + Better, if on a rising ground it stood; + Fields on this side, on that a neighbouring wood. + It should within no other things contain, + But what are useful, necessary, plain: + Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, + The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. + A little garden, grateful to the eye; + And a cool rivulet run murmuring by, + On whose delicious banks a stately row + Of shady limes, or sycamores, should grow. + At th' end of which a silent study placed, + Should with the noblest authors there be graced: + Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines + Immortal wit, and solid learning, shines; + Sharp Juvenal and amorous Ovid too, + Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew: + He that with judgment reads the charming lines, + In which strong art with stronger nature joins, + Must grant his fancy does the best excel; + His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well: + With all those moderns, men of steady sense, + Esteemed for learning, and for eloquence. + In some of these, as fancy should advise, + I'd always take my morning exercise: + For sure no minutes bring us more content, + Than those in pleasing useful studies spent. + +II. HIS FORTUNE AND CHARITY + + I'd have a clear and competent estate, + That I might live genteelly, but not great: + As much as I could moderately spend; + A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend. + Nor should the sons of poverty repine + At fortune's frown, for they should taste of mine; + And all that objects of true pity were, + Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; + For what our Maker has too largely given, + Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven. + A frugal plenty should my table spread. + With healthy, not luxurious, dishes fed; + Enough to satisfy, and something more, + To feed the stranger, and the neighb'ring poor. + Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food + Creates diseases, and inflames the blood. + But what's sufficient to make nature strong, + And the bright lamp of life continue long, + I'd freely take, and as I did possess, + The bounteous Author of my plenty bless. + +III. HIS HOSPITALITY AND TEMPERANCE + + I'd have a little cellar, cool and neat, + With humming ale and virgin wine replete. + Wine whets the wit, improves its native force, + And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse; + By making all our spirits debonair, + Throws off the lees and sediment of care. + But as the greatest blessing Heaven lends + May be debauched, and serve ignoble ends; + So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice + Does many mischievous effects produce. + My house should no such rude disorders know, + As from high drinking consequently flow; + Nor would I use what was so kindly given, + To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven. + If any neighbour came, he should be free, + Used with respect, and not uneasy be, + In my retreat, or to himself or me. + What freedom, prudence, and right reason give, + All men may, with impunity, receive: + But the least swerving from their rules too much, + And what's forbidden us, 'tis death to touch. + +IV. HIS COMPANY + + That life may be more comfortable yet, + And all my joys refined, sincere, and great; + I'd choose two friends, whose company would be + A great advance to my felicity: + Well-born, of humours suited to my own, + Discreet, that men as well as books have known; + Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free + From loose behaviour or formality; + Airy and prudent, merry but not light; + Quick in discerning; and in judging, right; + They should be secret, faithful to their trust, + In reasoning cool, strong, temperate, and just; + Obliging, open, without huffing, brave; + Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave; + Close in dispute, but not tenacious; tried + By solemn reason, and let that decide; + Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate; + Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state; + Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spite, + Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight; + Loyal and pious, friends to Caesar; true + As dying martyrs to their Makers too. + In their society I could not miss + A permanent, sincere, substantial bliss. + +V. HIS LADY AND CONVERSE + + Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd choose + (For who would so much satisfaction lose + As witty nymphs in conversation give?) + Near some obliging modest fair to live: + For there's that sweetness in a female mind, + Which in a man's we cannot [hope to] find; + That, by a secret but a powerful art, + Winds up the spring of life, and does impart + Fresh, vital heat to the transported heart. + + I'd have her reason all her passions sway; + Easy in company, in private gay; + Coy to a fop, to the deserving free; + Still constant to herself, and just to me. + She should a soul have for great actions fit; + Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit; + Courage to look bold danger in the face, + Not fear, but only to be proud or base; + Quick to advise, by an emergence pressed, + To give good counsel, or to take the best. + + I'd have th' expressions of her thoughts be such, + She might not seem reserved, nor talk too much: + That shows a want of judgment and of sense; + More than enough is but impertinence. + Her conduct regular, her mirth refined; + Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind; + Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride; + In all the methods of deceit untried; + So faithful to her friend, and good to all, + No censure might upon her actions fall: + Then would e'en envy be compelled to say + She goes the least of womankind astray. + + To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire; + Her conversation would new joys inspire; + Give life an edge so keen, no surly care + Would venture to assault my soul, or dare + Near my retreat to hide one secret snare. + But so divine, so noble a repast + I'd seldom, and with moderation, taste: + For highest cordials all their virtue lose, + By a too frequent and too bold an use; + And what would cheer the spirits in distress, + Ruins our health when taken to excess. + +VI. HIS PEACEABLE LIFE + + I'd be concerned in no litigious jar; + Beloved by all, not vainly popular. + Whate'er assistance I had power to bring + T' oblige my company, or to serve my king, + Whene'er they called, I'd readily afford, + My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword. + Lawsuits I'd shun, with as much studious care, + As I would dens where hungry lions are; + And rather put up injuries, than be + A plague to him who'd be a plague to me. + I value quiet at a price too great + To give for my revenge so dear a rate: + For what do we by all our bustle gain, + But counterfeit delight for real pain? + +VII. HIS HAPPY DEATH + + If Heaven a date of many years would give, + Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live. + And as I near approach[ed] the verge of life, + Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) + Should take upon him all my worldly care + While I did for a better state prepare. + Then I'd not be with any trouble vexed, + Nor have the evening of my days perplexed; + But by a silent and a peaceful death, + Without a sigh, resign my aged breath. + And, when committed to the dust, I'd have + Few tears, but friendly, dropped into my grave; + Then would my exit so propitious be, + All men would wish to live and die like me. + + + + + DANIEL DEFOE + + + FROM THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN + + The Romans first with Julius Caesar came, + Including all the nations of that name, + Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards, and, by computation, + Auxiliaries or slaves of every nation. + With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sueno came; + In search of plunder, not in search of fame. + Scots, Picts, and Irish from th' Hibernian shore, + And conquering William brought the Normans o'er. + All these their barbarous offspring left behind, + The dregs of armies, they of all mankind; + Blended with Britons, who before, were here. + Of whom the Welsh ha' blessed the character. + From this amphibious ill-born mob began + That vain, ill-natured thing, an Englishman. + + * * * * * + + And lest by length of time it be pretended + The climate may this modern breed ha' mended, + Wise Providence, to keep us where we are, + Mixes us daily with exceeding care. + We have been Europe's sink, the Jakes where she + Voids all her offal outcast progeny. + From our fifth Henry's time, the strolling bands + Of banished fugitives from neighbouring lands + Have here a certain sanctuary found: + Th' eternal refuge of the vagabond, + Where, in but half a common age of time, + Borrowing new blood and mariners from the clime, + Proudly they learn all mankind to contemn; + And all their race are true-born Englishmen. + Dutch, Walloons, Flemings, Irishmen, and Scots, + Vaudois, and Valtelins, and Huguenots, + In good Queen Bess's charitable reign, + Supplied us with three hundred thousand men. + Religion--God, we thank thee!--sent them hither, + Priests, Protestants, the Devil and all together: + + Of all professions and of every trade, + All that were persecuted or afraid; + Whether for debt or other crimes they fled, + David at Hachilah was still their head. + The offspring of this miscellaneous crowd, + Had not their new plantations long enjoyed, + But they grew Englishmen, and raised their votes + At foreign shoals for interloping Scots. + The royal branch from Pictland did succeed, + With troops of Scots and Scabs from North-by-Tweed. + The seven first years of his pacific reign + Made him and half his nation Englishmen. + Scots from the northern frozen banks of Tay, + With packs and plods came whigging all away; + Thick as the locusts which in Egypt swarmed, + With pride and hungry hopes completely armed; + With native truth, diseases, and no money, + Plundered our Canaan of the milk and honey. + Here they grew quickly lords and gentlemen,-- + And all their race are true-born Englishmen. + + * * * * * + + The wonder which remains is at our pride, + To value that which all wise men deride. + For Englishmen to boast of generation + Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation. + A true-born Englishman's a contradiction, + In speech an irony, in fact a fiction; + A banter made to be a test of fools, + Which those that use it justly ridicules; + A metaphor invented to express + A man akin to all the universe. + + + + FROM A HYMN TO THE PILLORY + + Hail hieroglyphic state-machine, + Contrived to punish fancy in! + Men that are men in thee can feel no pain, + And all thy insignificants disdain. + Contempt, that false new word for shame, + Is, without crime, an empty name, + A shadow to amuse mankind, + But never frights the wise or well-fixed mind: + Virtue despises human scorn, + And scandals innocence adorn. + + * * * * * + + Sometimes, the air of scandal to maintain, + Villains look from thy lofty loops in vain; + But who can judge of crimes by punishment + Where parties rule and L[ord]s subservient? + Justice with, change of interest learns to bow, + And what was merit once is murder now: + Actions receive their tincture from the times, + And as they change, are virtues made or crimes. + Thou art the state-trap of the law, + But neither can keep knaves nor honest men in awe; + These are too hardened in offence, + And those upheld by innocence. + + * * * * * + + Thou art no shame to truth and honesty, + Nor is the character of such defaced by thee + Who suffer by oppressive injury. + Shame, like the exhalations of the sun, + Falls back where first the motion was begun; + And he who for no crime shall on thy brows appear + Bears less reproach than they who placed him there. + + But if contempt is on thy face entailed, + Disgrace itself shall be ashamed; + Scandal shall blush that it has not prevailed + To blast the man it has defamed. + Let all that merit equal punishment + Stand there with him, and we are all content. + + * * * * * + + Thou bugbear of the law, stand up and speak, + Thy long misconstrued silence break; + Tell us who 'tis upon thy ridge stands there, + So full of fault and yet so void of fear; + And from the paper in his hat, + Let all mankind be told for what. + Tell them it was because he was too bold, + And told those truths which should not ha' been told, + + Extol the justice of the land, + Who punish what they will not understand. + Tell them he stands exalted there + For speaking what we would not hear; + And yet he might have been secure + Had he said less or would he ha' said more. + Tell them that this is his reward + And worse is yet for him prepared, + Because his foolish virtue was so nice + As not to sell his friends, according to his friends' advice. + + And thus he's an example made, + To make men of their honesty afraid, + That for the time to come they may + More willingly their friends betray; + Tell them the m[en] who placed him here + Are sc[anda]ls to the times; + But at a loss to find his guilt, + They can't commit his crimes. + + + + + JOSEPH ADDISON + + + FROM THE CAMPAIGN + + Behold in awful march and dread array + The long-extended squadrons shape their way! + Death, in approaching terrible, imparts + An anxious horror to the bravest hearts; + Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, + And thirst of glory quells the love of life. + No vulgar fears can British minds control: + Heat of revenge and noble pride of soul + O'er look the foe, advantaged by his post, + Lessen his numbers, and contract his host; + Though fens and floods possessed the middle space, + That unprovoked they would have feared to pass, + Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands + When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands. + + But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find + To sing the furious troops in battle joined! + Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound + The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, + The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, + And all the thunder of the battle rise! + 'Twas then great Malborough's mighty soul was proved, + That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, + Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, + Examined all the dreadful scenes of death surveyed, + To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, + Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, + And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. + So when an angel by divine command + With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, + Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed, + Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, + And, pleases th' Almighty's orders to perform, + Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. + + + [DIVINE ODE] + + I + + 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. + + II + + 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. + + III + + 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: + Forever singing as they shine, + 'The hand that made us is divine.' + + + + + MATTHEW PRIOR + + + TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD THE AUTHOR 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 fires, and look + The power they have to be obeyed. + + 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 silk-worms 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 lines 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 ordained (would fate but mend it!) + That I shall be past making love + When she begins to comprehend it. + + + TO A LADY + + SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND LEAVING ME IN THE + ARGUMENT + + Spare, generous victor, spare the slave + Who did unequal war pursue, + That more than triumph he might have + In being overcome by you. + + In the dispute whate'er I said, + My heart was by my tongue belied, + And in my looks you might have read + How much I argued on your side. + + You, far from danger as from fear, + Might have sustained an open fight: + For seldom your opinions err; + Your eyes are always in the right. + + Why, fair one, would you not rely + On reason's force with beauty's joined? + Could I their prevalence deny, + I must at once be deaf and blind. + + Alas! not hoping to subdue, + I only to the fight aspired; + To keep the beauteous foe in view + Was all the glory I desired. + + But she, howe'er of victory sure, + Contemns the wreath too long delayed, + And, armed with more immediate power, + Calls cruel silence to her aid. + + Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: + She drops her arms, to gain the field; + Secures her conquest by her flight, + And triumphs when she seems to yield. + + So when the Parthian turned his steed + And from the hostile camp withdrew, + With cruel skill the backward reed + He sent, and as he fled he slew. + + + [THE DYING HADRIAN TO HIS SOUL] + + Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing, + Must we no longer live together? + And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, + To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither? + Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly, + Lies all neglected, all forgot: + And pensive, wavering, melancholy, + Thou dread'st and hop'st, thou know'st not what. + + + A BETTER ANSWER + + Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! + Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled! + Prithee quit this caprice, and (as old Falstaff says) + Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. + + How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy + The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? + Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy; + More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. + + To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, + Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong; + You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: + Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? + + What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows + The difference there is betwixt nature and art: + I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose; + And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart. + + The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun, + How after his journeys he sets up his rest; + If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, + At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast. + + So when I am wearied with wandering all day, + To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: + No matter what beauties I saw in my way; + They were but my visits, but thou art my home. + + Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, + And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; + For thou art a girl as much brighter than her + As he was a poet sublimer than me. + + + + + BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE + + + FROM THE GRUMBLING HIVE; OR, KNAVES TURNED HONEST + + A spacious hive, well stocked with bees, + That lived in luxury and ease; + And yet as famed for laws and arms, + As yielding large and early swarms; + Was counted the great nursery + Of sciences and industry. + + * * * * * + + Vast numbers thronged the fruitful hive; + Yet those vast numbers made 'em thrive; + Millions endeavouring to supply + Each others lust and vanity, + While other millions were employed + To see their handiworks destroyed; + They furnished half the universe, + Yet had more work than labourers. + Some with vast stocks, and little pains, + Jumped into business of great gains; + And some were damned to scythes and spades, + And all those hard laborious trades + Where willing wretches daily sweat + And wear out strength and limbs, to eat; + While others followed mysteries + To which few folks, bind prentices, + That want no stock but that of brass, + And may set up without a cross,-- + As sharpers, parasites, pimps, players, + Pickpockets, coiners, quacks, soothsayers, + And all those that in enmity + With downright working, cunningly + Convert to their own use the labour + Of their good-natured heedless neighbour. + These were called knaves; but bar the name, + The grave industrious were the same: + All trades and places knew some cheat, + No calling was without deceit. + + * * * * * + + Thus every part was full of vice, + Yet the whole mass a paradise: + Flattered in peace, and feared in wars, + They were th' esteem of foreigners, + And lavish of their wealth and lives, + The balance of all other hives. + Such were the blessings of that state; + Their crimes conspired to make them great. + + * * * * * + + The root of evil, avarice, + That damned, ill-natured, baneful vice, + Was slave to prodigality, + That noble sin; whilst luxury + Employed a million of the poor, + And odious pride a million more; + Envy itself, and vanity, + Were ministers of industry; + Their darling folly--fickleness + In diet, furniture, and dress-- + That strange, ridiculous vice, was made + The very wheel that turned the trade. + Their laws and clothes were equally + Objects of mutability; + For what was well done for a time, + In half a year became a crime. + + * * * * * + + How vain, is mortal happiness! + Had they but known the bounds of bliss, + And that perfection here below + Is more than gods can well bestow, + The grumbling brutes had been content + With ministers and government. + But they, at every ill success, + Like creatures lost without redress, + Cursed politicians, armies, fleets; + While every one cried, 'Damn the cheats!' + And would, though conscious of his own, + In others barbarously bear none. + One that had got a princely store + By cheating master, king, and poor, + Dared cry aloud, 'The land must sink + For all its fraud'; and whom d'ye think + The sermonizing rascal chid? + A glover that sold lamb for kid! + The least thing was not done amiss, + Or crossed the public business, + But all the rogues cried brazenly, + 'Good Gods, had we but honesty!' + Mercury smiled at th' impudence, + And others called it want of sense, + Always to rail at what they loved: + But Jove, with indignation moved, + At last in anger swore he'd rid + The bawling hive of fraud; and did. + The very moment it departs, + And honesty fills all their hearts, + There shews 'em, like th' instructive tree, + Those crimes which they're ashamed to see, + Which now in silence they confess + By blushing at their ugliness; + Like children that would hide their faults + And by their colour own their thoughts, + Imagining when they're looked upon, + That others see what they have done. + But, O ye Gods! what consternation! + How vast and sudden was th' alternation! + In half an hour, the nation round, + Meat fell a penny in the pound. + + * * * * * + + Now mind the glorious hive, and see + How honesty and trade agree. + The show is gone; it thins apace, + And looks with quite another face. + For 'twas not only that they went + By whom vast sums were yearly spent; + But multitudes that lived on them, + Were daily forced to do the same. + In vain to other trades they'd fly; + All were o'erstocked accordingly. + + * * * * * + + As pride and luxury decrease, + So by degrees they leave the seas. + Not merchants now, but companies, + Remove whole manufactories. + All arts and crafts neglected lie: + Content, the bane of industry, + Makes 'em admire their homely store, + And neither seek nor covet more. + So few in the vast hive remain, + The hundredth part they can't maintain + Against th' insults of numerous foes, + Whom yet they valiantly oppose, + Till some well-fenced retreat is found, + And here they die or stand their ground. + No hireling in their army's known; + But bravely fighting for their own + Their courage and integrity + At last were crowned with victory. + They triumphed not without their cost, + For many thousand bees were lost. + Hardened with toil and exercise, + They counted ease itself a vice; + Which so improved their temperance + That, to avoid extravagance, + They flew into a hollow tree, + Blessed with content and honesty. + + + THE MORAL: + + Then leave complaints: fools only strive + To make a great an honest hive. + T' enjoy the world's conveniences, + Be famed in war, yet live in ease, + Without great vices, is a vain + Utopia seated in the brain. + + * * * * * + + + + + ISAAC WATTS + + + THE HAZARD OF LOVING THE CREATURES + + Where'er my flattering passions rove, + I find a lurking snare; + 'Tis dangerous to let loose our love + Beneath th' eternal fair. + + Souls whom the tie of friendship binds, + And things that share our blood, + Seize a large portion of our minds, + And leave the less for God. + + Nature has soft but powerful bands, + And reason she controls; + While children with their little hands + Hang closest to our souls. + + Thoughtless they act th' old Serpent's part; + What tempting things they be! + Lord, how they twine about our heart, + And draw it off from Thee! + + Our hasty wills rush blindly on + Where rising passion rolls, + And thus we make our fetters strong + To bind our slavish souls. + + Dear Sovereign, break these fetters off. + And set our spirits free; + God in Himself is bliss enough; + For we have all in Thee. + + + THE DAY OF JUDGMENT + + When the fierce north-wind with his airy forces, + Bears 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. + See 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 through 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 arise to glory, + While our hosannas all along the passage + Shout the Redeemer. + + O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST + + O God, our help in ages past, + Our hope for years for to come, + Our shelter from the stormy blast, + And our eternal home: + + Under the shadow of Thy throne, + Thy saints have dwelt secure; + Sufficient is Thine arm alone, + And our defense is sure. + + Before the hills in order stood, + Or earth received her frame, + From everlasting Thou art God, + To endless years the same. + + A thousand ages in Thy sight + Are like an evening gone; + Short as the watch that ends the night + Before the rising sun. + + Time, like an ever-rolling stream, + Bears all its sons away; + They fly forgotten, as a dream + Dies at the opening day. + + O God, our help in ages past; + Our hope for years to come; + Be thou our guard while troubles last, + And our eternal home! + + + 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 hushed 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 a-near 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 forever near Him, + See His face, and sing His praise! + + + + + ALEXANDER POPE + + + FROM AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM + + 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill + Appear in writing or in judging ill; + But, of the two, less dangerous is th' offense + To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. + Some few in that, but numbers err in this, + Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; + A fool might once himself alone expose, + Now one in verse makes many more in prose. + + 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none + Go just alike, yet each believes his own. + In poets as true genius is but rare, + True taste as seldom is the critic's share; + Both must alike from heaven derive their light, + These born to judge, as well as those to write. + Let such teach others who themselves excel, + And censure freely who have written well. + Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, + But are not critics to their judgment too? + + * * * * * + + But you who seek to give and merit fame + And justly bear a critic's noble name, + Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, + How far your genius, taste, and learning go; + Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, + And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. + + * * * * * + + First follow Nature, and your judgment frame + By her just standard, which is still the same: + Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, + One clear, unchanged, and universal light, + Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, + At once the source, and end, and test of art. + Art from that fund each just supply provides, + Works without show, and without pomp presides: + In some fair body thus th' informing soul + With spirit feeds, with vigour fills the whole. + Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains; + Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. + Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, + Want as much more, to turn it to its use; + For wit and judgment often are at strife, + Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. + 'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's steed; + Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; + The winged courser, like a generous horse, + Shows most true mettle when you check his course. + + Those rules of old discovered, not devised, + Are Nature still, but Nature methodized; + Nature, like liberty, is but restrained + By the same laws which first herself ordained. + + You, then, whose judgment the right course would steer, + Know well each ancient's proper character; + His fable, subject, scope in every page; + Religion, country, genius of his age: + Without all these at once before your eyes, + Cavil you may, but never criticise, + Be Homer's works your study and delight, + Read them by day, and meditate by night; + Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, + And trace the Muses upward to their spring. + Still with itself compared, his text peruse; + And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. + + When first young Maro in his boundless mind + A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed, + Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law, + And but from nature's fountains scorned to draw: + But when t' examine every part he came, + Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. + Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design; + And rules as strict his laboured work confine + As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. + Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem; + To copy nature is to copy them. + + Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, + For there's a happiness as well as care. + Music resembles poetry, in each + Are nameless graces which no methods teach, + And which a master-hand alone can reach. + If, where the rules not far enough extend, + (Since rules were made but to promote their end) + Some lucky license answer to the full + Th' intent proposed, that license is a rule. + Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, + May boldly deviate from the common track; + From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, + And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, + Which without passing through the judgment, gains + The heart, and all its end at once attains. + In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, + Which out of nature's common order rise, + The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. + Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, + And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. + But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade, + (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) + Moderns, beware! or if you must offend + Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end; + Let it be seldom and compelled by need; + And have, at least, their precedent to plead. + The critic else proceeds without remorse, + Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. + + I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts + Those freer beauties, e'en in them, seem faults. + Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, + Considered singly, or beheld too near, + Which, but proportioned to their light or place, + Due distance reconciles to form and grace. + A prudent chief not always must display + His powers in equal ranks, and fair array, + But with th' occasion and the place comply, + Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. + Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, + Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. + + * * * * * + + A little learning is a dangerous thing; + Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: + There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, + And drinking largely sobers us again. + Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, + In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, + While from the bounded level of our mind, + Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; + But more advanced, behold with strange surprise + New distant scenes of endless science rise! + So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, + Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, + Th' eternal snows appear already past, + And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; + But, those attained, we tremble to survey + The growing labours of the lengthened way, + Th' increasing prospects tire our wandering eyes, + Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! + + A perfect judge will read each work of wit + With the same spirit that its author writ: + Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find + Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; + Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, + The gen'rous pleasure to be charmed with wit. + But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow, + Correctly cold, and regularly low, + That shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep; + We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep. + In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts + Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts: + 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, + But the joint force and full result of all. + Thus when we view some well-proportioned dome, + (The world's just wonder, and e'en thine, O Rome!) + So single parts unequally surprise, + All comes united to th' admiring eyes; + No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; + The whole at once is bold, and regular. + + Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, + Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. + In every work regard the writer's end, + Since none can compass more than they intend; + And if the means be just, the conduct true, + Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due; + As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, + T' avoid great errors, must the less commit: + Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, + For not to know some trifles, is a praise. + Most critics, fond of some subservient art, + Still make the whole depend upon a part: + They talk of principles, but notions prize, + And all to one loved folly sacrifice. + + Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, + A certain bard encountering on the way, + Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, + As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; + Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, + Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. + Our author, happy in a judge so nice, + Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice; + Made him observe the subject, and the plot, + The manners, passions, unities, what not? + All which, exact to rule, were brought about, + Were but a combat in the lists left out. + 'What! leave the combat out?' exclaims the knight; + Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. + 'Not so, by Heaven' (he answers in a rage), + 'Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage.' + So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain. + 'Then build a new, or act it in a plain.' + + Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice, + Curious not knowing, not exact but nice, + Form short ideas; and offend in arts + (As most in manners) by a love to parts. + + Some to conceit alone their taste confine, + And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at every line; + Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit; + One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. + Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace + The naked nature and the living grace, + With gold and jewels cover every part, + And hide with ornaments their want of art. + True wit is nature to advantage dressed, + What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed; + Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, + That gives us back the image of our mind. + As shades more sweetly recommend the light, + So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. + For works may have more wit than does 'em good, + As bodies perish through excess of blood. + + Others for language all their care express, + And value books, as women, men, for dress: + Their praise is still,--the style is excellent; + The sense, they humbly take upon content. + Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, + Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. + False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, + Its gaudy colours spreads on every place; + The face of nature we no more survey, + All glares alike, without distinction gay: + But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, + Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon, + It gilds all objects, but it alters none. + Expression is the dress of thought, and still + Appears more decent, as more suitable; + A vile conceit in pompous words expressed, + Is like a clown in regal purple dressed: + For different styles with different subjects sort, + As several garbs with country, town, and court. + Some by old words to fame have made pretence, + Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; + Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style, + Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. + Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, + These sparks with awkward vanity display + What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; + And but so mimic ancient wits at best, + As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dressed. + In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; + Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: + Be not the first by whom the new are tried, + Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. + + But most by numbers judge a poet's song; + And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: + In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, + Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; + Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, + Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, + Not for the doctrine, but the music there. + These equal syllables alone require, + Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; + While expletives their feeble aid do join, + And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: + While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, + With sure returns of still expected rhymes; + Where'er you find 'the cooling western breeze,' + In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees;' + If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,' + The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 'sleep': + Then, at the last and only couplet fraught + With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, + A needless Alexandrine ends the song, + That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. + Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know + What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; + And praise the easy vigour of a line, + Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. + True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. + As those move easiest who have learned to dance. + 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, + The sound must seem an echo to the sense. + Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, + And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; + But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, + The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. + When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, + The line too labours, and the words move slow; + Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. + Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, + And bid alternate passions fall and rise! + While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove + Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; + Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, + Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: + Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, + And the world's victor stood subdued by sound! + The power of music all our hearts allow, + And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. + + Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such, + Who still are pleased too little or too much. + At every trifle scorn to take offence, + That always shows great pride, or little sense; + Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, + Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. + Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; + For fools admire, but men of sense approve: + As things seem large which we through mists descry, + Dulness is ever apt to magnify. + + Some foreign writers, some our own despise; + The ancients only, or the moderns prize. + Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied + To one small sect, and all are damned beside. + Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, + And force that sun but on a part to shine, + Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, + But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; + Which from the first has shone on ages past, + Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; + Though each may feel increases and decays, + And see now clearer and now darker days. + Regard not, then, if wit be old or new, + But blame the false, and value still the true. + + Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, + But catch the spreading notion of the town; + They reason and conclude by precedent, + And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. + Some judge of author's names, not works, and then + Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. + Of all this servile herd, the worst is he + That in proud dulness joins with Quality. + A constant critic at the great man's board, + To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord. + What woful stuff this madrigal would be, + In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me? + But let a Lord once own the happy lines, + How the wit brightens! how the style refines! + Before his sacred name flies every fault, + And each exalted stanza teems with thought! + + * * * * * + + Learn then what morals critics ought to show, + For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know, + 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join; + In all you speak, let truth and candour shine: + That not alone what to your sense is due + All may allow; but seek your friendship too. + + Be silent always when you doubt your sense; + And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: + Some positive, persisting fops we know, + Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; + But you, with pleasure own your errors past, + And make each day a critic on the last. + + 'Tis not enough, your counsel still be true; + Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; + Men must be taught as if you taught them not, + And things unknown proposed as things forgot. + Without good breeding, truth is disapproved; + That only makes superior sense beloved. + + * * * * * + + The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, + With loads of learned lumber in his head, + With his own tongue still edifies his ears, + And always listening to himself appears. + All books he reads, and all he reads assails, + From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. + With him, most authors steal their works, or buy; + Garth did not write his own Dispensary. + Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, + Nay, showed his faults--but when would poets mend? + No place so sacred from such fops is barred, + Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: + Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead: + For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. + Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, + It still looks home, and short excursions makes; + But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, + And never shocked, and never turned aside, + Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide. + + But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, + Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? + Unbiassed, or by favour, or by spite; + Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right; + Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere, + Modestly bold, and humanly severe: + Who to a friend his faults can freely show, + And gladly praise the merit of a foe? + Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined; + A knowledge both of books and human kind: + Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride; + And love to praise, with reason on his side? + + + THE RAPE OF THE LOCK + + AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM + + CANTO II + + Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, + The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, + Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams + Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. + Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around her shone, + But every eye was fixed on her alone. + On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, + Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. + Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, + Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; + Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; + Oft she rejects, but never once offends. + Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, + And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. + Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, + Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide; + If to her share some female errors fall, + Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. + + This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, + Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind + In equal curls, and well conspired to deck + With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. + Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, + And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. + With hairy springes, we the birds betray, + Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, + Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, + And beauty draws us with a single hair. + + Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired; + He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. + Resolved to win, he meditates the way, + By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; + For when success a lover's toil attends, + Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. + + For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored + Propitious Heaven, and every power adored, + But chiefly Love; to Love an altar built, + Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. + There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, + And all the trophies of his former loves; + With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre, + And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. + Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes + Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. + The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer; + The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. + + But now secure the painted vessel glides, + The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides; + While melting music steals upon the sky, + And softened sounds along the waters die; + Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, + Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. + All but the sylph--with careful thoughts oppressed, + Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. + He summons straight his denizens of air; + The lucid squadrons around the sails repair; + Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, + That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. + Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, + Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; + Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, + Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. + Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, + Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, + Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, + Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, + While every beam new transient colours flings, + Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. + Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, + Superior by the head, was Ariel placed; + His purple pinions opening to the sun, + He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: + + 'Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear! + Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear! + Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assigned + By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. + Some in the fields of purest aether play, + And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. + Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, + Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. + Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale light + Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, + Or suck the mists in grosser air below, + Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, + Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, + Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain; + Others on earth o'er human race preside, + Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: + Of these the chief the care of nations own, + And guard with arms divine the British throne. + + 'Our humbler province is to tend the fair, + Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care; + To save the powder from too rude a gale, + Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale; + To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers; + To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, + A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, + Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; + Nay, oft in dreams, invention we bestow, + To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. + + 'This day, black omens threat the brightest fair + That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; + Some dire disaster, or by force, or sleight; + But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in night. + Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, + Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; + Or stain her honour, or her new brocade; + Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; + Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; + Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must fall. + Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair; + The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; + The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; + And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; + Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock; + Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. + To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, + We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: + Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail, + Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale; + Form a strong line about the silver bound, + And guard the wide circumference around. + + 'Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, + His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, + Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, + Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; + Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, + Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye; + Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, + While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; + Or alum styptics with contracting power + Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled flower; + Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel + The giddy motion of the whirling mill, + In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, + And tremble at the sea that froths below!' + + He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend; + Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; + Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; + Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; + With beating hearts the dire event they wait, + Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. + + CANTO III + + Close by those meads, forever crowned with flowers, + Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, + There stands a structure of majestic frame, + Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name. + Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom + Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; + Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, + Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea. + + Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, + To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; + In various talk th' instructive hours they passed, + Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; + One speaks the glory of the British Queen, + And one describes a charming Indian screen; + A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; + At every word a reputation dies. + Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, + With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. + Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, + The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; + The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, + And wretches hang that jurymen may dine; + The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace, + And the long labours of the toilet cease. + Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, + Burns to encounter two adventurous knights, + At ombre singly to decide their doom; + And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. + Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, + Each band the number of the sacred nine. + Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard + Descend, and sit on each important card: + First, Ariel perched upon a Matadore, + Then each, according to the rank they bore; + For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, + Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. + + Behold, four kings in majesty revered, + With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; + And four fair queens whose hands sustain a flower, + Th' expressive emblem of their softer power; + Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, + Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand; + And parti-coloured troops, a shining train, + Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. + + The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: + Let spades be trumps! she said, and trumps they were. + + Now moved to war her sable Matadores, + In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. + Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! + Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. + As many more Manillio forced to yield + And marched a victor from the verdant field. + Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard + Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. + With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, + The hoary Majesty of Spades appears, + Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed, + The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed. + The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, + Proves the just victim of his royal rage. + Even mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew, + And mowed down armies in the fights of Loo, + Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, + Falls undistinguished by the victor spade! + + Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; + Now to the baron fate inclines the field. + His warlike Amazon her host invades, + The imperial consort of the crown of spades; + The club's black tyrant first her victim died, + Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride. + What boots the regal circle on his head, + His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; + That long behind he trails his pompous robe, + And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? + + The baron now his diamonds pours apace; + Th' embroidered king who shows but half his face, + And his refulgent queen, with powers combined, + Of broken troops an easy conquest find. + Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, + With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. + Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, + Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, + With like confusion different nations fly, + Of various habit, and of various dye, + The pierced battalions disunited fall, + In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. + + The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, + And wins (oh shameful chance!) the queen of hearts. + At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, + A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; + She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, + Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. + And now (as oft in some distempered state) + On one nice trick depends the general fate. + An ace of hearts steps forth; the king unseen + Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive queen: + He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, + And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. + The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; + The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. + + Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, + Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. + Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away, + And cursed forever this victorious day. + + For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned, + The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; + On shining altars of Japan they raise + The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze; + From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, + While China's earth receives the smoking tide: + At once they gratify their scent and taste, + And frequent cups, prolong the rich repast. + Straight hover round the fair her airy band; + Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned, + Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, + Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. + Coffee (which makes the politician wise, + And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) + Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain + New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. + Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, + Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! + Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, + She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! + + But when to mischief mortals bend their will, + How soon they find fit instruments of ill! + Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace + A two-edged weapon from her shining case: + So ladies in romance assist their knight, + Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. + He takes the gift with reverence, and extends + The little engine on his fingers' ends; + This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, + As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. + Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, + A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; + And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear; + Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near. + Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought + The close recesses of the virgin's thought; + As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, + He watched th' ideas rising in her mind, + Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, + An earthly lover lurking at her heart. + Amazed, confused, he found his power expired, + Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. + + The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, + T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. + E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, + A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; + Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain + (But airy substance soon unites again). + The meeting points the sacred hair dissever + From the fair head, forever, and forever! + + Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, + And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. + Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast, + When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their last; + Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high, + In glittering dust and painted fragments lie! + + 'Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,' + The victor cried; 'the glorious prize is mine! + While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, + Or in a coach and six the British fair, + As long as Atalantis shall be read, + Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, + While visits shall be paid on solemn days, + When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze, + While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, + So long my honour, name, and praise shall live! + What Time would spare, from steel receives its date, + And monuments, like men, submit to fate! + Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, + And strike to dust th' imperial towers of Troy; + Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, + And hew triumphal arches to the ground. + What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel, + The conquering force of unresisted steel?' + + + FROM TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD + + [THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE] + + 'How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, + And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, + Attaint the lustre of my former name, + Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? + My early youth was bred to martial pains, + My soul impels me to th' embattled plains: + Let me be foremost to defend the throne, + And guard my father's glories and my own. + Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates, + (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) + The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, + And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. + And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, + My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, + Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore, + Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, + As thine, Andromache! Thy griefs I dread: + I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, + In Argive looms our battles to design, + And woes of which so large a part was thine! + To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring + The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring! + There, while you groan beneath the load of life, + They cry, "Behold the mighty Hector's wife!" + Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, + Embitters all thy woes by naming me. + The thoughts of glory past and present shame, + A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name! + May I lie cold before that dreadful day, + Pressed with a load of monumental clay! + Thy Hector, wrapped, in everlasting sleep, + Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.' + + Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy + Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. + The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, + Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. + With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, + And Hector hasted to relieve his child; + The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, + And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. + Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, + Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer: + + 'O thou! whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, + And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! + Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, + To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, + Against his country's foes the war to wage, + And rise the Hector of the future age! + So when, triumphant from successful toils, + Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, + Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, + And say, "This chief transcends his father's fame": + While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, + His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy.' + + He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, + Restored the pleasing burthen to her arms; + Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, + Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed. + The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, + She mingled with the smile a tender tear. + The softened chief with kind compassion viewed, + And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued: + + 'Andromache! my soul's far better part, + Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? + No hostile hand can antedate my doom, + Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. + Fixed is the term to all the race of earth, + And such the hard condition of our birth. + No force can then resist, no flight can save: + All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. + No more--but hasten to thy tasks at home, + There guide the spindle, and direct the loom; + Me glory summons to the martial scene, + The field of combat is the sphere for men. + Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, + The first in danger as the first in fame.' + + + From AN ESSAY ON MAN + + OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN, WITH RESPECT TO THE UNIVERSE + + Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things + To low ambition, and the pride of kings. + Let us (since life can little more supply + Than just to look about us, and to die) + Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; + A mighty maze! but not without a plan; + A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot; + Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. + Together let us beat this ample field, + Try what the open, what the covert yield; + The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore + Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; + Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, + And catch the manners living as they rise; + Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, + But vindicate the ways of God to man. + + I. + + Say first, of God above, or man below, + What can we reason, but from what we know? + Of man, what see we but his station here + From which to reason or to which refer? + Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known, + 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. + He, who through vast immensity can pierce, + See worlds on worlds compose one universe, + Observe how system into system runs. + What other planets circle other suns, + What varied being peoples every star, + May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. + But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, + The strong connections, nice dependencies, + Gradations just, has thy pervading soul + Looked through? or can a part contain the whole? + + Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, + And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee? + + II. + + Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find, + Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind? + First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, + Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less? + Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made + Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? + Or ask of yonder argent fields above, + Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. + + Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed + That wisdom infinite must form the best, + Where all must full or not coherent be, + And all that rises, rise in due degree; + Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain, + There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man: + And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) + Is only this, if God has placed him wrong? + + Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, + May, must be right, as relative to all. + In human works, though laboured on with pain, + A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; + In God's, one single can its end produce; + Yet serves to second too some other use. + So man, who here seems principal alone, + Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, + Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; + 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. + + When the proud steed shall know why man restrains + His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; + When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, + Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god: + Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend + His actions', passions', being's, use and end; + Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled; and why + This hour a slave, the next a deity. + + Then say not man's imperfect, Heaven in fault; + Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: + His knowledge measured to his state and place, + His time a moment, and a point his space. + If to be perfect In a certain sphere, + What matter, soon or late, or here or there? + The blest to-day is as completely so, + As who began a thousand years ago. + + III. + + Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, + All but the page prescribed, their present state: + From brutes what men, from men what spirits know + Or who could suffer being here below? + The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, + Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? + Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, + And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. + Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given, + That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven: + Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, + A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, + Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, + And now a bubble burst, and now a world. + + Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; + Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. + What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, + But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. + Hope springs eternal in the human breast: + Man never is, but always to be blessed. + The soul, uneasy and confined from home, + Bests and expatiates in a life to come. + + Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind + Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; + His soul, proud science never taught to stray + Far as the solar walk, or milky way; + Yet simple nature to his hope has given, + Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler Heaven; + Some safer world in depths of woods embraced, + Some happier island in the watery waste, + Where slaves once more their native land behold, + No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. + To be, contents his natural desire, + He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; + But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, + His faithful dog shall bear him company. + + IV. + + Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense + Weigh thy opinion against Providence; + Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, + Say, 'Here he gives too little, there too much;' + Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, + Yet cry, 'If man's unhappy, God's unjust;' + If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, + Alone made perfect here, immortal there, + Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, + Bejudge his justice, be the god of God. + In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; + All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. + Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, + Men would be angels, angels would be gods. + Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, + Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: + And who but wishes to invert the laws + Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause. + + V. + Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, + Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ''Tis for mine: + For me kind nature wakes her genial power, + Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower; + Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew + The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; + For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; + For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; + Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; + My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.' + But errs not Nature from this gracious end, + From burning suns when livid deaths descend, + When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep + Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? + 'No ('tis replied), the first Almighty Cause + Acts not by partial, but by general laws; + Th' exceptions few; some change, since all began: + And what created perfect?' Why then man? + If the great end be human happiness, + Then nature deviates; and can man do less? + As much that end a constant course requires + Of showers and sunshine, as of man's desires; + As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, + As men forever temperate, calm, and wise. + If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's design, + Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? + Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning forms, + Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms; + Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind, + Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? + From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs. + Account for moral, as for natural things: + Why charge we Heaven in those, in these acquit? + In both, to reason right is to submit. + Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, + Were there all harmony, all virtue here; + That never air or ocean felt the wind; + That never passion discomposed the mind. + But all subsists by elemental strife; + And passions are the elements of life. + The general order, since the whole began, + Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. + + VI. + What would this man? Now upward will he soar, + And little less than angel, would he more; + Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears + To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. + Made for his use all creatures if he call, + Say what their use, had he the powers of all? + Nature to these, without profusion, kind, + The proper organs, proper powers assigned; + Each seeming want compensated of course, + Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; + All in exact proportion to the state; + Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. + Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: + Is Heaven unkind to man, and man alone? + Shall he alone, whom rational we call, + Be pleased with nothing, if not blessed with all? + The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) + Is not to act or think beyond mankind; + No powers of body or of soul to share, + But what his nature and his state can bear. + Why has not man a microscopic eye? + For this plain reason, man is not a fly. + Say what the use, were finer optics given, + T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? + Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, + To smart and agonize at every pore? + Or quick effluvia darting through the brain, + Die of a rose in aromatic pain? + If nature thundered in his opening ears, + And stunned him with the music of the spheres, + How would he wish that Heaven had left him still + The whispering zephyr, and the purling rill? + Who finds not Providence all good and wise, + Alike in what it gives and what denies? + + VII. + Far as creation's ample range extends, + The scale of sensual, mental power ascends. + Mark how it mounts, to man's imperial race, + From the green myriads in the peopled grass: + What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, + The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: + Of smell, the headlong lioness between + And hound sagacious on the tainted green: + Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, + To that which warbles through the vernal wood: + The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! + Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: + In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true + From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew? + How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, + Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine! + 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier, + Forever separate, yet forever near! + Remembrance and reflection how allied; + What thin partitions sense from thought divide: + And middle natures, how they long to join, + Yet never pass th' insuperable line! + Without this just gradation, could they be + Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? + The powers of all subdued by thee alone, + Is not thy reason all these powers in one? + + VIII. + See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth + All matter quick, and bursting into birth. + Above, how high, progressive life may go! + Around, how wide! how deep extend below! + Vast chain of being! which from God began, + Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, + Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, + No glass can reach; from infinite to thee, + From thee to nothing.--On superior powers + Were we to pass, Inferior might on ours; + Or in the full creation leave a void, + Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed: + From nature's chain whatever link you strike, + Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. + And, if each system in gradation roll + Alike essential to th' amazing whole, + The least confusion but in one, not all + That system only, but the whole must fall. + Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly, + Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; + Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, + Being on being wrecked, and world on world; + Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, + And nature tremble to the throne of God. + All this dread order break--for whom? for thee? + Vile worm!--Oh, madness! pride! impiety! + + IX. + What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, + Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head? + What if the head, the eye, or ear repined + To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? + Just as absurd for any part to claim + To be another, in this general frame; + Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, + The great directing Mind of all ordains. + All are but parts of one stupendous whole, + Whose body nature is, and God the soul; + That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; + Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; + Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, + Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, + Lives through all life, extends through all extent, + Spreads undivided, operates unspent; + Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, + As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; + As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, + As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: + To him no high, no low, no great, no small; + He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. + + X. + Cease then, nor order imperfection name: + Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. + Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree + Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. + Submit.--In this, or any other sphere, + Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: + Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, + Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. + All nature is but art, unknown to thee; + All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; + All discord, harmony not understood; + All partial evil, universal good: + And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, + One truth is clear, _Whatever is, is right_. + + + [MAN'S POWERS AND FRAILTIES] + + Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; + The proper study of mankind is Man. + Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, + A being darkly wise, and rudely great: + With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, + With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, + He hangs between; in doubt to act or rest, + In doubt to deem himself a god or beast; + In doubt his mind or body to prefer, + Born but to die, and reasoning but to err; + Alike in ignorance, his reason such + Whether he thinks too little or too much: + Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; + Still by himself abused, or disabused; + Created half to rise, and half to fall; + Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; + Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled: + The glory, jest, and riddle of the world! + + + [VIRTUE AND HAPPINESS] + + Oh blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, + Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe! + Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, + Best knows the blessing, and will most be blessed. + But fools, the good alone unhappy call, + For ills or accidents that chance to all. + See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just! + See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust! + See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife! + Was this their virtue, or contempt of life? + Say, was it virtue, more though Heaven ne'er gave, + Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave? + Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, + Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire? + Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath, + When nature sickened, and each gale was death? + Or why so long (in life if long can be) + Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me? + What makes all physical or moral ill? + There deviates nature, and here wanders will. + God sends not ill; if rightly understood, + Or partial ill is universal good. + Or change admits, or nature lets it fall, + Short, and but rare, till man improved it all. + We just as wisely might of Heaven complain + That righteous Abel was destroyed by Cain, + As that the virtuous son is ill at ease, + When his lewd father gave the dire disease. + Think we, like some weak prince, th' Eternal Cause + Prone for his favourites to reverse his laws? + Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires, + Forget to thunder, and recall her fires? + On air or sea new motions be impressed, + Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast? + When the loose mountain trembles from on high, + Shall gravitation cease, if you go by? + Or some old temple, nodding to its fall, + For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall? + But still this world (so fitted for the knave) + Contents us not. A better shall we have? + A kingdom of the just then let it be: + But first consider how those just agree. + The good must merit God's peculiar care; + But who, but God, can tell us who they are? + One thinks on Calvin Heaven's own spirit fell; + Another deems him instrument of hell; + If Calvin feel Heaven's blessing, or its rod. + This cries, there is, and that, there is no God. + What shocks one part will edify the rest, + Nor with one system can they all he blessed. + The very best will variously incline, + And what rewards your virtue, punish mine. + _Whatever is, is right_.--This world 'tis true + Was made for Caesar--but for Titus too. + And which more blessed? who chained his country, say, + Or he whose virtue sighed to lose a day? + 'But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed,' + What then? Is the reward of virtue bread? + That, vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil; + The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil, + The knave deserves it when he tempts the main, + Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. + The good man may be weak, be indolent: + Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. + But grant him riches, your demand is o'er; + 'No--shall the good want health, the good want power?' + Add health, and power, and every earthly thing. + 'Why bounded power? why private? why no king?' + Nay, why external for internal given? + Why is not man a god, and earth a Heaven? + Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive + God gives enough, while he has more to give: + Immense the power, immense were the demand; + Say, at what part of nature will they stand? + What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, + The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, + Is virtue's prize: A better would you fix? + Then give humility a coach and six, + Justice a conqueror's sword, or truth a gown, + Or public spirit its great cure, a crown. + Weak, foolish man! will Heaven reward us there + With the same trash mad mortals wish for here? + The boy and man an individual makes, + Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes? + Go, like the Indian, in another life + Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife, + As well as dream such trifles are assigned, + As toys and empires, for a god-like mind. + Rewards, that either would to virtue bring + No joy, or be destructive of the thing: + How oft by these at sixty are undone + The virtues of a saint at twenty-one! + To whom can riches give repute, or trust, + Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? + Judges and senates have been bought for gold, + Esteem and love were never to be sold. + Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, + The lover and the love of human-kind, + Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, + Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. + Honour and shame from no condition rise; + Act well your part, there all the honour lies. + Fortune in men has some small difference made, + One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; + The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, + The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. + 'What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?' + I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool. + You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, + Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, + Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow, + The rest is all but leather or prunella. + + * * * * * + + God loves from whole to parts; but human soul + Must rise from individual to whole. + Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, + As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; + The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, + Another still, and still another spreads; + Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; + His country next; and next all human race; + Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind + Take every creature in, of every kind; + Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blessed, + And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. + Come then, my friend! my Genius! come along; + Oh master of the poet, and the song! + And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, + To man's low passions, or their glorious ends, + Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, + To fall with dignity, with temper rise; + Formed by thy converse, happily to steer + From grave to gay, from lively to severe; + Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, + Intent to reason, or polite to please. + Oh! while along the stream of time thy name + Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, + Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, + Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? + When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, + Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, + Shall then this verse to future age pretend + Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? + That urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art + From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; + For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; + Shewed erring pride, _Whatever is, is right;_ + That reason, passion, answer one great aim; + That true self-love and social are the same; + That virtue only, makes our bliss below; + And all our knowledge is, _ourselves to know_. + + + FROM MORAL ESSAYS + + OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN + + Nothing so true as what you once let fall, + 'Most women have no characters at all.' + Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, + And best distinguished by black, brown, or fair. + How many pictures of one nymph we view, + All how unlike each other, all how true! + Arcadia's countess, here in ermined pride, + Is there Pastora by a fountain side; + Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, + And there, a naked Leda with a swan. + Let then the fair one beautifully cry, + In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye, + Or dressed in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine, + With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine; + Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, + If folly grow romantic, I must paint it. + + * * * * * + + Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray; + To toast our wants and wishes, is her way; + Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give + The mighty blessing, 'while we live, to live.' + Then for all death, that opiate of the soul! + Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl. + Say, what can cause such impotence of mind? + A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind. + Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please; + With too much spirit to be e'er at ease; + With too much quickness ever to be taught; + With too much thinking to have common thought: + You purchase pain with all that joy can give, + And die of nothing but a rage to live. + Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's mate, + No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate; + Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends, + Because she's honest, and the best of friends; + Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share, + Forever in a passion, or a prayer; + Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace) + Cries, 'Ah! how charming, if there's no such place!' + Or who in sweet vicissitude appears + Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears, + The daily anodyne, and nightly draught, + To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought. + Woman and fool are two hard things to hit; + For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. + But what are these to great Atossa's mind? + Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind! + Who, with herself, or others, from her birth + Finds all her life one warfare upon earth; + Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools, + Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules. + No thought advances, but her eddy brain + Whisks it about, and down it goes again. + Full sixty years the world has been her trade, + The wisest fool much time has ever made. + From loveless youth to unrespected age, + No passion gratified except her rage. + So much the fury still outran the wit, + The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit. + Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell, + But he's a bolder man who dares be well. + Her every turn with violence pursued, + Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude: + To that each passion turns, or soon or late; + Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate: + Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse! + But an inferior not dependent? worse. + Offend her, and she knows not to forgive; + Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live; + But die, and she'll adore you--then the bust + And temple rise--then fall again to dust. + Last night, her lord was all that's good and great; + A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. + Strange! by the means defeated of the ends, + By spirit robbed of power, by warmth of friends, + By wealth of followers! without one distress, + Sick of herself through very selfishness! + Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer, + Childless with all her children, wants an heir. + To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store, + Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor. + Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design, + Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line; + Some wandering touches, some reflected light, + Some flying stroke alone can hit them right: + For how should equal colours do the knack? + Chameleons who can paint in white and black? + 'Yet Chloe sure was formed without a spot'-- + Nature in her then erred not, but forgot. + 'With every pleasing, every prudent part, + Say, what can Chloe want?'--She wants a heart. + She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; + But never, never, reached one generous thought. + Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, + Content to dwell in decencies forever. + So very reasonable, so unmoved, + As never yet to love, or to be loved. + She, while her lover pants upon her breast, + Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; + And when she sees her friend in deep despair, + Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. + Forbid it Heaven, a favour or a debt + She e'er should cancel--but she may forget. + Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear; + But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear. + Of all her dears she never slandered one, + But cares not if a thousand are undone. + Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead? + She bids her footman put it in her head. + Chloe is prudent--would you too be wise? + Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. + + * * * * * + + But grant in public men sometimes are shown, + A woman's seen in private life alone: + Our bolder talents in full light displayed; + Your virtues open fairest in the shade, + Bred to disguise, in public 'tis you hide; + There none distinguish 'twixt your shame or pride, + Weakness or delicacy, all so nice, + That each may seem a virtue or a vice. + In men, we various ruling passions find; + In women two almost divide the kind; + Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, + The love of pleasure, and the love of sway. + + * * * * * + + Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue, + Still out of reach, yet never out of view; + Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most, + To covet flying, and regret when lost: + At last, to follies youth could scarce defend, + It grows their age's prudence to pretend; + Ashamed to own they gave delight before, + Reduced to feign it, when they give no more: + As hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spite, + So these their merry, miserable night; + Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide, + And haunt the places where their honour died. + See how the world its veterans rewards! + A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; + Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, + Young without lovers, old without a friend; + A fop their passion, but their prize a sot; + Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot! + Ah! Friend! to dazzle let the vain design; + To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine! + That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring + Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing: + So when the sun's broad beam has tired the sight, + All mild ascends the moon's more sober light, + Serene in virgin modesty she shines, + And unobserved the glaring orb declines. + Oh! blest with temper whose unclouded ray + Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day; + She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear + Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; + She, who ne'er answers till a husband cools, + Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; + Charms by accepting, by submitting, sways, + Yet has her humour most, when she obeys; + Let fops or fortune fly which way they will; + Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille; + Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all, + And mistress of herself, though china fall. + And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, + Woman's at best a contradiction still. + Heaven, when it strives to polish all it can + Its last best work, but forms a softer man; + Picks from each sex, to make the favourite blest, + Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest: + Blends, in exception to all general rules, + Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools: + Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied, + Courage with softness, modesty with pride; + Fixed principles, with fancy ever new; + Shakes all together, and produces--You. + + + FROM EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT + + _P_. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said; + Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. + The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, + All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: + Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, + They rave, recite, and madden round the land. + What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? + They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; + By land, by water, they renew the charge; + They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. + No place is sacred, not the church is free; + E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me: + Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, + Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. + Is there a parson, much demused in beer, + A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, + A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, + Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? + Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls + With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? + All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain + Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. + Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, + Imputes to me and my damned works the cause; + Poor Comus sees his frantic wife elope, + And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. + Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, + The world had wanted many an idle song) + What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? + Or which must-end me, a fool's wrath or love? + A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped: + If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. + Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! + Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. + To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, + And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. + I sit with sad civility, I read + With honest anguish, and an aching head; + And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, + This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' + 'Nine years!' cries he, who high in Drury Lane, + Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, + Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, + Obliged by hunger, and request of friends: + 'The piece, you think, it incorrect? why, take it, + I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it.' + Three things another's modest wishes bound, + My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. + Pitholeon sends to me: 'You know his Grace, + I want a patron; ask him for a place.' + 'Pitholeon libelled me'--'But here's a letter + Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. + Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, + He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.' + Bless me! a packet.--''Tis a stranger sues, + A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse.' + If I dislike it, 'Furies, death, and rage!' + If I approve, 'Commend it to the stage.' + There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, + The players and I are, luckily, no friends. + Fired that the house reject him, ''Sdeath I'll print it, + And shame the fools--Your interest, sir, with Lintot!' + 'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:' + 'Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.' + All my demurs but double his attacks; + At last he whispers, 'Do; and we go snacks.' + Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door; + 'Sir, let me see your works and you no more.' + + * * * * * + + There are, who to my person pay their court: + I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short, + Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, + Such Ovid's nose, and 'Sir! you have an eye'-- + Go on, obliging creatures, make me see + All that disgraced my betters, met in me. + Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, + 'Just so immortal Maro held his head:' + And when I die, be sure you let me know + Great Homer died three thousand years ago. + Why did I write? what sin to me unknown + Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own? + As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, + I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. + I left no calling for this idle trade, + No duty broke, no father disobeyed. + The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, + To help me through this long disease, my life, + To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, + And teach the being you preserved, to bear. + But why then publish? Granville the polite, + And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; + Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, + And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; + The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; + Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, + And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) + With open arms received one poet more. + Happy my studies, when by these approved! + Happier their author, when by these beloved! + From these the world will judge of men and books, + Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes. + Soft were my numbers; who could take offence + While pure description held the place of sense? + Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, + A painted mistress, or a purling stream. + Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;-- + I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. + Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; + I never answered--I was not in debt. + If want provoked, or madness made them print, + I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. + Did some more sober critic come aboard; + If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. + Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, + And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. + Commas and points they set exactly right, + And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite; + Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, + From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds. + Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, + Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, + Even such small critics some regard may claim, + Preserved in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. + Pretty! in amber to observe the forms + Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! + The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, + But wonder how the devil they got there. + Were others angry: I excused them too; + Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. + A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; + But each man's secret standard in his mind,-- + That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,-- + This, who can gratify? for who can guess? + The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown, + Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, + Just writes to make his barrenness appear, + And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; + He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, + Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; + And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, + Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; + And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, + It is not poetry, but prose run mad: + All these, my modest satire bade translate, + And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. + How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! + And swear, not Addison himself was safe. + Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires + True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; + Blessed with each talent and each art to please, + And born to write, converse, and live with ease: + Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, + Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, + View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, + And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; + Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, + And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; + Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, + Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; + Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, + A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; + Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, + And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; + Like Cato, give his little senate laws, + And sit attentive to his own applause; + While wits and Templars every sentence raise, + And wonder with a foolish face of praise-- + Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? + Who would not weep, if Atticus were he! + + * * * * * + + Oh, let me live my own, and die so too! + (To live and die is all I have to do:) + Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, + And see what friends, and read what books I please; + Above a patron, though I condescend + Sometimes to call a minister my friend. + I was not born for courts or great affairs; + I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; + Can sleep without a poem in my head, + Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. + Why am I asked what next shall see the light? + Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? + Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) + Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? + 'I found him close with Swift.'--'Indeed? no doubt,' + Cries prating Balbus, 'something will come out.' + 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. + 'No, such a genius never can lie still;' + And then for mine obligingly mistakes + The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. + Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, + When every coxcomb knows me by my style? + Cursed be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, + That tends to make one worthy man my foe, + Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, + Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear! + But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, + Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress; + Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about; + Who writes a libel, or who copies out; + That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, + Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame; + Who can your merit selfishly approve, + And show the sense of it without the love; + Who has the vanity to call you friend, + Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend; + Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, + And, if he lie not, must at least betray; + Who to the Dean and silver bell can swear, + And sees at Canons what was never there; + Who reads, but with a lust to misapply, + Make satire a lampoon, and fiction, lie: + A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, + But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. + + * * * * * + + Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, + While yet in Britain honour had applause) + Each parent sprung---_A._ What fortune, pray?-- + _P._ Their own, + And better got, than Bestia's from the throne. + Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, + Nor marrying discord in a noble wife, + Stranger to civil and religious rage, + The good man walked innoxious through his age. + No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, + Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. + Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, + No language, but the language of the heart. + By nature honest, by experience wise, + Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; + His life, though long, to sickness passed unknown, + His death was instant, and without a groan. + O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! + Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. + O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! + Be no unpleasing melancholy mine: + Me, let the tender office long engage, + To rock the cradle of reposing age, + With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, + Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, + Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, + And keep awhile one parent from the sky! + On cares like these if length of days attend, + May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, + Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, + And just as rich as when he served a queen. + _A._ Whether that blessing be denied or given, + Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven. + + + FROM THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED + + [To GEORGE II: ON THE STATE OF LITERATURE] + + To thee, the world its present homage pays + The harvest early, but mature the praise: + Great friend of liberty! in kings a name + Above all Greek, above all Roman fame: + Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered, + As Heaven's own oracles from altars heard. + Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes + None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise. + + Just in one instance, be it yet confessed, + Your people, Sir, are partial in the rest: + Foes to all living worth except your own, + And advocates for folly dead and gone. + Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; + It is the rust we value, not the gold. + Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learned by rote, + And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote: + One likes no language but the Faery Queen; + A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green; + And each true Briton is to Ben so civil, + He swears the muses met him at the Devil. + Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires, + Why should not we be wiser than our sires? + In every public virtue we excel, + We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well. + And learned Athens to our art must stoop, + Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop. + If time improves our wit as well as wine, + Say at what age a poet grows divine? + Shall we, or shall we not, account him so, + Who died, perhaps, a hundred years ago? + End all dispute; and fix the year precise + When British bards begin t' immortalize? + 'Who lasts a century can have no flaw, + I hold that wit a classic, good in law.' + Suppose he wants a year, will you compound? + And shall we deem him ancient, right and sound, + Or damn to all eternity at once, + At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce? + 'We shall not quarrel for a year or two; + By courtesy of England, he may do.' + Then, by the rule that made the horse-tail bare, + I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair, + And melt down ancients like a heap of snow: + While you, to measure merits, look in Stowe, + And estimating authors by the year, + Bestow a garland only on a bier. + Shakespeare, (whom you and every play-house bill + Style the divine, the matchless, what you will,) + For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, + And grew immortal in his own despite. + Ben, old and poor, as little seemed to heed + The life to come, in every poet's creed. + Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet, + His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; + Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art, + But still I love the language of his heart. + 'Yet surely, surely, these were famous men! + What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben? + In all debates where critics bear a part, + Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson's art, + Of Shakespeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit; + How Beaumont's judgment checked what Fletcher writ; + How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow; + But, for the passions, Southern sure and Rowe. + These, only these, support the crowded stage, + From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age.' + All this may be; the people's voice is odd, + It is, and it is not, the voice of God. + To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, + And yet deny the Careless Husband praise, + Or say our fathers never broke a rule; + Why then, I say, the public is a fool. + But let them own, that greater faults than we + They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree. + Spenser himself affects the obsolete, + And Sidney's verse halts ill on Roman feet: + Milton's strong pinion now not heaven can bound, + Now serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground, + In quibbles angel and archangel join, + And God the Father turns a school-divine. + Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book, + Like slashing Bentley with his desperate hook, + Or damn all Shakespeare, like th' affected fool + At court, who hates whate'er he read at school. + But for the wits of either Charles's days, + The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease; + Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more, + (Like twinkling stars the Miscellanies o'er,) + One simile, that solitary shines + In the dry desert of a thousand lines, + Or lengthened thought that gleams through many a page, + Has sanctified whole poems for an age. + I lose my patience, and I owe it too, + When works are censured, not as bad but new; + While if our elders break all reason's laws, + These fools demand not pardon, but applause. + On Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow, + If I but ask, if any weed can grow; + One tragic sentence if I dare deride + Which Betterton's grave action dignified, + Or well-mouthed Booth with emphasis proclaims, + (Though but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names,) + How will our fathers rise up in a rage, + And swear all shame is lost in George's age! + You'd think no fools disgraced the former reign, + Did not some grave examples yet remain, + Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill, + And, having once been wrong, will be so still. + He, who to seem more deep than you or I, + Extols old bards, or Merlin's prophecy, + Mistake him not; he envies, not admires, + And to debase the sons, exalts the sires. + Had ancient times conspired to disallow + What then was new, what had been ancient now? + Or what remained, so worthy to be read + By learned critics, of the mighty dead? + + * * * * * + + Time was, a sober Englishman would knock + His servants up, and rise by five o'clock, + Instruct his family in every rule, + And send his wife to church, his son to school. + To worship like his fathers, was his care; + To teach their frugal virtues to his heir; + To prove that luxury could never hold; + And place, on good security, his gold. + Now times are changed, and one poetic itch + Has seized the court and city, poor and rich: + Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, + Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays, + To theatres, and to rehearsals throng, + And all our grace at table is a song. + I, who so oft renounce the muses, lie, + Not ----'s self e'er tells more fibs than I; + When sick of Muse, our follies we deplore, + And promise our best friends to rhyme no more; + We wake next morning in a raging fit, + And call for pen and ink to show our wit. + He served a prenticeship, who sets up shop; + Ward tried on puppies, and the poor, his drop; + Even Radcliffe's doctors travel first to France, + Nor dare to practise till they've learned to dance. + Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile? + (Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile;) + But those who cannot write, and those who can, + All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man. + Yet, Sir, reflect, the mischief is not great; + These madmen never hurt the church or state: + Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; + And rarely avarice taints the tuneful mind. + Allow him but his plaything of a pen, + He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men: + Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind; + And knows no losses while the Muse is kind. + To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter, + The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, + Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; + And then--a perfect hermit in his diet. + Of little use the man you may suppose + Who says in verse what others say in prose; + Yet let me show, a poet's of some weight, + And (though no soldier) useful to the state. + What will a child learn sooner than a song? + What better teach a foreigner the tongue? + What's long or short, each accent where to place, + And speak in public with some sort of grace? + I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, + Unless he praise some monster of a king; + Or virtue, or religion turn to sport, + To please a lewd, or unbelieving Court. + Unhappy Dryden!--In all Charles's days, + Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays; + And in our own (excuse some courtly stains) + No whiter page than Addison remains. + He, from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, + And sets the passions on the side of truth, + Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, + And pours each human virtue in the heart. + Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause, + Her trade supported, and supplied her laws; + And leave on Swift this grateful verse engraved, + 'The rights a court attacked, a poet saved.' + Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, + Stretched to relieve the idiot and the poor, + Proud vice to brand, or injured worth adorn, + And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn. + Not but there are, who merit other palms; + Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms: + The boys and girls whom charity maintains, + Implore your help in these pathetic strains: + How could devotion touch the country pews, + Unless the Gods bestowed a proper Muse? + Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work, + Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk, + The silenced preacher yields to potent strain, + And feels that grace his prayer besought in vain; + The blessing thrills through all the labouring throng, + And Heaven is won by violence of song. + Our rural ancestors, with little blessed, + Patient of labour when the end was rest, + Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, + With feasts, and offerings, and a thankful strain: + The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share, + Ease of their toil, and partners of their care: + The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl, + Smoothed every brow, and opened every soul: + With growing years the pleasing licence grew, + And taunts alternate innocently flew. + But times corrupt, and nature, ill-inclined, + Produced the point that left a sting behind; + Till friend with friend, and families at strife, + Triumphant malice raged through private life. + Who felt the wrong, or feared it, took th' alarm, + Appealed to law, and justice lent her arm. + At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound, + The poets learned to please, and not to wound: + Most warped to flattery's side; but some, more nice, + Preserved the freedom, and forbore the vice. + Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit, + And heals with morals what it hurts with wit. + We conquered France, but felt our captive's charms; + Her arts victorious triumphed o'er our arms; + Britain to soft refinements less a foe, + Wit grew polite, and numbers learned to flow. + Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join + The varying verse, the full-resounding line, + The long majestic march, and energy divine. + Though still some traces of our rustic vein, + And splay-foot verse, remained, and will remain. + Late, very late, correctness grew our care, + When the tired nation breathed from civil war. + Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire, + Showed us that France had something to admire. + Not but the tragic spirit was our own, + And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway shone: + But Otway failed to polish or refine, + And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. + Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, + The last and greatest art, the art to blot. + Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire + The humbler muse of comedy require. + But in known images of life, I guess + The labour greater, as th' indulgence less. + Observe how seldom even the best succeed: + Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed? + What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ! + How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit! + The stage how loosely does Astraea tread, + Who fairly puts all characters to bed! + And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, + To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause! + But fill their purse, our poet's work is done, + Alike to them, by pathos or by pun. + + * * * * * + + Yet lest you think I rally more than teach, + Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach, + Let me for once presume t' instruct the times + To know the poet from the man of rhymes: + 'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains, + Can make me feel each passion that he feigns; + Enrage, compose, with more than magic art, + With pity, and with terror, tear my heart; + And snatch me, o'er the earth, or through the air, + To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. + + + FROM THE EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES + + [THE POWER OF THE SATIRIST] + + Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see + Men not afraid of God, afraid of me: + Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, + Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone. + O sacred weapon! left for truth's defense, + Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence! + To all but Heaven-directed hands denied, + The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide: + Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal, + To rouse the watchmen of the public weal; + To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, + And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall, + Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, + That counts your beauties only by your stains, + Spin all your cobwebs, o'er the eye of day! + The Muse's wing shall brush you all away. + + + FROM THE DUNCIAD + + [THE COLLEGE OF DULNESS] + + Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, + And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, + Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, + Great Cibber's brazen brainless brothers stand, + One cell there is, concealed from vulgar eye. + The cave of Poverty and Poetry. + Keen, hollow winds howl through the bleak recess, + Emblem of music caused by emptiness. + Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, + Escape in monsters, and amaze the town. + Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast + Of Curll's chaste press and Lintot's rubric post; + Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines; + Hence Journals, Medleys, Mercuries, Magazines, + Sepulchral lies, our holy walls to grace, + And New-year odes, and all the Grub Street race. + In clouded majesty here Dulness shone. + Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne: + Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears + Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears; + Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake + Who hunger and who thirst for scribbling sake; + Prudence, whose glass presents th' approaching jail; + Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, + Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, + And solid pudding against empty praise. + Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, + Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, + Till genial Jacob or a warm third day + Call forth each mass, a poem or a play: + How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie; + How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry; + Maggots, half formed, in rhyme exactly meet, + And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. + Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes, + And ductile Dulness new meanders takes; + There motley images her fancy strike, + Figures ill paired, and similes unlike. + She sees a mob of metaphors advance, + Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance; + How Tragedy and Comedy embrace; + How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race; + How Time himself stands still at her command, + Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land. + Here gay description Egypt glads with showers, + Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers; + Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen, + There painted valleys of eternal green; + In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, + And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow. + All these and more the cloud-compelling queen + Beholds through fogs, that magnify the scene: + She, tinselled o'er in robes of varying hues, + With self-applause her wild creation views; + Sees momentary monsters rise and fall, + And with her own fools-colours gilds them all. + + * * * * * + + + [CIBBER AS DULNESS'S FAVOURITE SON] + + In each she marks her image full expressed, + But chief In Bays's monster-breeding breast; + Bays, formed by nature stage and town to bless, + And act, and be, a coxcomb with success. + Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce, + Rememb'ring she herself was Pertness once. + Now (shame to Fortune!) an ill run at play + Blanked his bold visage, and a thin third day: + Swearing and supperless the hero sate, + Blasphemed his gods, the dice, and damned his fate; + Then gnawed his pen, then dashed it on the ground, + Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! + Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there; + Yet wrote and floundered on in mere despair. + Round him much embryo, much abortion lay, + Much future ode, and abdicated play; + Nonsense precipitate, like running lead, + That slipped through cracks and zigzags of the head; + All that on Folly Frenzy could beget, + Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit. + Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll, + In pleasing memory of all he stole-- + How here he sipped, how there he plundered snug, + And sucked all o'er like an industrious bug. + Here lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes, and here + The frippery of crucified Moliere; + There hapless Shakespeare, yet of Tibbald sore, + Wished he had blotted for himself before. + + * * * * * + + + [THE RESTORATION OF NIGHT AND CHAOS] + + In vain, in vain--the all-composing hour + Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the power. + She comes! she comes! the sable throne behold + Of Night primeval and of Chaos old! + Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, + And all its varying rainbows die away. + Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, + The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. + As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, + The sickening stars fade off th' ethereal plain; + As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppressed, + Closed one by one to everlasting rest: + Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, + Art after art goes out, and all is night. + See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, + Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head! + Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before, + Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. + Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, + And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! + See Mystery to Mathematics fly! + In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. + Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, + And unawares Morality expires. + Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; + Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! + Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; + Light dies before thy uncreating word: + Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; + And universal darkness buries all. + + + + + LADY WINCHILSEA + + + TO THE NIGHTINGALE + + Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring! + This moment is thy time to sing, + This moment I attend to praise, + And set my numbers to thy lays. + Free as thine shall be my song; + As thy music, short, or long. + Poets, wild as thee, were born, + Pleasing best when unconfined, + When to please is least designed, + Soothing but their cares to rest; + Cares do still their thoughts molest, + And still th' unhappy poet's breast, + Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. + She begins, let all be still! + Muse, thy promise now fulfil! + Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet! + Can thy words such accents fit? + Canst thou syllables refine, + Melt a sense that shall retain + Still some spirit of the brain, + Till with sounds like these it join? + 'Twill not be! then change thy note; + Let division shake thy throat. + Hark! division now she tries; + Yet as far the muse outflies. + Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune; + Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? + Till thy business all lies waste, + And the time of building's past! + Thus we poets that have speech, + Unlike what thy forests teach, + If a fluent vein be shown + That's transcendent to our own, + Criticise, reform, or preach, + Or censure what we cannot reach. + + + A NOCTURNAL REVERIE + + In such a night, when every louder wind + Is to its distant cavern safe confined, + And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, + And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings; + Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight, + She hollowing clear, directs the wanderer right; + In such a night, when passing clouds give place, + Or thinly veil the heaven's mysterious face; + When in some river, overhung with green, + The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen; + When freshened grass now bears itself upright, + And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, + Whence springs the woodbine and the bramble-rose, + And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows; + Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, + Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes; + When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine, + Show trivial beauties watch their hour to shine, + Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every light + In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright; + When odours which declined repelling day + Through temperate air uninterrupted stray; + When darkened groves their softest shadows wear, + And falling waters we distinctly hear; + When through the gloom more venerable shows + Some ancient fabric, awful in repose, + While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal + And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale; + When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads, + Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads, + Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear, + Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear; + When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, + And unmolested kine re-chew the cud; + When curlews cry beneath the village-walls, + And to her straggling brood the partridge calls; + Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep, + Which but endures whilst tyrant-man does sleep; + When a sedate content the spirit feels, + And no fierce light disturb, whilst it reveals; + But silent musings urge the mind to seek + Something too high for syllables to speak; + Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, + Finding the elements of rage disarmed, + O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, + Joys in th' inferior world and thinks it like her own: + In such a night let me abroad remain + Till morning breaks and all's confused again; + Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renewed, + Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued. + + + + + JOHN GAY + + + FROM RURAL SPORTS + + When the ploughman leaves the task of day, + And, trudging homeward, whistles on the way; + When the big-uddered cows with patience stand, + Waiting the strokings of the damsel's hand; + No warbling cheers the woods; the feathered choir, + To court kind slumbers, to their sprays retire; + When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees, + Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze; + Engaged in thought, to Neptune's bounds I stray, + To take my farewell of the parting day: + Far in the deep the sun his glory hides, + A streak of gold the sea and sky divides; + The purple clouds their amber linings show, + And edged with flame rolls every wave below; + Here pensive I behold the fading light, + And o'er the distant billows lose my sight. + + + FROM THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK + + THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL + + I rue the day, a rueful day I trow, + The woeful day, a day indeed of woe! + When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove: + A maiden fine bedight he happed to love; + The maiden fine bedight his love retains, + And for the village he forsakes the plains. + Return, my Lubberkin! these ditties hear! + Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + * * * * * + + Last May Day fair I searched to find a snail + That might my secret lover's name reveal. + Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found, + For always snails near sweetest fruit abound. + I seized the vermin, home I quickly sped, + And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread: + Slow crawled the snail, and, if I right can spell, + In the soft ashes marked a curious L. + Oh, may this wondrous omen lucky prove! + For L is found in 'Lubberkin' and 'Love.' + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + * * * * * + + This lady-fly I take from off the grass, + Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass: + 'Fly, lady-bird, north, south, or east, or west! + Fly where the man is found that I love best!' + He leaves my hand: see, to the west he's flown, + To call my true-love from the faithless town. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + This mellow pippin, which I pare around, + My shepherd's name shall flourish on the ground: + I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head-- + Upon the grass a perfect L is read. + Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen + Than what the paring marks upon the green. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + This pippin shall another trial make. + See, from the core two kernels brown I take: + This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn, + And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne; + But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground + (A certain token that his love's unsound), + While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last-- + Oh, were his lips to mine but joined so fast! + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, + I twitched his dangling garter from his knee; + He wist not when the hempen string I drew. + Now mine I quickly doff of inkle blue; + Together fast I tie the garters twain, + And while I knit the knot repeat this strain: + 'Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure; + Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure!' + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + As I was wont I trudged last market-day + To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay. + I made my market long before 'twas night; + My purse grew heavy and my basket light: + Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went, + And in love-powder all my money spent. + Behap what will, next Sunday after prayers, + When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs, + These golden flies into his mug I'll throw, + And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. + _With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, + And turn me thrice around, around, around._ + + But hold! our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his ears: + O'er yonder stile, see, Lubberkin appears! + He comes, he comes! Hobnelia's not betrayed, + Nor shall she, crowned with willow, die a maid. + He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown: + Oh, dear! I fall adown, adown, adown! + + + FROM TRIVIA + + If clothed in black you tread the busy town, + Or if distinguished by the reverend gown, + Three trades avoid: oft in the mingling press + The barber's apron soils the sable dress; + Shun the perfumer's touch with cautious eye, + Nor let the baker's step advance too nigh. + Ye walkers too that youthful colours wear, + Three sullying trades avoid with equal care: + The little chimney-sweeper skulks along, + And marks with sooty stains the heedless throng; + When 'Small-coal!' murmurs in the hoarser throat, + From smutty dangers guard thy threatened coat; + The dust-man's cart offends thy clothes and eyes, + When through the street a cloud of ashes flies. + But whether black or lighter dyes are worn, + The chandler's basket, on his shoulder borne, + With tallow spots thy coat; resign the way + To shun the surly butcher's greasy tray-- + Butchers whose hands are dyed with blood's foul stain, + And always foremost in the hangman's train. + + Let due civilities be strictly paid: + The wall surrender to the hooded maid, + Nor let thy sturdy elbow's hasty rage + Jostle the feeble steps of trembling age; + And when the porter bends beneath his load, + And pants for breath, clear thou the crowded road; + But, above all, the groping blind direct, + And from the pressing throng the lame protect. + You'll sometimes meet a fop, of nicest tread, + Whose mantling peruke veils his empty head; + At every step he dreads the wall to lose + And risks, to save a coach, his red-heeled shoes: + Him, like the miller, pass with caution by, + Lest from his shoulder clouds of powder fly. + But when the bully, with assuming pace, + Cocks his broad hat, edged round with tarnished lace, + Yield not the way; defy his strutting pride, + And thrust him to the muddy kennel's side; + He never turns again nor dares oppose, + But mutters coward curses as he goes. + + + SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN + + All in the Downs the fleet was moored, + The streamers waving in the wind, + When black-eyed Susan came aboard: + 'Oh, where shall I my true love find? + Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true + If my sweet William sails among the crew?' + + William, who high upon the yard + Rocked with the billow to and fro, + Soon as her well-known voice he heard, + He sighed and cast his eyes below; + The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, + And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. + + So the sweet lark, high poised in air, + Shuts close his pinions to his breast, + If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, + And drops at once into her nest. + The noblest captain in the British fleet + Mighty envy William's lip those kisses sweet. + + 'O, Susan, Susan, lovely dear, + My vows shall ever true remain! + Let me kiss off that falling tear: + We only part to meet again. + Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be + The faithful compass that still points to thee. + + 'Believe not what the landmen say, + Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: + They'll tell thee sailors, when away, + In every port a mistress find-- + Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, + For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. + + 'If to far India's coast we sail, + Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; + Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, + Thy skin is ivory so white. + Thus every beauteous object that I view + Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. + + 'Though battle call me from thy arms, + Let not my pretty Susan mourn; + Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, + William shall to his dear return. + Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, + Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.' + + The boatswain gave the dreadful word; + The sails their swelling bosom spread; + No longer must she stay aboard: + They kissed--she sighed--he hung his head. + Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; + 'Adieu!' she cries, and waved her lily hand. + + + MY OWN EPITAPH + + Life is a jest, and all things show it: + I thought so once, but now I know it. + + + + + SAMUEL CROXALL + + + FROM THE VISION + + Pensive beneath a spreading oak I stood + That veiled the hollow channel of the flood: + Along whose shelving bank the violet blue + And primrose pale in lovely mixture grew. + High overarched the bloomy woodbine hung, + The gaudy goldfinch from the maple sung; + The little warbling minstrel of the shade + To the gay morn her due devotion paid + Next, the soft linnet echoing to the thrush + With carols filled the smelling briar-bush; + While Philomel attuned her artless throat, + And from the hawthorn breathed a trilling note. + + Indulgent Nature smiled in every part, + And filled with joy unknown my ravished heart: + Attent I listened while the feathered throng + Alternate finished and renewed their song. + + * * * * * + + THOMAS TICKELL + + + FROM ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON + + Can I forget the dismal night that gave + My soul's best part forever to the grave? + How silent did his old companions tread, + By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, + Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, + Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! + What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; + The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; + The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid; + And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed! + While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, + Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. + Oh, gone forever! take this long adieu; + And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague! + + To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, + A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; + Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, + And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. + If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, + May shame afflict this alienated heart; + Of thee forgetful if I form a song, + My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, + My griefs be doubled from thy image free, + And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee! + + Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, + (Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown) + Along the walls where speaking marbles show + What worthies form the hallowed mould below; + Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; + In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; + + Chiefs graced with scars and prodigal of blood; + Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood; + Just men by whom impartial laws were given; + And saints who taught and led the way to Heaven. + Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, + Since their foundation came a nobler guest; + Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed + A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. + + * * * * * + + That awful form (which, so ye Heavens decree, + Must still be loved and still deplored by me,) + In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, + Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. + If business calls or crowded courts invite, + Th' unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; + If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, + I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; + If pensive to the rural shades I rove, + His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; + 'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, + Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: + There patient showed us the wise course to steer, + A candid censor, and a friend severe; + There taught us how to live, and (oh! too high + The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. + + + + + THOMAS PARNELL + + + FROM A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH + + By the blue taper's trembling light, + No more I waste the wakeful night, + Intent with endless view to pore + The schoolmen and the sages o'er; + Their books from wisdom widely stray, + Or point at best the longest way. + I'll seek a readier path, and go + Where wisdom's surely taught below. + + How deep yon azure dyes the sky, + Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie, + While through their ranks in silver pride + The nether crescent seems to glide! + The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, + The lake is smooth and clear beneath, + Where once again the spangled show + Descends to meet our eyes below. + The grounds which on the right aspire, + In dimness from the view retire: + The left presents a place of graves, + Whose wall the silent water laves. + That steeple guides thy doubtful sight + Among the livid gleams of night. + There pass, with melancholy state, + By all the solemn heaps of fate, + And think, as softly-sad you tread + Above the venerable dead, + 'Time was, like thee they life possessed, + And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.' + + Those graves, with bending osier bound, + That nameless heave the crumbled ground, + Quick to the glancing thought disclose, + Where toil and poverty repose. + The flat smooth stones that bear a name, + The chisel's slender help to fame, + (Which ere our set of friends decay + Their frequent steps may wear away;) + A middle race of mortals own, + Men, half ambitious, all unknown. + The marble tombs that rise on high, + Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, + Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, + Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones; + These, all the poor remains of state, + Adorn the rich, or praise the great; + Who while on earth in fame they live, + Are senseless of the fame they give. + + Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, + The bursting earth unveils the shades! + All slow, and wan, and wrapped with shrouds + They rise in visionary crowds, + And all with sober accent cry, + 'Think, mortal, what it is to die.' + + Now from yon black and funeral yew + That bathes the charnel house with dew + Methinks I hear a voice begin: + (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din; + Ye tolling clocks, no time resound + O'er the long lake and midnight ground) + It sends a peal of hollow groans + Thus speaking from among the bones: + 'When men my scythe and darts supply, + How great a king of fears am I! + They view me like the last of things: + They make, and then they dread, my stings. + Fools! if you less provoked your fears, + No more my spectre-form appears. + Death's but a path that must be trod + If man would ever pass to God, + A port of calms, a state of ease + From the rough rage of swelling seas.' + + + A HYMN OF CONTENTMENT + + Lovely, lasting peace of mind! + Sweet delight of humankind! + Heavenly-born, and bred on high, + To crown the favourites of the sky + With more of happiness below + Than victors in a triumph know! + Whither, O whither art thou fled, + To lay thy meek, contented head? + What happy region dost thou please + To make the seat of calms and ease? + + Ambition searches all its sphere + Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. + Increasing Avarice would find + Thy presence in its gold enshrined. + + The bold adventurer ploughs his way, + Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, + To gain thy love; and then perceives + Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. + The silent heart which grief assails, + Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, + Sees daisies open, rivers run, + And seeks, as I have vainly done, + Amusing thought; but learns to know + That solitude's the nurse of woe. + No real happiness is found + In trailing purple o'er the ground; + Or in a soul exalted high, + To range the circuit of the sky, + Converse with stars above, and know + All nature in its forms below; + The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, + And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. + + Lovely, lasting peace, appear! + This world itself, if thou art here, + Is once again with Eden blest, + And man contains it in his breast. + + 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, + I sung my wishes to the wood, + And lost in thought, no more perceived + The branches whisper as they waved: + It seemed, as all the quiet place + Confess'd the presence of the Grace. + When thus she spoke--'Go rule thy will, + Bid thy wild passions all be still, + Know God, and bring thy heart to know + The joys which from religion flow; + Then every grace shall prove its guest, + And I'll be there to crown the rest.' + + Oh! by yonder mossy seat, + In my hours of sweet retreat, + Might I thus my soul employ, + With sense of gratitude and joy! + Raised as ancient prophets were, + In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer; + Pleasing all men, hurting none, + Pleased and blessed with God alone; + Then while the gardens take my sight, + With all the colours of delight; + While silver waters glide along, + To please my ear, and court my song; + I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, + And thee, great Source of nature, sing. + + The sun that walks his airy way, + To light the world, and give the day; + The moon that shines with borrowed light; + The stars that gild the gloomy night; + The seas that roll unnumbered waves; + The wood that spreads its shady leaves; + The field whose ears conceal the grain, + The yellow treasure of the plain; + All of these, and all I see, + Should be sung, and sung by me: + They speak their Maker as they can, + But want and ask the tongue of man. + + Go search among your idle dreams, + Your busy or your vain extremes; + And find a life of equal bliss, + Or own the next begun in this. + + + + + ALLAN RAMSAY + + From THE GENTLE SHEPHERD + + PATIE AND ROGER + + Beneath the south side of a craigy bield, + Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield, + Twa youthfu' shepherds on the gowans lay, + Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May. + Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring; + But blither Patie likes to laugh and sing. + + _Patie._ My Peggy is a young thing, + Just entered 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 wauking 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 wauking 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 blythe and bauld, + And naething gi'es me sic delight + At wauking 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 wauking of the fauld. + + This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood, + And puts all Nature in a jovial mood. + How hartsome is't to see the rising plants, + To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants! + + How halesom 'tis to snuff the cauler air, + And all the sweets it bears, when void of care! + What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane? + Tell me the cause of thy ill-seasoned pain. + + _Roger._ I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate; + I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great! + Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood, + Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins' blood; + But I, oppressed with never-ending grief, + Maun ay despair of lighting on relief. + + * * * * * + + You have sae saft a voice and slid a tongue, + You are the darling of baith auld and young: + If I but ettle at a sang or speak, + They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek, + And jeer me hameward frae the loan or bught, + While I'm confused with mony a vexing thought; + Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee, + Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye; + For ilka sheep ye have I'll number ten, + And should, as ane may think, come farer ben. + + * * * * * + + _Patie._ Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way! + Seem careless: there's my hand ye'll win the day. + Hear how I served my lass I love as weel + As ye do Jenny and with heart as leel. + Last morning I was gay and early out; + Upon a dyke I leaned, glowring about. + I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lea; + I saw my Meg, but Peggy saw na me, + For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist, + And she was close upon me e'er she wist: + Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw + Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than snaw. + Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek, + Her haffet-locks hang waving on her cheek; + Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her een sae clear; + And, oh, her mouth's like ony hinny pear; + Neat, neat she was in bustine waistcoat clean, + As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green. + Blythesome I cried, 'My bonnie Meg, come here! + I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer, + + But I can guess ye're gawn to gather dew.' + She scoured awa, and said, 'What's that to you?' + 'Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,' + I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dyke. + I trow when, that she saw, within a crack + She came with a right thieveless errand back: + Misca'd me first; then bade me hound my dog, + To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. + I leugh, an sae did she: then with great haste + I clasped my arms about her neck and waist, + About her yielding waist, and took a fourth + Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth; + While hard and fast I held her in my grips, + My very saul came louping to my lips; + Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack, + But weel I kenned she meant nae as she spak. + Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom, + Do ye sae too and never fash your thumb: + Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood; + Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood. + + Dear Roger, if your Jenny geck, + And answer kindness with a slight, + Seem unconcerned at her neglect; + For women in a man delight, + But them despise who're soon defeat + And with a simple face give way + To a repulse: then he not blate; + Push bauldly on, and win the day. + + When maidens, innocently young, + Say aften what they never mean, + Ne'er mind their pretty lying tongue, + But tent the language of their een: + If these agree, and she persist + To answer all your love with hate, + Seek elsewhere to be better blest, + And let her sigh when'tis too late. + + _Roger._ Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart! + Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have sie an art + + To hearten ane; for now, as clean's a leek, + Ye've cherished me since ye began to speak. + Sae, for your pains, I'll mak ye a propine + (My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine)-- + A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo, + Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blue, + With spraings like gowd and siller crossed with black; + I never had it yet upon my back: + Weel are ye wordy o' 't, what have sae kind + Sed up my reveled doubts and cleared my mind. + + + + + AMBROSE PHILIPS + + + TO MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER + MOTHER'S ARMS + + Timely blossom, infant fair, + Pondling of a happy pair, + Every morn and every night + Their solicitous delight; + Sleeping, waking, still at ease, + Pleasing, without skill to please; + Little gossip, blithe and hale, + Tattling many a broken tale, + Singing many a tuneless song, + Lavish of a heedless tongue. + Simple maiden, void of art, + Babbling out the very heart, + Yet abandoned to thy will, + Yet imagining no ill, + Yet too innocent to blush; + Like the linnet in the bush, + To the mother-linnet's note + Moduling her slender throat, + Chirping forth thy pretty joys; + Wanton in the change of toys, + Like the linnet green, in May, + Flitting to each bloomy spray; + + Wearied then, and glad of rest, + Like the linnet in the nest. + This thy present happy lot, + This, in time, will be forgot; + Other pleasures, other cares, + Ever-busy Time prepares; + And thou shalt in thy daughter see + This picture once resembled thee. + + + + + JOHN DYER + + + GRONGAR HILL + + Silent Nymph, with curious eye! + Who, the purple evening, lie + On the mountain's lonely van, + Beyond the noise of busy man; + Painting fair the form of things, + While the yellow linnet sings; + Or the tuneful nightingale + Charms the forest with her tale; + Come, with all thy various hues, + Come, and aid thy sister Muse; + Now while Phoebus riding high + Gives lustre to the land and sky! + Grongar Hill invites my song, + Draw the landscape bright and strong; + Grongar, in whose mossy cells + Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; + Grongar, in whose silent shade, + For the modest Muses made, + So oft I have, the evening still, + At the fountain of a rill, + Sate upon a flowery bed, + With my hand beneath my head; + While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood. + Over mead, and over wood, + From house to house, from hill to hill, + 'Till Contemplation had her fill. + About his chequered sides I wind, + And leave his brooks and meads behind, + And groves, and grottoes where I lay, + And vistas shooting beams of day: + Wide and wider spreads the vale, + As circles on a smooth canal: + The mountains round--unhappy fate! + Sooner or later, of all height, + Withdraw their summits from the skies, + And lessen as the others rise: + Still the prospect wider spreads, + Adds a thousand woods and meads; + Still it widens, widens still, + And sinks the newly-risen hill. + + Now I gain the mountain's brow, + What a landscape lies below! + No clouds, no vapours intervene, + But the gay, the open scene + Does the face of nature shew, + In all the hues of heaven's bow! + And, swelling to embrace the light, + Spreads around beneath the sight. + + Old castles on the cliffs arise, + Proudly towering in the skies! + Rushing from the woods, the spires + Seem from hence ascending fires! + Half his beams Apollo sheds + On the yellow mountain-heads! + Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, + And glitters on the broken rocks! + + Below me trees unnumbered rise, + Beautiful in various dyes: + The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, + The yellow beech, the sable yew, + The slender fir, that taper grows, + The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; + And beyond the purple grove, + Haunt of Phillis, queen of love! + Gaudy as the opening dawn, + Lies a long and level lawn + On which a dark hill, steep and high, + Holds and charms the wandering eye! + + Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, + His sides are clothed with waving wood, + And ancient towers crown his brow, + That cast an awful look below; + Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, + And with her arms from falling keeps; + So both a safety from the wind + On mutual dependence find. + + 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode; + 'Tis now th' apartment of the toad; + And there the fox securely feeds; + And there the poisonous adder breeds + Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds: + While, ever and anon, there falls + Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls. + Yet time has seen, that lifts the low, + And level lays the lofty brow, + Has seen this broken pile complete, + Big with the vanity of state; + But transient is the smile of fate! + A little rule, a little sway, + A sunbeam in a winter's day, + Is all the proud and mighty have + Between the cradle and the grave. + + And see the rivers how they run, + Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, + Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, + Wave succeeding wave, they go + A various journey to the deep, + Like human life to endless sleep! + Thus is nature's vesture wrought, + To instruct our wandering thought; + Thus she dresses green and gay, + To disperse our cares away. + + Ever charming, ever new, + When will the landscape tire the view! + The fountain's fall, the river's flow, + The woody valleys warm and low; + The windy summit, wild and high, + Roughly rushing on the sky; + The pleasant seat, the ruined tower, + The naked rock, the shady bower; + + The town and village, dome and farm, + Each gives each a double charm, + As pearls upon an Aethiop's arm. + + See, on the mountain's southern side, + Where the prospect opens wide, + Where the evening gilds the tide; + How close and small the hedges lie! + What streaks of meadows cross the eye! + A step methinks may pass the stream, + So little distant dangers seem; + So we mistake the future's face, + Eyed through Hope's deluding glass; + As yon summits soft and fair + Clad in colours of the air, + Which to those who journey near, + Barren, brown, and rough appear; + Still we tread the same coarse way; + The present's still a cloudy day. + + O may I with myself agree, + And never covet what I see: + Content me with an humble shade, + My passions tamed, my wishes laid; + For while our wishes wildly roll, + We banish quiet from the soul: + 'Tis thus the busy beat the air; + And misers gather wealth and care. + + Now, even now, my joys run high, + As on the mountain-turf I lie; + While the wanton Zephyr sings, + And in the vale perfumes his wings; + While the waters murmur deep; + While the shepherd charms his sheep; + While the birds unbounded fly, + And with music fill the sky, + Now, even now, my joys, run high. + + Be full, ye courts, be great who will; + Search for Peace with all your skill: + Open wide the lofty door, + Seek her on the marble floor, + In vain ye search, she is not there; + In vain ye search the domes of Care! + + Grass and flowers Quiet treads, + On the meads, and mountain-heads, + Along with Pleasure, close allied, + Ever by each other's side: + And often, by the murmuring rill, + Hears the thrush, while all is still, + Within the groves of Grongar Hill. + + + + + GEORGE BERKELEY + + + VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING + ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA + + The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime + Barren of every glorious theme, + In distant lands now waits a better time, + Producing subjects worthy fame: + + In happy climes where from the genial sun + And virgin earth such scenes ensue, + The force of art in nature seems outdone, + And fancied beauties by the true: + + In happy climes, the seat of innocence, + Where nature guides and virtue rules, + Where men shall not impose for truth and sense + The pedantry of courts and schools. + + There shall be sung another golden age, + The rise of empire and of arts, + The good and great inspiring epic rage, + The wisest heads and noblest hearts. + + Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; + Such as she bred when fresh and young, + When heavenly flame did animate her clay, + By future poets shall be sung. + + Westward the course of empire takes its way; + The four first acts already past, + A fifth shall close the drama with the day; + Time's noblest offspring is the last. + + + + + JAMES THOMSON + + + THE SEASONS + + FROM WINTER + + [HARDSHIPS AND BENEVOLENCE] + + The keener tempests come; and, fuming dun + From all the livid east or piercing north, + Thick clouds ascend, in whose capacious womb + A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed. + Heavy they roll their fleecy world along, + And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. + Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, + At first thin wavering, till at last the flakes + Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day + With a continual flow. The cherished fields + Put on their winter robe of purest white; + 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts + Along the mazy current; low the woods + Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun + Faint from the west emits his evening ray, + Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill, + Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide + The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox + Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands + The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, + Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around + The winnowing store, and claim the little boon + Which Providence assigns them. One alone, + The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, + Wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky, + In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves + + His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man + His annual visit: half-afraid, he first + Against the window beats; then brisk alights + On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor, + Eyes all the smiling family askance, + And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is, + Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs + Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds + Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, + Though timorous of heart and hard beset + By death in various forms--dark snares, and dogs, + And more unpitying men,--the garden seeks, + Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind + Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth, + With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed, + Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. + + Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind: + Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens + With food at will; lodge them below the storm, + And watch them strict, for from the bellowing east, + In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing + Sweeps up the burthen of whole wintry plains + At one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks, + Hid in the hollow of two neighbouring hills, + The billowy tempest whelms, till, upward urged, + The valley to a shining mountain swells, + Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky. + + As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce + All Winter drives along the darkened air, + In his own loose-revolving fields the swain + Disastered stands; sees other hills ascend, + Of unknown, joyless brow, and other scenes, + Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain; + Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid + Beneath the formless wild, but wanders on + From hill to dale, still more and more astray, + Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, + Stung with the thoughts of home. The thoughts of home + Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth + In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul, + What black despair, what horror fills his heart, + When, for the dusky spot which fancy feigned + + His tufted cottage rising through the snow, + He meets the roughness of the middle waste, + Far from the track and blest abode of man, + While round him night resistless closes fast, + And every tempest, howling o'er his head, + Renders the savage wilderness more wild! + Then throng the busy shapes into his mind + Of covered pits unfathomably deep + (A dire descent!), beyond the power of frost; + Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, + Smoothed up with snow; and--what is land unknown, + What water--of the still unfrozen spring, + In the loose marsh or solitary lake, + Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. + These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks + Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, + Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, + Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots + Through the wrung bosom of the dying man-- + His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. + In vain for him th' officious wife prepares + The fire fair-blazing and the vestment warm; + In vain his little children, peeping out + Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, + With tears of artless innocence. Alas! + Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, + Nor friends nor sacred home: on every nerve + The deadly Winter seizes, shuts up sense, + And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, + Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, + Stretched out and bleaching in the northern blast. + + Ah, little think the gay licentious proud + Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; + They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth + And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; + Ah, little think they, while they dance along, + How many feel, this very moment, death + And all the sad variety of pain: + How many sink in the devouring flood, + Or more devouring flame; how many bleed, + By shameful variance betwixt man and man; + How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms, + + Shut from the common air, and common use + Of their own limbs; how many drink the cup + Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread + Of misery; sore pierced by wintry winds, + How many shrink into the sordid hut + Of cheerless poverty; how many shake + With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, + Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; + Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, + They furnish matter for the tragic Muse; + Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, + With friendship, peace, and contemplation joined, + How many, racked with honest passions, droop + In deep retired distress; how many stand + Around the deathbed of their dearest friends, + And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man + Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, + That one incessant struggle render life, + One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, + Vice in his high career would stand appalled, + And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; + The conscious heart of charity would warm, + And her wide wish benevolence dilate; + The social tear would rise, the social sigh; + And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, + Refining still, the social passions work. + + + From SUMMER + + (LIFE'S MEANING TO THE GENEROUS MIND) + + Forever running an enchanted round, + Passes the day, deceitful vain and void, + As fleets the vision o'er the formful brain, + This moment hurrying wild th' impassioned soul, + The nest in nothing lost. 'Tis so to him, + The dreamer of this earth, an idle blank; + A sight of horror to the cruel wretch, + Who all day long in sordid pleasure rolled, + Himself an useless load, has squandered vile, + Upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheered + A drooping family of modest worth. + + But to the generous still-improving mind, + That gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy, + Diffusing kind beneficence around, + Boastless,--as now descends the silent dew,-- + To him the long review of ordered life + Is inward rapture, only to be felt. + + + FROM SPRING + + [THE DIVINE FORCE IN SPRING] + + Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come! + And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud, + While music wakes around, veiled in a shower + Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend! + + O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts + With unaffected grace, or walk the plain + With Innocence and Meditation joined + In soft assemblage, listen to my song, + Which thy own season paints, when nature all + Is blooming and benevolent, like thee. + + And see where surly Winter passes off, + Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts: + His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill, + The shattered forest, and the ravaged vale; + While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch-- + Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost-- + The mountains lift their green heads to the sky. + As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed, + And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze, + Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets + Deform the day delightless; so that scarce + The bittern knows his time, with bill engulfed, + To shake the sounding marsh, or from the shore + The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath + And sing their wild notes to the listening waste. + At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun, + And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more + Th' expansive atmosphere is cramped with cold, + But, full of life and vivifying soul, + Lifts the light clouds sublime and spreads them thin, + Fleecy and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven; + + Forth fly the tepid airs, and, unconfined, + Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays. + Joyous, th' impatient husbandman perceives + Relenting nature, and his lusty steers + Drives from their stalls, to where the well-used plough + Lies in the furrow, loosened from the frost; + There, unrefusing, to the harnessed yoke + They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil, + Cheered by the simple song and soaring lark; + Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share + The master leans, removes th' obstructing clay, + Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe. + White through the neighbouring fields the sower stalks, + With measured step, and liberal throws the grain + Into the faithful bosom of the ground; + The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene. + + Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious man + Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow! + Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend! + And temper all, thou world-reviving sun, + Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live + In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride, + Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear. + Such themes as these the rural Maro sung + To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height + Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined. + In ancient times, the sacred plough employed + The kings and awful fathers of mankind; + And some, with whom compared your insect tribes + Are but the beings of a summer's day, + Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm + Of mighty war, then with victorious hand, + Disdaining little delicacies, seized + The plough, and, greatly independent, scorned + All the vile stores corruption can bestow. + Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough; + And o'er your hills and long-withdrawing vales + Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun, + Luxuriant and unbounded! As the sea, + Far through his azure, turbulent domain, + Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores + Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports, + + So with superior boon may your rich soil + Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour + O'er every land, the naked nations clothe, + And be th' exhaustless granary of a world. + + Nor only through the lenient air this change, + Delicious, breathes: the penetrative sun, + His force deep-darting to the dark retreat + Of vegetation, sets the steaming power + At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth, + In various hues--but chiefly thee, gay green! + Thou smiling Nature's universal robe, + United light and shade, where the sight dwells + With growing strength and ever new delight. + From the moist meadow to the withered hill, + Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, + And swells and deepens to the cherished eye. + The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves + Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, + Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed + In full luxuriance to the sighing gales, + Where the deer rustle through the twining brake, + And the birds sing concealed. At once, arrayed + In all the colours of the flushing year + By Nature's swift and secret-working hand, + The garden glows, and fills the liberal air + With lavished fragrance, while the promised fruit + Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived, + Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, + Buried in smoke and sleep and noisome damps, + Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, + Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops + From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze + Of sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk; + Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend + Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, + And see the country, far diffused around, + One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower + Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye + Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath + The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. + + * * * * * + + What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say, + That in a powerful language, felt not heard, + Instructs the fowl of heaven, and through their breast + These arts of love diffuses? What but God? + Inspiring God! who boundless spirit all, + And unremitting energy, pervades, + Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole. + He ceaseless works alone, and yet alone + Seems not to work; with such perfection framed + Is this complex, stupendous scheme of things. + But, though concealed, to every purer eye + Th' informing author in his works appears: + Chief, lovely Spring, in thee, and thy soft scenes, + The smiling God is seen; while water, earth, + And air attest his bounty; which exalts + The brute creation to this finer thought, + And annual melts their undesigning hearts + Profusely thus in tenderness and joy, + + Still let my song a nobler note assume, + And sing th' infusive force of Spring on man, + When heaven and earth, as if contending, vie + To raise his being, and serene his soul. + Can he forbear to join the general smile + Of nature? Can fierce passions vex his breast, + While every gale is peace, and every grove + Is melody? Hence from the bounteous walks + Of flowing Spring, ye sordid sons of earth, + Hard, and unfeeling of another's woe; + Or only lavish to yourselves; away! + But come, ye generous minds, la whose wide thought, + Of all his works, creative bounty burns + With warmest beam! + + + FROM AUTUMN + + [THE PLEASING SADNESS OF THE DECLINING YEAR] + + But see! the fading many-coloured woods, + Shade deepening over shade, the country round + Imbrown, a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, + + Of every hue from wan declining green + To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse, + Low-whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks, + And give the season in its latest view. + Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm + Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave + Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn + The gentle current, while, illumined wide, + The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, + And through their lucid veil his softened force + Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, + For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm, + To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, + And soar above this little scene of things, + To tread low-thoughted Vice beneath their feet, + To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, + And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. + Thus solitary, and in pensive guise, + Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead + And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard + One dying strain to cheer the woodman's toil. + Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, + Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse; + While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, + And each wild throat whose artless strains so late + Swelled all the music of the swarming shades, + Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit + On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock, + With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, + And naught save chattering discord in their note. + Oh, let not, aimed from some inhuman eye, + The gun the music of the coming year + Destroy, and harmless, unsuspecting harm, + Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey, + In mingled murder fluttering on the ground! + The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, + A gentler mood inspires: for now the leaf + Incessant rustles from the mournful grove, + Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, + And slowly circles through the waving air; + But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs + + Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams, + Till, choked and matted with the dreary shower, + The forest walks, at every rising gale, + Roll wide the withered waste and whistle bleak. + Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields, + And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race + Their sunny robes resign; even what remained + Of stronger fruits fall from the naked tree; + And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around, + The desolated, prospect thrills the soul. + + + A HYMN + + (CONCLUDING THE SEASONS) + + These, as they change, Almighty Father, these, + Are but the varied God. The rolling year + Is full of Thee. Forth In the pleasing Spring + Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. + Wide-flush the fields; the softening air is balm; + Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; + And every sense, and every heart is joy. + Then comes thy glory in the summer-months, + With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun + Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: + And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; + And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, + By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. + Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, + And spreads a common feast for all that lives. + In winter awful thou' with clouds and storms + Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled + Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, + Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, + And humblest nature with thy northern blast. + + Mysterious round! what skill, what force Divine + Deepfelt, in these appear! a simple train, + Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, + Such beauty and beneficence combined: + Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; + And all so forming an harmonious whole; + + That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. + But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, + Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand; + That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres; + Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence + The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring: + Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; + Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; + And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, + With transport touches all the springs of life. + + Nature, attend! join every living soul, + Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, + In adoration join; and ardent raise + One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, + Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes. + Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms + Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine + Fills the brown shade with a religious awe; + And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, + Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven + Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. + His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; + And let me catch it as I muse along. + Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; + Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze + Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, + A secret world of wonders in thyself, + Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice + Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. + So roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, + In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, + Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. + Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to Him; + Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, + As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. + Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as earth asleep + Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams; + Ye constellations, while your angels strike, + Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. + + Great source of day! blest image here below + Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, + Prom world to world, the vital ocean round, + On nature write with every beam His praise. + The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world, + While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. + Bleat out afresh, ye hills: ye mossy rocks, + Retain the sound; the broad responsive low, + Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns, + And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. + Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song + Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, + Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, + Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm + The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. + Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles; + At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, + Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, + Assembled men to the deep organ join + The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, + At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; + And, as each mingling flame increases each, + In one united ardour rise to Heaven. + Or if you rather choose the rural shade, + And find a fane in every sacred grove, + There let the shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay, + The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, + Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. + For me, when I forget the darling theme, + Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray + Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, + Or Winter rises in the blackening east-- + Se my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, + And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. + + Should Fate command me to the furthest verge + Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, + Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun + Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam + Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me; + Since God is ever present, ever felt, + In the void waste as in the city full; + + And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. + When even at last the solemn hour shall come, + And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, + I cheerfully will obey; there with new powers, + Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go + Where Universal Love not smiles around, + Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns; + From seeming evil still educing good, + And better thence again, and better still, + In infinite progression. But I lose + Myself in Him, in Light ineffable! + Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise. + + + [RULE, BRITANNIA] + + AN ODE: FROM ALFRED, A MASQUE + + When Britain first, at Heaven's command, + Arose from out the azure main, + This was the charter of the land, + And guardian angels sang this strain: + Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! + Britons never will be slaves! + + The nations not so blest as thee, + Must in their turns to tyrants fall, + Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, + The dread and envy of them all. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + Still more majestic shalt thou rise, + More dreadful from each foreign stroke; + As the loud blast that tears the skies, + Serves but to root thy native oak. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; + And their attempts to bend thee down + Will but arouse thy generous flame, + But work their woe and thy renown. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + To thee belongs the rural reign; + Thy cities shall with commerce shine; + All thine shall be the subject main, + And every shore it circles thine. + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + The Muses, still with freedom found, + Shall to thy happy coast repair; + Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, + And manly hearts to guard the fair! + Rule, Britannia, etc. + + + From THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE + + O mortal man, who livest here by toil, + Do not complain of this thy hard estate: + That like an emmet thou must ever moil + Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; + And, certes, there is for it reason great, + For though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail + And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, + Withouten that would come an heavier bale-- + Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. + + In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, + With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, + A most enchanting wizard did abide, + Than whom, a fiend more fell is nowhere found. + It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; + And there a season atween June and May, + Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, + A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, + No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. + + Was naught around but images of rest: + Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; + And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, + From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, + Where never yet was creeping creature seen. + Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, + And hurled everywhere their waters sheen, + That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, + Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. + + Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, + Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, + And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, + And vacant shepherds piping in the dale; + And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, + Or stock doves 'plain amid the forest deep, + That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; + And still a coil the grasshopper did keep: + Yet all these sounds, yblent, inclined all to sleep. + + Pull in the passage of the vale, above, + A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, + Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move, + As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood; + And up the hills, on either side, a wood + Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, + Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; + And where this valley winded out, below, + The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. + + A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was: + Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; + And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, + Forever flushing round a summer sky. + There eke the soft delights, that witchingly + Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, + And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; + But whate'er smacked of 'noyance or unrest + Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. + + The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease, + Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) + Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, + That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, + And made a kind of checkered day and night. + Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, + Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight + Was placed; and, to his lute, of cruel fate + And labour harsh complained, lamenting man's estate. + + Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, + From all the roads of earth that pass there by; + For, as they chaunced to breathe on neighbouring hill, + The freshness of this valley smote their eye, + And drew them ever and anon more nigh, + Till clustering round th' enchanter false they hung, + Ymolten with his syren melody. + While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung, + And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung: + + 'Behold, ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! + See all but man with unearned pleasure gay! + See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, + Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May. + What youthful bride can equal her array? + Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? + From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, + From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, + Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. + + 'Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, + The swarming songsters of the careless grove, + Ten thousand throats that, from the flowering thorn, + Hymn their good God and carol sweet of love, + Such grateful kindly raptures them emove! + They neither plough nor sow; ne, fit for flail, + E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; + Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, + Whatever crowns the hill or smiles along the vale. + + 'Outcast of Nature, man! the wretched thrall + Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, + Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, + And of the vices, an inhuman train, + That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: + For when hard-hearted Interest first began + To poison earth, Astraea left the plain; + Guile, violence, and murder seized on man, + And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran.' + + He ceased. But still their trembling ears retained + The deep vibrations of his 'witching song, + That, by a kind of magic power, constrained + To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng: + Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipped along + In silent ease; as when beneath the beam + Of summer moons, the distant woods among, + Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam, + The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream. + + * * * * * + + Of all the gentle tenants of the place, + There was a man of special grave remark; + A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, + Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not dark; + As soote this man could sing as morning lark, + And teach the noblest morals of the heart; + But these his talents were yburied stark: + Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, + Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. + + To noontide shades incontinent he ran, + Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound, + Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, + Amid the broom he basked him on the ground, + Where the wild thyme and camomil are found; + There would he linger, till the latest ray + Of light sate trembling on the welkin's bound, + Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray, + Sauntering and slow: so had he passed many a day. + + Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they passed; + For oft the heavenly fire, that lay concealed + Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, + And all its native light anew revealed; + Oft as he traversed the cerulean field, + And marked the clouds that drove before the wind, + Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, + Ten thousand great ideas filled his mind: + But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. + + + + + EDWARD YOUNG + + + From LOVE OF FAME + + ON WOMEN + + Such blessings Nature pours, + O'erstocked mankind enjoy but half her stores: + In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, + She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green: + Pure, gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, + And waste their music on the savage race. + Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss? + Repine we guiltless in a world like this? + But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, + And painted art's depraved allurements choose. + Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air + (An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair; + Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs, + And larks, and nightingales, are odious things; + But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds, delight; + And to be pressed to death, transports her quite: + Where silver rivulets play through flowery meads, + And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their shades, + Black kennels' absent odours she regrets, + And stops her nose at beds of violets. + + * * * * * + + Few to good-breeding make a just pretense; + Good-breeding is the blossom of good-sense; + The last result of an accomplished mind, + With outward grace, the body's virtue, joined. + A violated decency now reigns; + And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains. + With Chinese painters modern toasts agree, + The point they aim at is deformity: + They throw their persons with a hoyden air + Across the room, and toss into the chair. + So far their commerce with mankind is gone, + They, for our manners, have exchanged their own. + + The modest look, the castigated grace, + The gentle movement, and slow-measured pace, + For which her lovers died, her parents prayed, + Are indecorums with the modern maid. + + * * * * * + + What swarms of amorous grandmothers I see! + And misses, ancient in iniquity! + What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming! + What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming! + Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence; + Such griping avarice, such profuse expense; + Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes; + Such licensed ill, such masquerading times; + Such venal faith, such misapplied applause; + Such flattered guilt, and such inverted laws! + + Such dissolution through the whole I find, + 'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind. + Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dressed belle + Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of Hell; + And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all + Who listen less to Collins than St. Paul. + Atheists have been but rare; since Nature's birth + Till now, she-atheists ne'er appeared on earth. + Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs + This daring character, in timorous things? + Who start at feathers, from an insect fly, + A match for nothing--but the Deity. + But, not to wrong the fair, the Muse must own + In this pursuit they court not fame alone; + But join to that a more substantial view, + 'From thinking free, to be free agents, too.' + + They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down, + In complaisance to all the fools in town. + O how they tremble at the name of prude! + And die with shame at thought of being good! + For, what will Artimis, the rich and gay, + What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs, say? + They Heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave; + Through cowardice, most execrably brave. + With our own judgments durst we to comply, + In virtue should we live, in glory die. + + Rise then, my Muse, In honest fury rise; + They dread a satire who defy the skies. + + Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own; + And nothing but his attributes dethrone. + From atheists far, they steadfastly believe + God is, and is almighty--to forgive, + His other excellence they'll not dispute; + But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute. + Shall pleasures of a short duration chain + A lady's soul in everlasting pain? + Will the great Author us poor worms destroy, + For now and then a sip of transient joy? + No; he's forever in a smiling mood; + He's like themselves; or how could he be good? + And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose. + Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose, + The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead, + A deity that's perfectly well bred. + + 'Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men; + Nor thought he more than thought great Origen. + Though once upon a time he misbehaved, + Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be saved. + Let priests do something for their one in ten; + It is their trade; so far they're honest men. + Let them cant on, since they have got the knack, + And dress their notions, like themselves, in black; + Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown, + From joys of this, to keep them all their own. + Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee; + But then they leave our untithed virtue free. + Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show: + Did ever mortal write like Rochefoucauld? + Thus pleads the Devil's fair apologist, + And, pleading, safely enters on his list. + + + + + NIGHT-THOUGHTS + + + [MAN'S MARVELLOUS NATURE] + + How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, + How complicate, how wonderful is man! + How passing wonder He who made him such, + Who centred in our make such strange extremes! + From different natures marvellously mixed, + Connection exquisite of distant worlds! + Distinguished link in being's endless chain! + Midway from nothing to the Deity! + A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed! + Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine! + Dim miniature of greatness absolute! + An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! + Helpless immortal! insect infinite! + A worm! A god!--I tremble at myself, + And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, + Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast + And wondering at her own. How reason reels! + O what a miracle to man is man, + Triumphantly distressed; what joy! what dread! + Alternately transported and alarmed! + What can preserve my life? or what destroy? + An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; + Legions of angels can't confine me there. + + + [SATIETY IN THIS WORLD] + + Live ever here, Lorenzo? Shocking thought! + So shocking, they who wish disown it, too; + Disown from shame what they from folly crave. + Live ever in the womb nor see the light? + For what live ever here? With labouring step + To tread our former footsteps? pace the round + Eternal? to climb life's worn, heavy wheel, + Which draws up nothing new? to beat, and beat + The beaten track? to bid each wretched day + The former mock? to surfeit on the same, + And yawn our joys? or thank a misery + For change, though sad? to see what we have seen; + Hear, till unheard, the same old slabbered tale? + To taste the tasted, and at each return + Less tasteful? o'er our palates to decant + Another vintage? strain a flatter year, + Through loaded vessels and a laxer tone? + Crazy machines, to grind earth's wasted fruits! + + + [GOD JUST AS WELL AS MERCIFUL] + + Thou most indulgent, most tremendous Power! + Still more tremendous for thy wondrous love! + That arms, with awe more awful, thy commands; + And foul transgression dips in sevenfold guilt! + How our hearts tremble at thy love immense! + In love immense, inviolably just! + Thou, rather than thy justice should be stained, + Didst stain the cross; and, work of wonders far + The greatest, that thy dearest far might bleed. + + Bold thought! shall I dare speak it, or repress? + Should man more execrate, or boast, the guilt + Which roused such vengeance? which such love inflamed? + Our guilt (how mountainous!) with outstretched arms, + Stern justice and soft-smiling love embrace, + Supporting, in full majesty, thy throne, + When seemed its majesty to need support, + Or that, or man, inevitably lost; + What, but the fathomless of thought divine, + Could labour such expedient from despair, + And rescue both? both rescue! both exalt! + O how are both exalted by the deed! + The wondrous deed! or shall I call it more + A wonder in Omnipotence itself! + A mystery no less to gods than men! + + Not thus our infidels th' Eternal draw,-- + A God all o'er, consummate, absolute, + Full-orbed, in his whole round of rays complete. + They set at odds Heaven's jarring attributes, + And, with one excellence, another wound; + Maim Heaven's perfection, break its equal beams, + Bid mercy triumph over--God himself, + Undeified by their opprobrious praise; + A God all mercy, is a God unjust. + + + + + EDWARD YOUNG + + + (MAN'S NATURE PROVES HIS IMMORTALITY) + + In man, the more we dive, the more we see + Heaven's signet stamping an immortal make. + Dive to the bottom of the soul, the base + Sustaining all, what find we? Knowledge, love. + As light and heat essential to the sun, + These to the soul. And why, if souls expire? + How little lovely here! How little known! + Small knowledge we dig up with endless toil; + And love unfeigned may purchase perfect hate. + Why starved on earth our angel appetites, + While brutal are indulged their fulsome fill? + Were then capacities divine conferred + As a mock diadem, in savage sport, + Rank insult of our pompous poverty, + Which reaps but pain from seeming claims so fair? + In future age lies no redress? And shuts + Eternity the door on our complaint? + If so, for what strange ends were mortals made! + The worst to wallow, and the best to weep; + The man who merits most, must most complain: + Can we conceive a disregard in Heaven + What the worst perpetrate or best endure? + + This cannot be. To love, and know, in man + Is boundless appetite, and boundless power: + And these demonstrate boundless objects, too. + Objects, powers, appetites, Heaven suits in all; + Nor, nature through, e'er violates this sweet + Eternal concord, on her tuneful string. + Is man the sole exception from her laws? + Eternity struck off from human hope, + (I speak with truth, but veneration too) + Man is a monster, the reproach of Heaven, + A stain, a dark impenetrable cloud + On Nature's beauteous aspect; and deforms + (Amazing blot!) deforms her with her lord + If such is man's allotment, what is Heaven? + Or own the soul immortal, or blaspheme. + + Or own the soul immortal, or invert + All order. Go, mock-majesty! go, man! + And bow to thy superiors of the stall; + + Through every scene of sense superior far: + They graze the turf untilled; they drink the stream + Unbrewed, and ever full, and unembittered + With doubts, fears, fruitless hopes, regrets, despair. + Mankind's peculiar! reason's precious dower! + No foreign clime they ransack for their robes, + No brother cite to the litigious bar. + Their good is good entire, unmixed, unmarred; + They find a paradise in every field, + On boughs forbidden, where no curses hang: + Their ill no more than strikes the sense, unstretched + By previous dread or murmur in the rear; + When the worst comes, it comes unfeared; one stroke + Begins and ends their woe: they die but once; + Blessed incommunicable privilege! for which + Proud man, who rules the globe and reads the stars, + Philosopher or hero, sighs in vain. + Account for this prerogative in brutes: + No day, no glimpse of day, to solve the knot + But what beams on it from eternity. + O sole and sweet solution! that unties + The difficult, and softens the severe; + The cloud on Nature's beauteous face dispels, + Restores bright order, easts the brute beneath, + And re-enthrones us in supremacy + Of joy, e'en here. Admit immortal life, + And virtue is knight-errantry no more: + Each virtue brings in hand a golden dower + Far richer in reversion: Hope exults, + And, though much bitter in our cup is thrown, + Predominates and gives the taste of Heaven. + + + + + ANONYMOUS + + + THE HAPPY SAVAGE + + Oh, happy he who never saw the face + Of man, nor heard the sound of human voice! + But soon as born was carried and exposed + In some vast desert, suckled by the wolf + Or shaggy bear, more kind than our fell race; + Who with his fellow brutes can range around + The echoing forest. His rude artless mind + Uncultivated as the soil, he joins + The dreadful harmony of howling wolves, + And the fierce lion's roar; while far away + Th' affrighted traveller retires and trembles. + Happy the lonely savage! nor deceived, + Nor vexed, nor grieved; in every darksome cave, + Under each verdant shade, he takes repose. + Sweet are his slumbers: of all human arts + Happily ignorant, nor taught by wisdom + Numberless woes, nor polished into torment. + + + + + SOAME JENYNS + + + From AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE + + Were once these maxims fixed, that God's our friend, + Virtue our good, and happiness our end. + How soon must reason o'er the world prevail, + And error, fraud, and superstition fail! + None would hereafter then with groundless fear + Describe th' Almighty cruel and severe, + Predestinating some without pretence + To Heaven, and some to Hell for no offence; + Inflicting endless pains for transient crimes, + And favouring sects or nations, men or times. + + To please him none would foolishly forbear + Or food, or rest, or itch in shirts of hair, + Or deem it merit to believe or teach + What reason contradicts, within its reach; + None would fierce zeal for piety mistake, + Or malice for whatever tenet's sake, + Or think salvation to one sect confined, + And Heaven too narrow to contain mankind. + + * * * * * + + No servile tenets would admittance find + Destructive of the rights of humankind; + Of power divine, hereditary right, + And non-resistance to a tyrant's might. + For sure that all should thus for one be cursed, + Is but great nature's edict just reversed. + No moralists then, righteous to excess, + Would show fair Virtue in so black a dress, + That they, like boys, who some feigned sprite array, + First from the spectre fly themselves away: + No preachers in the terrible delight, + But choose to win by reason, not affright; + Not, conjurors like, in fire and brimstone dwell, + And draw each moving argument from Hell. + + * * * * * + + No more applause would on ambition wait, + And laying waste the world be counted great, + But one good-natured act more praises gain, + Than armies overthrown, and thousands slain; + No more would brutal rage disturb our peace, + But envy, hatred, war, and discord cease; + Our own and others' good each hour employ, + And all things smile with universal joy; + Virtue with Happiness, her consort, joined, + Would regulate and bless each human mind, + And man be what his Maker first designed. + + + + + PHILIP DODDRIDGE + + + SURSUM + + Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, + With all your feeble light; + Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, + Pale empress of the night. + + And thou refulgent orb of day, + In brighter flames arrayed; + My soul that springs beyond thy sphere, + No more demands thine aid. + + Ye stars are but the shining dust + Of my divine abode, + The pavement of those heavenly courts + Where I shall reign with God. + + The Father of eternal light + Shall there His beams display; + Nor shall one moment's darkness mix + With that unvaried day. + + No more the drops of piercing grief + Shall swell into mine eyes; + Nor the meridian sun decline + Amidst those brighter skies. + + + + + WILLIAM SOMERVILLE + + + FROM THE CHASE + + Here on this verdant spot, where nature kind, + With double blessings crowns the farmer's hopes; + Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank mead + Affords the wandering hares a rich repast; + Throw off thy ready pack. See, where they spread + And range around, and dash the glittering dew. + If some staunch hound, with his authentic voice, + Avow the recent trail, the justling tribe + Attend his call, then with one mutual cry, + The welcome news confirm, and echoing hills + Repeat the pleasing tale. See how they thread + The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along! + But quick they back recoil, and wisely check + Their eager haste; then o'er the fallowed ground + How leisurely they work, and many a pause + Th' harmonious concert breaks; till more assured + With joy redoubled the low valleys ring. + What artful labyrinths perplex their way! + Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants, she doubts + If now she lives; she trembles as she sits, + With horror seized. The withered grass that clings + Around her head of the same russet hue + Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyes + With life full-beaming her vain wiles betrayed. + At distance draw thy pack, let all be hushed, + No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard, + Lest the wild hound run gadding o'er the plain + Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. + Now gently put her off; see how direct + To her known mew she flies! Here, huntsman, bring + (But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds, + And calmly lay them in. How low they stoop, + And seem to plough the ground! then all at once + With greedy nostrils snuff the fuming steam + That glads their fluttering hearts. As winds let loose + From the dark caverns of the blustering god, + They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn. + Hope gives them wings, while she's spurred on by fear; + The welkin rings; men, dogs, hills, racks, and woods + In the full concert join. Now, my brave youths, + Stripped for the chase, give all your souls to joy! + See how their coursers, than the mountain roe + More fleet, the verdant carpet skim; thick clouds + Snorting they breathe; their shining hoofs scarce print + The grass unbruised; when emulation fired, + They strain, to lead the field, top the barred gate, + O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush + The thorny-twining hedge; the riders bend + O'er their arched necks; with steady hands, by turns + Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. + Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, + Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone, + And with the panting winds lag far behind. + + + + + HENRY BROOKE + + FROM UNIVERSAL BEAUTY + + [THE DEITY IN EVERY ATOM] + + Thus beauty, mimicked in our humbler strains, + Illustrious through the world's great poem reigns! + The One grows sundry by creative power, + Th' eternal's found in each revolving hour; + Th' immense appears in every point of space, + Th' unchangeable in nature's varying face; + Th' invisible conspicuous to our mind, + And Deity in every atom shrined. + + + [NATURE SUPERIOR TO CIVILIZATION] + + O Nature, whom the song aspires to scan! + O Beauty, trod by proud insulting man, + This boasted tyrant of thy wondrous ball, + This mighty, haughty, little lord of all; + This king o'er reason, but this slave to sense, + Of wisdom careless, but of whim immense; + Towards thee incurious, ignorant, profane, + But of his own, dear, strange productions vain! + Then with this champion let the field be fought, + And nature's simplest arts 'gainst human wisdom brought. + Let elegance and bounty here unite-- + There kings beneficent and courts polite; + Here nature's wealth--there chemist's golden dreams; + Her texture here--and there the statesman's schemes; + Conspicuous here let sacred truth appear-- + The courtier's word, and lordling's honour, there; + Here native sweets in boon profusion flow-- + There smells that scented nothing of a beau; + Let justice here unequal combat wage-- + Nor poise the judgment of the law-learned sage; + Though all-proportioned with exactest skill, + Yet gay as woman's wish, and various as her will. + O say ye pitied, envied, wretched great, + Who veil pernicion with the mask of state! + Whence are those domes that reach the mocking skies, + And vainly emulous of nature rise? + Behold the swain projected o'er the vale! + See slumbering peace his rural eyelids seal; + Earth's flowery lap supports his vacant head, + Beneath his limbs her broidered garments spread; + Aloft her elegant pavilion bends, + And living shade of vegetation lends, + With ever propagated bounty blessed, + And hospitably spread for every guest: + No tinsel here adorns a tawdry woof, + Nor lying wash besmears a varnished roof; + With native mode the vivid colours shine, + And Heaven's own loom has wrought the weft divine, + Where art veils art, and beauties' beauties close, + While central grace diffused throughout the system flows. + + + [THE SPLENDOUR OF INSECTS] + + Gemmed o'er their heads the mines of India gleam, + And heaven's own wardrobe has arrayed their frame; + Each spangled back bright sprinkling specks adorn, + Each plume imbibes the rosy-tinctured morn; + Spread on each wing, the florid seasons glow, + Shaded and verged with the celestial bow, + Where colours blend an ever-varying dye, + And wanton in their gay exchanges vie. + Not all the glitter fops and fair ones prize, + The pride of fools, and pity of the wise; + Not all the show and mockery of state, + The little, low, fine follies of the great; + Not all the wealth which eastern pageants wore, + What still our idolizing worlds adore; + Can boast the least inimitable grace + Which decks profusive this illustrious race. + + + [MORAL LESSONS FROM ANIMAL LIFE] + + Ye self-sufficient sons of reasoning pride, + Too wise to take Omniscience for your guide, + Those rules from insects, birds, and brutes discern + Which from the Maker you disdain to learn! + The social friendship, and the firm ally, + The filial sanctitude, and nuptial tie, + Patience in want, and faith to persevere, + Th' endearing sentiment, and tender care, + Courage o'er private interest to prevail, + And die all Decii for the public weal. + + + [PROMPTINGS OF DIVINE INSTINCT] + + Dispersed through every copse or marshy plain, + Where hunts the woodcock or the annual crane, + Where else encamped the feathered legions spread + Or bathe incumbent on their oozy bed, + The brimming lake thy smiling presence fills, + And waves the banners of a thousand hills. + Thou speed'st the summons of thy warning voice: + Winged at thy word, the distant troops rejoice, + From every quarter scour the fields of air, + And to the general rendezvous repair; + Each from the mingled rout disporting turns, + And with the love of kindred plumage burns. + Thy potent will instinctive bosoms feel, + And here arranging semilunar, wheel; + Or marshalled here the painted rhomb display + Or point the wedge that cleaves th' aerial way: + Uplifted on thy wafting breath they rise; + Thou pav'st the regions of the pathless skies, + Through boundless tracts support'st the journeyed host + And point'st the voyage to the certain coast,-- + Thou the sure compass and the sea they sail, + The chart, the port, the steerage, and the gale! + + + PROLOGUE TO 'GUSTAVUS VASA' + + Britons! this night presents a state distressed: + Though brave, yet vanquished; and though great, oppressed. + Vice, ravening vulture, on her vitals preyed; + Her peers, her prelates, fell corruption swayed: + Their rights, for power, the ambitious weakly sold: + The wealthy, poorly, for superfluous gold, + Hence wasting ills, hence severing factions rose, + And gave large entrance to invading foes: + Truth, justice, honour, fled th' infected shore; + For freedom, sacred freedom, was no more. + Then, greatly rising in his country's right, + Her hero, her deliverer sprung to light: + A race of hardy northern sons he led, + Guiltless of courts, untainted and unread; + Whose inborn spirit spurned the ignoble fee, + Whose hands scorned bondage, for their hearts were free. + Ask ye what law their conquering cause confessed?-- + Great Nature's law, the law within the breast: + Formed by no art, and to no sect confined, + But stamped by Heaven upon th' unlettered mind. + Such, such of old, the first born natives were + Who breathed the virtues of Britannia's air, + Their realm when mighty Caesar vainly sought, + For mightier freedom against Caesar fought, + And rudely drove the famed invader home, + To tyrannize o'er polished--venal Rome. + Our bard, exalted in a freeborn flame, + To every nation would transfer this claim: + He to no state, no climate, bounds his page, + But bids the moral beam through every age. + Then be your judgment generous as his plan; + Ye sons of freedom! save the friend of man. + + + From CONRADE, A FRAGMENT + + What do I love--what is it that mine eyes + Turn round in search of--that my soul longs after, + But cannot quench her thirst?--'Tis Beauty, Phelin! + I see it wide beneath the arch of heaven, + When the stars peep upon their evening hour, + And the moon rises on the eastern wave, + Housed in a cloud of gold! I see it wide + In earth's autumnal taints of various landscape + When the first ray of morning tips the trees, + And fires the distant rock! I hear its voice + When thy hand sends the sound along the gale, + Swept from the silver strings or on mine ear + Drops the sweet sadness! At my heart I feel + Its potent grasp, I melt beneath the touch, + When the tale pours upon my sense humane + The woes of other times! What art thou, Beauty? + Thou art not colour, fancy, sound, nor form-- + These but the conduits are, whence the soul quaffs + The liquor of its heaven. Whate'er thou art, + Nature, or Nature's spirit, thou art all + I long for! Oh, descend upon my thoughts! + To thine own music tune, thou power of grace, + The cordage of my heart! Fill every shape + That rises to my dream or wakes to vision; + And touch the threads of every mental nerve, + With all thy sacred feelings! + + + + + MATTHEW GREEN + + + FROM THE SPLEEN + + To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen + Some recommend the bowling-green; + Some, hilly walks; all, exercise; + Fling but a stone, the giant dies. + Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been + Extreme good doctors for the spleen; + And kitten, if the humour hit, + Has harlequined away the fit. + + Since mirth is good in this behalf, + At some particulars let us laugh: + Witlings, brisk fools, cursed with half-sense, + That stimulates their impotence; + Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies, + Err with their wings for want of eyes; + Poor authors worshipping a calf, + Deep tragedies that make us laugh, + A strict dissenter saying grace, + A lecturer preaching for a place, + Folks, things prophetic to dispense, + Making the past the future tense, + The popish dubbing of a priest, + Fine epitaphs on knaves deceased. + + * * * * * + + Forced by soft violence of prayer, + The blithesome goddess soothes my care, + I feel the deity inspire, + And thus she models my desire. + Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid, + Annuity securely made, + A farm some twenty miles from town, + Small, tight, salubrious, and my own; + Two maids, that never saw the town, + A serving-man not quite a clown, + A boy to help to tread the mow, + And drive, while t'other holds the plough; + A chief, of temper formed to please, + Fit to converse, and keep the keys; + And better to preserve the peace, + Commissioned by the name of niece; + With understandings of a size + To think their master very wise. + + + + + WILLIAM SHENSTONE + + + FROM THE SCHOOLMISTRESS + + Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, + Emblem right meet of decency does yield: + Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, + As is the harebell that adorns the field; + + And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield + Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, + With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled; + And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, + And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. + + * * * * * + + A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; + A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; + 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; + 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! + 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare; + And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around, + Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; + For they in gaping wonderment abound, + And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. + + * * * * * + + Lo, now with state she utters the command! + Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; + Their books of stature small they take in hand, + Which with pellucid horn secured are; + To save from finger wet the letters fair: + The work so gay, that on their back is seen, + St. George's high achievements does declare; + On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been + Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween! + + Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beam + Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write! + As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, + Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, + Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. + For brandishing the rod, she doth begin + To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight! + And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, + Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. + + O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, + His little sister doth his peril see: + All playful as she sate, she grows demure; + She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; + She meditates a prayer to set him free: + Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, + (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) + To her sad grief that swells in either eye, + And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. + + The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, + Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: + By turns, astonied, every twig survey, + And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware; + Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; + Till fear has taught them a performance meet, + And to the well-known chest the dame repairs; + Whence oft with sugared cates she doth 'em greet, + And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet! + + * * * * * + + Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear! + Even now sagacious foresight points to show + A little bench of heedless bishops here, + And there a chancellor in embryo, + Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, + As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die! + Though now he crawl along the ground so low, + Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high, + Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly. + + + + WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY + + + To thee, fair freedom! I retire + From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; + Nor art thou found in mansions higher + Than the low cot, or humble inn. + + 'Tis here with boundless power I reign; + And every health which I begin, + Converts dull port to bright champagne; + Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. + + I fly from pomp, I fly from plate! + I fly from falsehood's specious grin! + Freedom I love, and form I hate, + And choose my lodgings at an inn. + + Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, + Which lacqueys else might hope to win; + It buys, what courts have not in store; + It buys me freedom, at an inn. + + Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, + Where'er his stages may have been, + May sigh to think he still has found + The warmest welcome at an inn. + + + + + JONATHAN SWIFT + + + FROM THE BEASTS' CONFESSION + + When beasts could speak, (the learned say + They still can do so every day,) + It seems they had religion then, + As much as now we find in men. + It happened, when a plague broke out, + (Which therefore made them more devout,) + The king of brutes (to make it plain, + Of quadrupeds I only mean) + By proclamation gave command + That every subject in the land + Should to the priest confess their sins; + And thus the pious Wolf begins:-- + 'Good father, I must own with shame, + That often I have been to blame: + I must confess, on Friday last, + Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: + But I defy the basest tongue + To prove I did my neighbour wrong; + Or ever went to seek my food, + By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.' + + The Ass approaching next, confessed + That in his heart he loved a jest: + A wag he was, he needs must own, + And could not let a dunce alone: + + Sometimes his friend he would not spare, + And might perhaps be too severe: + But yet the worst that could be said, + He was a wit both born and bred; + And, if it be a sin and shame, + Nature alone must bear the blame: + One fault he has, is sorry for't, + His ears are half a foot too short; + Which could he to the standard bring, + He'd show his face before the king: + Then for his voice, there's none disputes + That he's the nightingale of brutes. + + The Swine with contrite heart allowed + His shape and beauty made him proud: + In diet was perhaps too nice, + But gluttony was ne'er his vice: + In every turn of life content, + And meekly took what fortune sent; + Inquire through all the parish round, + A better neighbour ne'er was found; + His vigilance might some displease; + 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. + + The mimic Ape began his chatter, + How evil tongues his life bespatter; + Much of the censuring world complained, + Who said, his gravity was feigned: + Indeed, the strictness of his morals + Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: + He saw, and he was grieved to see 't, + His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: + He found his virtues too severe + For our corrupted times to bear; + Yet such a lewd licentious age + Might well excuse a stoic's rage. + + The Goat advanced with decent pace, + And first excused his youthful face; + Forgiveness begged that he appeared + ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. + 'Tis true, he was not much inclined + To fondness for the female kind: + Not, as his enemies object, + From chance, or natural defect; + + Not by his frigid constitution; + But through a pious resolution: + For he had made a holy vow + Of chastity, as monks do now: + Which he resolved to keep for ever hence + And strictly too, as doth his reverence. + + Apply the tale, and you shall find, + How just it suits with human kind. + Some faults we own; but can you guess? + --Why, virtues carried to excess, + Wherewith our vanity endows us, + Though neither foe nor friend allows us. + + The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) + He never squeezed a needy client; + And this he makes his constant rule, + For which his brethren call him fool; + His conscience always was so nice, + He freely gave the poor advice; + By which he lost, he may affirm, + A hundred fees last Easter term; + While others of the learned robe, + Would break the patience of a Job. + No pleader at the bar could match + His diligence and quick dispatch; + Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, + Above a term or two at most. + + The cringing Knave, who seeks a place + Without success, thus tells his case: + Why should he longer mince the matter? + He failed, because he could not flatter; + He had not learned to turn his coat, + Nor for a party give his vote: + His crime he quickly understood; + Too zealous for the nation's good: + He found the ministers resent it, + Yet could not for his heart repent it. + + The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, + Though it would raise him to the lawn: + He passed his hours among his books; + You find it in his meagre looks: + He might, if he were worldly wise, + Preferment get, and spare his eyes; + But owns he had a stubborn spirit, + That made him trust alone to merit; + Would rise by merit to promotion; + Alas! a mere chimeric notion. + + The Doctor, if you will believe him, + Confessed a sin; (and God forgive him!) + Called up at midnight, ran to save + A blind old beggar from the grave: + But see how Satan spreads his snares; + He quite forgot to say his prayers. + He cannot help it, for his heart, + Sometimes to act the parson's part: + Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, + That moves his patients to repentance; + And, when his medicines do no good, + Supports their minds with heavenly food: + At which, however well intended. + He hears the clergy are offended; + And grown so bold behind his back, + To call him hypocrite and quack. + + * * * * * + + I own the moral not exact, + Besides, the tale is false, in fact; + And so absurd, that could I raise up, + From fields Elysian, fabling. + Aesop, I would accuse him to his face, + For libelling the four-foot race. + Creatures of every kind but ours + Well comprehend their natural powers, + While we, whom reason ought to sway, + Mistake our talents every day. + The Ass was never known so stupid + To act the part of Tray or Cupid; + Nor leaps upon his master's lap. + There to be stroked, and fed with pap, + As Aesop would the world persuade; + He better understands his trade: + Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, + But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. + Our author's meaning, I presume, is + A creature _bipes et implumis_; + + Wherein the moralist designed + A compliment on human kind; + For here he owns, that now and then + Beasts may degenerate into men. + + + FROM VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT + + Vain human kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, + Their empire in our hearts divide. + Give others riches, power, and station, + 'Tis all on me a usurpation. + I have no title to aspire; + Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. + In Pope I cannot read a line + But with a sigh I wish it mine; + When he can in one couplet fix + More sense than I can do in six, + It gives me such a jealous fit I cry, + 'Pox take him and his wit!' + I grieve to be outdone by Gay + In my own humorous biting way. + Arbuthnot is no more my friend, + Who dares to irony pretend, + Which I was born to introduce, + Refined it first, and showed its use. + St. John, as well as Pultney, knows, + That I had some repute for prose; + And, till they drove me out of date, + Could maul a minister of state. + If they have _mortified_ my pride, + And made me throw my pen aside: + If with such talents Heaven has blessed 'em, + Have I not reason to detest 'em? + + * * * * * + + Suppose me dead; and then suppose + A club assembled at the Rose; + Where, from discourse of this and that, + I grow the subject of their chat. + + And while they toss my name about, + With favour some, and some without, + One, quite indifferent in the cause, + My character impartial draws: + + 'The Dean, if we believe report, + Was never ill-received at court. + As for his works in verse and prose, + I own myself no judge of those; + Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em, + But this I know, all people bought 'em, + As with a moral view designed + To cure the vices of mankind, + His vein, ironically grave, + Exposed the fool, and lashed the knave. + To steal a hint was never known, + But what he writ was all his own. + + 'He never thought an honour done him, + Because a duke was proud to own him; + Would rather slip aside and choose + To talk with wits in dirty shoes; + Despised the fools with stars and garters, + So often seen caressing Chartres. + He never courted men in station, + Nor persons held in admiration; + Of no man's greatness was afraid, + Because he sought for no man's aid. + Though trusted long in great affairs, + He gave himself no haughty airs. + Without regarding private ends. + Spent all his credit for his friends; + And only chose the wise and good; + No flatterers; no allies in blood: + But succoured virtue in distress, + And seldom failed of good success; + As numbers in their hearts must own, + Who, but for him, had been unknown. + + * * * * * + + 'Perhaps I may allow the Dean + Had too much satire in his vein; + And seemed determined not to starve it, + Because no age could more deserve it. + + Yet malice never was his aim; + He lashed the vice, but spared the name; + No individual could resent, + Where thousands equally were meant; + His satire points at no defect, + But what all mortals may correct; + For he abhorred that senseless tribe + Who call it humour when they gibe: + He spared a hump, or crooked nose, + Whose owners set not up for beaux. + True genuine dulness moved his pity, + Unless it offered to be witty. + Those who their ignorance confessed, + He never offended with a jest; + But laughed to hear an idiot quote + A verse from Horace learned by rote. + + 'He knew a hundred pleasing stories, + With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: + Was cheerful to his dying day; + And friends would let him have his way. + + 'He gave the little wealth he had + To build a house for fools and mad; + And showed by one satiric touch, + No nation wanted it so much.' + + + + + CHARLES WESLEY + + + FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY + + Hark! how all the welkin rings + 'Glory to the King of kings! + Peace on earth, and mercy mild, + God and sinners reconciled!' + + Joyful, all ye nations, rise, + Join the triumph of the skies; + Universal nature say, + 'Christ the Lord is born to-day!' + + Christ, by highest Heaven adored; + Christ, the everlasting Lord; + Late in time behold Him come, + Offspring of a virgin's womb! + + Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; + Hail, th' incarnate Deity, + Pleased as man with men to appear, + Jesus, our Immanuel here! + + Hail! the heavenly Prince of Peace! + Hail! the Sun of Righteousness! + Light and life to all He brings, + Risen with healing in His wings. + + Mild He lays His glory by, + Barn that man no more may die, + Born to raise the sons of earth, + Born to give them second birth. + + Come, Desire of Nations, come, + Fix in us Thy humble home! + Rise, the Woman's conquering Seed, + Bruise in us the Serpent's head! + + Now display Thy saving power, + Ruined nature now restore, + Now in mystic union join + Thine to ours, and ours to Thine! + + Adam's likeness, Lord, efface; + Stamp Thy image in its place; + Second Adam from above, + Reinstate us in Thy love! + + Let us Thee, though lost, regain, + Thee, the Life, the Inner Man; + O! to all Thyself impart, + Formed in each believing heart! + + + FOR EASTER-DAY + + 'Christ the Lord is risen to-day,' + Sons of men and angels say: + Raise your joys and triumphs high, + Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply. + + Love's redeeming work is done, + Fought the fight, the battle won: + Lo! our Sun's eclipse is o'er; + Lo! He sets in blood no more. + + Vain the stone, the watch, the seal; + Christ hath burst the gates of hell! + Death in vain forbids His rise; + Christ hath opened Paradise! + + Lives again our glorious King: + Where, O Death, is now thy sting? + Dying once, He all doth save: + Where thy victory, O Grave? + + Soar we now where Christ has led, + Following our exalted Head; + Made like Him, like Him we rise; + Ours the Cross, the grave, the skies. + + What though once we perished all, + Partners in our parents' fall? + Second life we all receive, + In our Heavenly Adam live. + + Risen with Him, we upward move; + Still we seek the things above; + Still pursue, and kiss the Son + Seated on His Father's Throne. + + Scarce on earth a thought bestow, + Dead to all we leave below; + Heaven our aim, and loved abode, + Hid our life with Christ in God: + + Hid, till Christ our Life appear + Glorious in His members here; + Joined to Him, we then shall shine, + All immortal, all divine. + + Hail the Lord of Earth and Heaven! + Praise to Thee by both be given! + Thee we greet triumphant now! + Hail, the Resurrection Thou! + + King of glory, Soul of bliss! + Everlasting life is this, + Thee to know, Thy power to prove, + Thus to sing, and thus to love! + + + IN TEMPTATION + + Jesu, lover of my soul, + Let me to Thy bosom fly, + While the nearer waters roll, + While the tempest still is high! + Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, + Till the storm of life is past, + Safe into the haven guide; + O receive my soul at last! + + Other refuge have I none; + Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; + Leave, ah! leave me not alone, + Still support and comfort me! + All my trust on Thee is stayed, + All my help from Thee I bring: + Cover my defenceless head + With the shadow of Thy wing! + + Wilt Thou not regard my call? + Wilt Thou not accept my prayer? + Lo! I sink, I faint, I fall! + Lo! on Thee I cast my care! + Reach me out Thy gracious hand! + While I of Thy strength receive, + Hoping against hope I stand, + Dying, and behold I live! + + Thou, O Christ, art all I want; + More than all in Thee I find: + Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, + Heal the sick, and lead the blind! + Just and holy is Thy Name; + I am all unrighteousness; + False and full of sin I am, + Thou art full of truth and grace. + + Plenteous grace with Thee is found, + Grace to cover all my sin; + Let the healing streams abound; + Make and keep me pure within! + Thou of Life the Fountain art, + Freely let me take of Thee; + Spring Thou up within my heart! + Rise to all eternity! + + + WRESTLING JACOB + + Come, O thou Traveller unknown, + Whom still I hold, but cannot see; + My company before is gone, + And I am left alone with Thee; + With Thee all night I mean to stay, + And wrestle till the break of day. + + I need not tell Thee who I am, + My misery or sin declare; + Thyself hast called me by my name; + Look on Thy hands, and read it there! + But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou? + Tell me Thy name, and tell me now. + + In vain Thou strugglest to get free, + I never will unloose my hold; + Art Thou the Man that died for me? + The secret of Thy love unfold. + + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal + Thy new, unutterable name? + Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell: + To know it now, resolved I am: + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + 'Tis all in vain to hold Thy tongue, + Or touch the hollow of my thigh; + Though every sinew be unstrung, + Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly; + Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + What though my shrinking flesh complain, + And murmur to contend so long? + I rise superior to my pain; + When I am weak, then I am strong: + And when my all of strength shall fail, + I shall with the God-Man prevail. + + My strength is gone; my nature dies; + I sink beneath Thy weighty hand, + Faint to revive, and fall to rise; + I fall, and yet by faith I stand: + I stand, and will not let Thee go, + Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. + + Yield to me now, for I am weak, + But confident in self-despair; + Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, + Be conquered by my instant prayer! + Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move, + And tell me, if Thy name is Love? + + 'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me! + I hear Thy whisper in my heart! + The morning breaks, the shadows flee; + Pure universal Love Thou art! + To me, to all, Thy bowels move; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + My prayer hath power with God; the grace + Unspeakable I now receive; + Through faith I see Thee face to face, + I see Thee face to face, and live: + In vain I have not wept and strove; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art; + Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend! + Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, + But stay, and love me to the end! + Thy mercies never shall remove, + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + The Sun of Righteousness on me + Hath rose, with healing in His wings; + Withered my nature's strength, from Thee + My soul its life and succour brings; + My help is all laid up above; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + Contented now upon my thigh + I halt, till life's short journey end; + All helplessness, all weakness, I + On Thee alone for strength depend; + Nor have I power from Thee to move; + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love. + + Lame as I am, I take the prey, + Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome; + I leap for joy, pursue my way, + And as a bounding hart fly home! + Through all eternity to prove, + Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love! + + + + + ROBERT BLAIR + + + FROM THE GRAVE + + See yonder hallowed fane;--the pious work + Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, + And buried midst the wreck of things which were; + There lie interred the more illustrious dead. + The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks + Till now I never heard a sound so dreary: + Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, + Rooked in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles, + Black--plastered, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons + And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound + Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, + The mansions of the dead.--Roused from their slumbers, + In grim array the grisly spectres rise, + Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, + Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night. + Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! + I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill. + + * * * * * + + Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seen + By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees, + The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand, + Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, + And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, + (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,) + That tell in homely phrase who lie below. + Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, + The sound of something purring at his heels; + Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, + Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows; + Who gather round, and wonder at the tale + Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, + That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand + O'er some new-opened grave; and (strange to tell!) + Evanishes at crowing of the cock. + + The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spied, + Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead: + Listless, she crawls along in doleful black, + Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye, + Fast falling down her now untasted cheek: + Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man + She drops; whilst busy, meddling memory, + In barbarous succession musters up + The past endearments of their softer hours, + Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks + She sees him, and indulging the fond thought, + Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf, + Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way. + + * * * * * + + When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, + Not unattentive to the call, shall wake, + And every joint possess its proper place + With a new elegance of form unknown + To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul + Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd + Singling its other half, into its arms + Shall rush with all the impatience of a man + That's new come home, who having long been absent + With haste runs over every different room + In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! + Nor time nor death shall part them ever more. + 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night, + We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. + + Thus at the shut of even the weary bird + Leaves the wide air and, in some lonely brake, + Cowers down and dozes till the dawn of day, + Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away. + + + + + WILLIAM WHITEHEAD + + + FROM ON RIDICULE + + Our mirthful age, to all extremes a prey, + Even, courts the lash, and laughs her pains away, + Declining worth imperial wit supplies, + And Momus triumphs, while Astraea flies. + No truth so sacred, banter cannot hit, + No fool so stupid but he aims at wit. + Even those whose breasts ne'er planned one virtuous deed, + Nor raised a thought beyond the earth they tread: + Even those can censure, those can dare deride + A Bacon's avarice, or a Tully's pride; + And sneer at human checks by Nature given. + To curb perfection e'er it rival Heaven: + Nay, chiefly such in these low arts prevail, + Whose want of talents leaves them time to raid. + Born for no end, they worse than useless grow, + (As waters poison, if they cease to flow;) + And pests become, whom kinder fate designed + But harmless expletives of human kind. + See with what zeal th' insidious task they ply! + Where shall the prudent, where the virtuous fly? + Lurk as ye can, if they direct the ray, + The veriest atoms in the sunbeams play. + No venial slip their quick attention 'scapes; + They trace each Proteus through his hundred shapes; + To Mirth's tribunal drag the caitiff train, + Where Mercy sleeps, and Nature pleads in vain. + + * * * * * + + Here then we fix, and lash without control + These mental pests, and hydras of the soul; + Acquired ill-nature, ever prompt debate, + A seal for slander, and deliberate hate: + These court contempt, proclaim the public foe, + And each, Ulysses like, should aim the blow. + Yet sure, even here, our motives should be known: + Rail we to check his spleen, or ease our own? + + Does injured virtue every shaft supply, + Arm the keen tongue, and flush th' erected eye? + Or do we from ourselves ourselves disguise? + And act, perhaps, the villain we chastise? + Hope we to mend him? hopes, alas, how vain! + He feels the lash, not listens to the rein. + + 'Tis dangerous too, in these licentious times, + Howe'er severe the smile, to sport with crimes. + Vices when ridiculed, experience says, + First lose that horror which they ought to raise, + Grow by degrees approved, and almost aim at praise. + + * * * * * + + [The] fear of man, in his most mirthful mood, + May make us hypocrites, but seldom good. + + * * * * * + + Besides, in men have varying passions made + Such nice confusions, blending, light with shade, + That eager zeal to laugh the vice away + May hurt some virtue's intermingling ray. + + * * * * * + + Then let good-nature every charm exert, + And while it mends it, win th' unfolding heart. + Let moral mirth a face of triumph wear, + Yet smile unconscious of th' extorted tear. + See with what grace instructive satire flows, + Politely keen, in Olio's numbered prose! + That great example should our zeal excite, + And censors learn from Addison to write. + So, in our age, too prone to sport with pain, + Might soft humanity resume her reign; + Pride without rancour feel th' objected fault, + And folly blush, as willing to be taught; + Critics grow mild, life's witty warfare cease, + And true good-nature breathe the balm of peace. + + + THE ENTHUSIAST + + Once--I remember well the day, + 'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May + Had lost their freshest hues, + When every flower on every hill, + In every vale, had drank its fill + Of sunshine and of dews. + + In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime + When Spring gives up the reins of time + To Summer's glowing hand, + And doubting mortals hardly know + By whose command the breezes blow + Which fan the smiling land. + + 'Twas then, beside a greenwood shade + Which clothed a lawn's aspiring head, + I urged my devious way, + With loitering steps regardless where, + So soft, so genial was the air, + So wondrous bright the day. + + And now my eyes with transport rove + O'er all the blue expanse above, + Unbroken by a cloud! + And now beneath delighted pass, + Where winding through the deep-green grass + A full-brimmed river flowed. + + I stop, I gaze; in accents rude, + To thee, serenest Solitude, + Bursts forth th' unbidden lay; + 'Begone vile world! the learned, the wise, + The great, the busy, I despise, + And pity even the gay. + + 'These, these are joys alone, I cry, + 'Tis here, divine Philosophy, + Thou deign'st to fix thy throne! + Here contemplation points the road + Through nature's charms to nature's God! + These, these are joys alone! + + 'Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares, + Ye human hopes, and human fears, + Ye pleasures and ye pains!' + While thus I spake, o'er all my soul + A philosophic calmness stole, + A stoic stillness reigns. + + The tyrant passions all subside, + Fear, anger, pity, shame, and pride, + No more my bosom move; + Yet still I felt, or seemed to feel + A kind of visionary zeal + Of universal love. + + When lo! a voice, a voice I hear! + 'Twas Reason whispered in my ear + These monitory strains; + 'What mean'st thou, man? wouldst thou unbind + The ties which constitute thy kind, + The pleasures and the pains? + + 'The same Almighty Power unseen, + Who spreads the gay or solemn scene + To contemplation's eye, + Fixed every movement of the soul, + Taught every wish its destined goal, + And quickened every joy. + + 'He bids the tyrant passions rage, + He bids them war eternal wage, + And combat each his foe: + Till from dissensions concords rise, + And beauties from deformities, + And happiness from woe. + + 'Art thou not man, and dar'st thou find + A bliss which leans not to mankind? + Presumptuous thought and vain + Each bliss unshared is unenjoyed, + Each power is weak unless employed + Some social good to gain. + + 'Shall light and shade, and warmth and air. + With those exalted joys compare + Which active virtue feels, + When oil she drags, as lawful prize, + Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice, + At her triumphant wheels? + + 'As rest to labour still succeeds, + To man, whilst virtue's glorious deeds + Employ his toilsome day, + This fair variety of things + Are merely life's refreshing springs, + To sooth him on his way. + + 'Enthusiast go, unstring thy lyre, + In vain thou sing'st if none admire, + How sweet soe'er the strain, + And is not thy o'erflowing mind, + Unless thou mixest with thy kind, + Benevolent in vain? + + 'Enthusiast go, try every sense, + If not thy bliss, thy excellence, + Thou yet hast learned to scan; + At least thy wants, thy weakness know, + And see them all uniting show + That man was made for man.' + + + + + MARK AKENSIDE + + + FROM THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION + + [THE AESTHETIC AND MORAL INFLUENCE OF NATURE] + + Fruitless is the attempt, + By dull obedience and by creeping toil + Obscure, to conquer the severe ascent + Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath + Must fire the chosen genius; Nature's hand + + Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings, + Impatient of the painful steep, to soar + High as the summit, there to breathe at large + Ethereal air, with bards and sages old, + Immortal sons of praise. + + * * * * * + + Even so did Nature's hand + To certain species of external things + Attune the finer organs of the mind: + So the glad impulse of congenial powers, + Or of sweet sounds, or fair-proportioned form, + The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, + Thrills through imagination's tender frame, + From nerve to nerve; all naked and alive + They catch the spreading rays, till now the soul + At length discloses every tuneful spring, + To that harmonious movement from without + Responsive. + + * * * * * + + What then is taste, but these internal powers + Active, and strong, and feelingly alive + To each fine impulse? a discerning sense + Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust + From things deformed, or disarranged, or gross + In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, + Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow; + But God alone, when first his active hand + Imprints the secret bias of the soul. + He, mighty parent wise and just in all, + Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven, + Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain + Who journey's homeward from a summer day's + Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils + And due repose, he loiters to behold + The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds + O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween, + His rude expression and untutored airs, + Beyond the power of language, will unfold + The form of beauty smiling at his heart-- + How lovely! how commanding! + + * * * * * + + Oh! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs + Of Luxury, the siren! nor the bribes + Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils + Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave + Those ever-blooming sweets which, from the store + Of Nature, fair Imagination culls + To charm th' enlivened soul! What though not all + Of mortal offspring can attain the heights + Of envied life, though only few possess + Patrician treasures or imperial state; + Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, + With richer treasure and an ampler state, + Endows at large whatever happy man + Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp; + The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns + The princely dome, the column and the arch, + The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, + Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, + His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring + Distils her dews, and from the silken gem + Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand + Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch + With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. + Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; + And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, + And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze + Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes + The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain + From all the tenants of the warbling shade + Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake + Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes + Fresh pleasure only; for th' attentive mind, + By this harmonious action on her powers, + Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft + In outward things to meditate the charm + Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home + To find a kindred order, to exert + Within herself this elegance of love, + This fair-inspired delight; her tempered powers + Refine at length, and every passion wears + A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. + But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze + On Nature's form where, negligent of all + These lesser graces, she assumes the part + Of that Eternal Majesty that weighed + The world's foundations, if to these the mind + Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far + Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms + Of servile custom cramp her generous powers? + Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth + Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down + To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? + Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds + And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course + The elements and seasons: all declare + For what th' Eternal Maker has ordained + The powers of man: we feel within ourselves + His energy divine: he tells the heart + He meant, he made us, to behold and love + What he beholds and loves, the general orb + Of life and being; to be great like him, + Beneficent and active. Thus the men + Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself + Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, + With his conceptions; act upon his plan; + And form to his, the relish of their souls. + + + + + JOSEPH WARTON + + + FROM THE ENTHUSIAST; OR, THE LOVER OF + NATURE + + Ye green-robed Dryads, oft at dusky eve + By wondering shepherds seen, to forests brown + To unfrequented meads, and pathless wilds, + Lead me from gardens decked with art's vain pomps. + Can gilt alcoves, can marble-mimic gods + Parterres embroidered, obelisks, and urns + Of high relief; can the long, spreading lake, + Or vista lessening to the sight; can Stow, + With all her Attic fanes, such raptures raise, + As the thrush-haunted copse, where lightly leaps + The fearful fawn the rustling leaves along, + And the brisk squirrel sports from bough to bough, + While from an hollow oak, whose naked roots + O'erhang a pensive rill, the busy bees + Hum drowsy lullabies? The bards of old, + Fair Nature's friends, sought such retreats, to charm + Sweet Echo with their songs; oft too they met + In summer evenings, near sequestered bowers, + Or mountain nymph, or Muse, and eager learnt + The moral strains she taught to mend mankind. + + * * * * * + + Rich in her weeping country's spoils, Versailles + May boast a thousand fountains, that can cast + The tortured waters to the distant heavens: + Yet let me choose some pine-topped precipice + Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy stream, + Like Anio, tumbling roars; or some bleak heath, + Where straggling stands the mournful juniper, + Or yew-tree scathed; while in clear prospect round + From the grove's bosom spires emerge, and smoke + In bluish wreaths ascends, ripe harvests wave, + Low, lonely cottages, and ruined tops + Of Gothic battlements appear, and streams + Beneath the sunbeams twinkle. + + Happy the first of men, ere yet confined + To smoky cities; who in sheltering groves, + Warm caves, and deep-sunk valleys lived and loved, + By cares unwounded; what the sun and showers, + And genial earth untillaged, could produce, + They gathered grateful, or the acorn brown + Or blushing berry; by the liquid lapse + Of murmuring waters called to slake their thirst, + Or with fair nymphs their sun-brown limbs to bathe; + With nymphs who fondly clasped their favourite youths, + Unawed by shame, beneath the beechen shade, + Nor wiles nor artificial coyness knew. + Then doors and walls were not; the melting maid + Nor frown of parents feared, nor husband's threats; + + Nor had cursed gold their tender hearts allured: + Then beauty was not venal. Injured Love, + Oh! whither, god of raptures, art thou fled? + + * * * * * + + What are the lays of artful Addison, + Coldly correct, to Shakespeare's warblings wild? + Whom on the winding Avon's willowed banks + Fair Fancy found, and bore the smiling babe + To a close cavern (still the shepherds show + The sacred place, whence with religious awe + They hear, returning from the field at eve, + Strange whisperings of sweet music through the air). + Here, as with honey gathered from the rock, + She fed the little prattler, and with songs + Oft soothed his wandering ears; with deep delight + On her soft lap he sat, and caught the sounds. + + Oft near some crowded city would I walk, + Listening the far-off noises, rattling cars, + Loud shouts of joy, sad shrieks of sorrow, knells + Full slowly tolling, instruments of trade, + Striking my ears with one deep-swelling hum. + Or wandering near the sea, attend the sounds + Of hollow winds and ever-beating waves. + Even when wild tempests swallow up the plains, + And Boreas' blasts, big hail, and rains combine + To shake the groves and mountains, would I sit, + Pensively musing on th' outrageous crimes + That wake Heaven's vengeance: at such solemn hours, + Demons and goblins through the dark air shriek, + While Hecat, with her black-browed sisters nine, + Bides o'er the Earth, and scatters woes and death. + Then, too, they say, in drear Egyptian wilds + The lion and the tiger prowl for prey + With roarings loud! The listening traveller + Starts fear-struck, while the hollow echoing vaults + Of pyramids increase the deathful sounds. + + But let me never fail in cloudless nights, + When silent Cynthia in her silver car + Through the blue concave slides, when shine the hills, + Twinkle the streams, and woods look tipped with gold, + To seek some level mead, and there invoke + + Old Midnight's sister, Contemplation sage, + (Queen of the rugged brow and stern-fixt eye,) + To lift my soul above this little earth, + This folly-fettered world: to purge my ears, + That I may hear the rolling planets' song, + And tuneful turning spheres: if this be barred + The little fays, that dance in neighbouring dales, + Sipping the night-dew, while they laugh and love, + Shall charm me with aerial notes.--As thus + I wander musing, lo, what awful forms + Yonder appear! sharp-eyed Philosophy + Clad in dun robes, an eagle on his wrist, + First meets my eye; next, virgin Solitude + Serene, who blushes at each gazer's sight; + Then Wisdom's hoary head, with crutch in hand, + Trembling, and bent with age; last Virtue's self, + Smiling, in white arrayed, who with her leads + Sweet Innocence, that prattles by her side, + A naked boy!--Harassed with fear I stop, + I gaze, when Virtue thus--'Whoe'er thou art, + Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld + In these my midnight walks; depart, and say, + That henceforth I and my immortal train + Forsake Britannia's isle; who fondly stoops + To vice, her favourite paramour.' She spoke, + And as she turned, her round and rosy neck, + Her flowing train, and long ambrosial hair, + Breathing rich odours, I enamoured view. + + O who will bear me then to western climes, + Since virtue leaves our wretched land, to fields + Yet unpolluted with Iberian swords, + The isles of innocence, from mortal view + Deeply retired, beneath a plantain's shade, + Where happiness and quiet sit enthroned. + With simple Indian swains, that I may hunt + The boar and tiger through savannahs wild, + Through fragrant deserts and through citron groves? + There fed on dates and herbs, would I despise + The far-fetched cates of luxury, and hoards + Of narrow-hearted avarice; nor heed + The distant din of the tumultuous world. + + + + + JOHN GILBERT COOPER + + + FROM THE POWER OF HARMONY + + THE HARMONY OF NATURE + + Hail, thrice hail! + Ye solitary seats, where Wisdom seeks + Beauty and Good, th' unseparable pair, + Sweet offspring of the sky, those emblems fair + Of the celestial cause, whose tuneful word + From discord and from chaos raised this globe + And all the wide effulgence of the day. + From him begins this beam of gay delight, + When aught harmonious strikes th' attentive mind; + In him shall end; for he attuned the frame + Of passive organs with internal sense, + To feel an instantaneous glow of joy, + When Beauty from her native seat of Heaven, + Clothed in ethereal wildness, on our plains + Descends, ere Reason with her tardy eye + Can view the form divine; and through the world + The heavenly boon to every being flows. + + * * * * * + + Nor less admire those things, which viewed apart + Uncouth appear, or horrid; ridges black + Of shagged rocks, which hang tremendous o'er + Some barren heath; the congregated clouds + Which spread their sable skirts, and wait the wind + To burst th' embosomed storm; a leafless wood, + A mouldering ruin, lightning-blasted fields; + Nay, e'en the seat where Desolation reigns + In brownest horror; by familiar thought + Connected to this universal frame, + With equal beauty charms the tasteful soul + As the gold landscapes of the happy isles + Crowned with Hesperian fruit: for Nature formed + One plan entire, and made each separate scene + Co-operate with the general of all + In that harmonious contrast. + + * * * * * + + From these sweet meditations on the charms + Of things external, on the genuine forms + Which blossom in creation, on the scene + Where mimic art with emulative hue + Usurps the throne of Nature unreproved, + On the just concord of mellifluent sounds; + The soul, and all the intellectual train + Of fond desires, gay hopes, or threatening fears, + Through this habitual intercourse of sense + Is harmonized within, till all is fair + And perfect; till each moral power perceives + Its own resemblance, with fraternal joy, + In every form complete, and smiling feels + Beauty and Good the same. + + + + + WILLIAM COLLINS + + ODE + + Written in the beginning of the year 1746 + + How sleep the brave who sink to rest + By all their country's wishes blest! + When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, + Returns to deck their hallowed mould, + She there shall dress a sweeter sod + 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! + + + ODE TO EVENING + + If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song + May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, + Like thy own solemn springs + Thy springs and dying gales, + + O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun + Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, + With brede ethereal wove, + O'erhang his wavy bed: + + Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, + With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing; + 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 softened strain, + + Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, + May not unseemly with its stillness suit, + As, musing slow, I hail + Thy genial loved return! + + For when thy folding-star, arising, shows + His paly circlet, at his warning lamp + The fragrant Hours, and elves + Who slept in flowers 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-hallowed pile + Or upland fallows grey + Reflect its last cool gleam. + + But when chill blustering winds or driving rain + Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut + That from the mountain's side + Views wilds, and swelling floods, + + And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, + And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all + Thy dewy fingers draw + The gradual dusky veil. + + While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, + And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve; + While Summer loves to sport + Beneath thy lingering light; + + While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; + Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, + Affrights thy shrinking train, + And rudely rends thy robes; + + So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, + Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipped Health, + Thy gentlest influence own, + And hymn, thy favourite name! + + + ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER + + STROPHE + + As once---if not with light regard + I read aright that gifted bard + (Him whose school above the rest + His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest)-- + One, only one, unrivalled fair + Might hope the magic girdle wear, + At solemn tourney hung on high, + The wish of each love-darting eye; + Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied, + As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, + Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame, + With whispered spell had burst the starting band, + + It left unblest her loathed, dishonoured side; + Happier, hopeless fair, if never + Her baffled hand, with vain endeavour, + Had touched that fatal zone to her denied! + Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, + To whom, prepared and bathed in heaven, + The cest of amplest power is given, + To few the godlike gift assigns + To gird their blest, prophetic loins, + And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmixed her flame! + + EPODE + + The band, as fairy legends say, + Was wove on that creating day + When He who called with thought to birth + Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, + And dressed with springs and forests tall, + And poured the main engirting all, + Long by the loved enthusiast wood, + Himself in some diviner mood, + Retiring, sate with her alone, + And placed her on his sapphire throne, + The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, + Seraphic wires were heard to sound, + Now sublimest triumph swelling, + Now on love and mercy dwelling; + And she, from out the veiling cloud, + Breathed her magic notes aloud, + And thou, thou rich-haired Youth of Morn, + And all thy subject life, was born! + The dangerous passions kept aloof, + Far from the sainted growing woof: + But near it sate ecstatic Wonder, + Listening the deep applauding thunder; + And Truth, in sunny vest arrayed, + By whose the tarsel's eyes were made; + All the shadowy tribes of mind, + In braided dance, their murmurs joined, + And all the bright uncounted powers + Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers. + Where is the bard whose soul can now + Its high presuming hopes avow? + Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, + This hallowed work for him designed? + + ANTISTROPHE + + High on some cliff, to heaven up-piled, + Of rude access, of prospect wild, + Where, tangled round the jealous steep, + Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep. + And holy genii guard the rock, + Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, + While on its rich ambitious head + An Eden, like his own, lies spread, + + I view that oak, the fancied glades among, + By which as Milton lay, his evening ear, + From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew, + Nigh sphered in heaven, its native strains could hear, + On which that ancient trump he reached was hung: + Thither oft, his glory greeting, + From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, + With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, + My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue; + In vain--such bliss to one alone + Of all the sons of soul was known, + And Heaven and Fancy, kindred powers, + Have now o'erturned th' inspiring bowers, + Or curtained close such scene from every future view. + + + THE PASSIONS + + AN ODE FOR MUSIC + + When Music, heavenly maid, was young, + While yet in early Greece she sung, + The Passions oft, to hear her shell, + Thronged around her magic cell, + Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, + Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; + By turns they felt the glowing mind + Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: + + Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, + Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, + From the supporting myrtles round + They snatched her instruments of sound; + And, as they oft had heard apart + Sweet lessons of her forceful art, + Each (for madness ruled the hour) + Would prove his own expressive power. + + First Fear in hand, its skill to try, + Amid the chords bewildered laid, + And back recoiled, he knew not why, + Even at the sound himself had made. + + Next Anger rushed: his eyes, on fire, + In lightnings owned his secret stings; + In one rude clash he struck the lyre, + And swept with hurried hand the strings. + + With woeful measures wan Despair + Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; + A solemn, strange, and mingled air-- + 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. + + But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, + What was thy delightful measure? + Still it whispered promised pleasure, + And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! + Still would her touch the strain prolong; + And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, + She called on Echo still, through all the song; + And where her sweetest theme she chose, + A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, + And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. + + And longer had she sung--but with a frown + Revenge impatient rose; + He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, + And with a withering look + The war-denouncing trumpet took, + And blew a blast so loud and dread, + Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. + + And ever and anon he beat + The doubling drum with furious heat; + And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, + Dejected Pity, at his side, + Her soul-subduing voice applied, + Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, + While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. + Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed, + Sad proof of thy distressful state; + Of differing themes the veering--song was mixed, + And now It courted Love, now raving called on Hate. + + With eyes upraised, as one inspired, + Pale Melancholy sate retired, + And from her wild sequestered seat, + In notes by distance made more sweet, + Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; + And, dashing soft from rocks around, + Bubbling runnels joined the sound: + Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, + Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, + Round an holy calm diffusing, + Love of peace and lonely musing, + In hollow murmurs died away, + + But O how altered was its sprightlier tone, + When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, + Her how across her shoulder flung, + Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, + Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, + The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known! + The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, + Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, + Peeping from forth their alleys green; + Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; + And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. + Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: + He, with viny crown advancing, + First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; + But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, + Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. + + They would have thought, who heard the strain, + They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, + Amidst the festal-sounding shades, + To some unwearied minstrel dancing, + While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, + Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round; + Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, + And he, amidst his frolic play, + As if he would the charming air repay, + Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. + + O Music! sphere-descended maid! + Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! + Why, goddess, why, to us denied, + Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? + As in that loved Athenian bower + You learned an all-commanding power, + Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared, + Can well recall what then it heard. + Where is thy native simple heart, + Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? + Arise as in that elder time, + Warm energic, chaste, sublime! + Thy wonders, in that godlike age, + Fill thy recording sister's page: + 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, + Thy humblest reed could more prevail, + Had more of strength, diviner rage, + Than all which charms this laggard age, + E'en all at once together found, + Cecilia's mingled world of sound. + O bid our vain endeavours cease: + Revive the just designs of Greece; + Return in all thy simple state; + Confirm the tales her sons relate! + + + ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF + THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND + + CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY + + I + + H----, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long + Have seen thee lingering, with a fond delay, + 'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, + Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. + Go, not, unmindful of that cordial youth + Whom, long-endeared, thou leav'st by Levant's side; + Together let us wish him lasting truth, + And joy untainted, with his destined bride. + Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast + My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; + But think, far off, how on the Southern coast + I met thy friendship with an equal flame! + Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose every vale + Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: + To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; + Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand, + And paint what all believe who own thy genial land. + + II + + There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; + 'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet, + Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet + Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill. + There each trim lass that skims the milky store + To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots; + By night they sip it round the cottage door, + While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. + There every herd, by sad experience, knows + How, winged with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly; + When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, + Or, stretched on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. + Such airy beings awe th' untutored swain: + Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect; + Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain: + These are the themes of simple, sure effect, + That add new conquests to her boundless reign, + And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain. + + III + + Even yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear, + Where to the pole the boreal mountains run, + Taught by the father to his listening son, + Strange lays, whose power had charmed a Spenser's ear. + At every pause, before thy mind possessed, + Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, + With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest, + Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned: + Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat + The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, + When every shrieking maid her bosom beat, + And strewed with choicest herbs his scented grave; + Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel, + Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms, + When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, + The sturdy clans poured forth their bony swarms, + And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms. + + IV + + 'Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells, + In Skye's lone isle the gifted wizard seer, + Lodged in the wintry cave with [Fate's fell spear;] + Or in the depth of Uist's dark forests dwells: + How they whose sight such dreary dreams engross, + With their own visions oft astonished droop, + When o'er the watery strath of quaggy moss + They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop; + Or if in sports, or on the festive green, + Their [destined] glance some fated youth descry, + Who, now perhaps in lusty vigour seen + And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. + For them the viewless forms of air obey, + Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. + They know what spirit brews the stormful day, + And, heartless, oft like moody madness stare + To see the phantom train their secret work prepare. + + V + + [To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, + Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow! + The seer, in Skye, shrieked as the blood did flow, + When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay! + As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth, + In the first year of the first George's reign, + And battles raged in welkin of the North, + They mourned in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! + And as, of late, they joyed in Preston's fight, + Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crowned, + They raved, divining, through their second sight, + Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drowned! + Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! + One William saved us from a tyrant's stroke; + He, for a sceptre, gained heroic fame; + But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, + To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke! + + VI + + These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic Muse + Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar! + Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more! + Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er lose; + Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath: + Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, + He glows, to draw you downward to your death, + In his bewitched, low, marshy willow brake!] + What though far off, from some dark dell espied, + His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight, + Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, + Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; + For, watchful, lurking 'mid th' unrustling reed, + At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, + And listens oft to hear the passing steed, + And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, + If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise. + + VII + + Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest indeed! + Whom, late bewildered in the dank, dark fen, + Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then, + To that sad spot [where hums the sedgy weed:] + On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, + Shall never look with Pity's kind concern, + But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood + O'er its drowned bank, forbidding all return. + Or, if he meditate his wished escape + To some dim hill that seems uprising near, + To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape, + In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. + Meantime, the watery surge shall round him rise, + Poured sudden forth from every swelling source. + What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? + His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, + And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse. + + VIII + + For him, in vain, his anxious wife shall wait, + Or wander forth to meet him on his way; + For him, in vain, at to-fall of the day, + His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate. + Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night + Her travelled limbs in broken slumbers steep, + With dropping willows dressed, his mournful sprite + Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: + Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, + Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, + And with his blue-swoln face before her stand, + And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: + 'Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue + At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; + Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew, + While I lie weltering on the oziered shore, + Drowned by the kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!' + + IX + + Unbounded is thy range; with varied style + Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring + From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing + Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle + To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows: + In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, + Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, + And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground! + Or thither, where, beneath the showery West, + The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: + Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest; + No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: + Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour, + The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, + And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, + In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold, + And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold. + + X + + But oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, + On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, + Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. + Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace! + Then to my ear transmit some gentle song + Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, + Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, + And all their prospect but the wintry main. + With sparing temperance, at the needful time, + They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-pressed, + Along th' Atlantic rock undreading climb, + And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. + Thus blest in primal innocence they live, + Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare + Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. + Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; + Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! + + XI + + Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engage + Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed; + For not alone they touch the village breast, + But filled in elder time th' historic page. + There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned,-- + [Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen!]-- + In musing hour, his wayward Sisters found, + And with their terrors dressed the magic scene. + From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, + Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, + The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line + Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed. + Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, + Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; + Proceed! in forceful sounds and colours bold, + The native legends of thy land rehearse; + To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse. + + XII + + In scenes like these, which, daring to depart + From sober truth, are still to nature true, + And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, + Th' heroic muse employed her Tasso's art! + How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, + Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured; + When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, + And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword! + How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind, + To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,-- + Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind + Believed the magic wonders which he sung! + Hence at each sound imagination glows; + [_The MS. lacks a line here_.] + Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows; + Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear, + And fills th' impassioned heart, and wins th' harmonious ear. + + XIII + + All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail, + Ye [splendid] friths and lakes which, far away, + Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or pastoral Tay, + Or Don's romantic springs; at distance, hail! + The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread + Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom, + Or o'er your stretching heaths by fancy led + [Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom:] + Then will I dress once more the faded bower. + Where Jonson sat in Drummond's [classic] shade, + Or crop from Teviot's dale each [lyric flower] + And mourn on Yarrow's banks [where Willy's laid!] + Meantime, ye Powers that on the plains which bore + The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend, + Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir, + To him I lose your kind protection lend, + And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend! + + + + + THOMAS WARTON + + + FROM THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY + + Beneath yon ruined abbey's moss-grown piles + Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, + Where through some western window the pale moon + Pours her long-levelled rule of streaming light, + While sullen, sacred silence reigns around, + Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bower + Amid the mouldering caverns dark and damp, + Or the calm breeze that rustles in the leaves + Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green + Invests some wasted tower. Or let me tread + Its neighbouring walk of pines, where mused of old + The cloistered brothers: through the gloomy void + That far extends beneath their ample arch + As on I pace, religious horror wraps + My soul in dread repose. But when the world + Is clad in midnight's raven-coloured robe, + 'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame + Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare + O'er the wan heaps, while airy voices talk + Along the glimmering walls, or ghostly shape, + At distance seen, invites with beckoning hand, + My lonesome steps through the far-winding vaults. + Nor undelightful is the solemn noon + Of night, when, haply wakeful, from my couch + I start: lo, all is motionless around! + Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men + And every beast in mute oblivion lie; + All nature's hushed in silence and in sleep: + O then how fearful is it to reflect + That through the still globe's awful solitude + No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep + My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews. + Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born, + My senses lead through flowery paths of joy: + But let the sacred genius of the night + Such mystic visions send as Spenser saw + When through bewildering Fancy's magic maze, + To the fell house of Busyrane, he led + Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew, + When in abstracted thought he first conceived + All Heaven in tumult, and the seraphim + Come towering, armed in adamant and gold. + + * * * * * + + Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces breathe, + And happiest art adorn his Attic page, + Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, + As, at the root of mossy trunk reclined, + In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song + I see deserted Una wander wide + Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths, + Weary, forlorn, than when the fated fair + Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames + Launches in all the lustre of brocade, + Amid the splendours of the laughing sun: + The gay description palls upon the sense, + And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss. + + * * * * * + + The tapered choir, at the late hour of prayer, + Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice + The many-sounding organ peals on high + The clear slow-dittied chant or varied hymn, + Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies + And lapped in Paradise. Or let me sit + Far in sequestered aisles of the deep dome; + There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds, + Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults, + In hollow murmurs reach my ravished ear. + Nor when the lamps, expiring, yield to night, + And solitude returns, would I forsake + The solemn mansion, but attentive mark + The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway, + Measuring Time's flight with momentary sound. + + + From THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR + + [THE PASSING OF THE KING] + + O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared, + High the screaming sea-mew soared; + On Tintagel's topmost tower + Darksome fell the sleety shower; + Round the rough castle shrilly sung + The whirling blast, and wildly flung + On each tall rampart's thundering side + The surges of the tumbling tide: + When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks + On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks: + By Mordred's faithless guile decreed + Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed! + Yet in vain a paynim foe + Armed with fate the mighty blow; + For when he fell, an Elfin Queen + All in secret, and unseen, + O'er the fainting hero threw + Her mantle of ambrosial blue; + And bade her spirits bear him far, + In Merlin's agate-axled car, + To her green isle's enamelled steep + Far in the navel of the deep. + O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew + From flowers that in Arabia grew: + On a rich enchanted bed + She pillowed his majestic head; + O'er his brow, with whispers bland, + Thrice she waved an opiate wand; + And to soft music's airy sound, + Her magic curtains closed around, + There, renewed the vital spring, + Again he reigns a mighty king; + And many a fair and fragrant clime, + Blooming in immortal prime, + By gales of Eden ever fanned, + Owns the monarch's high command: + Thence to Britain shall return + (If right prophetic rolls I learn), + Born on Victory's spreading plume, + His ancient sceptre to resume; + Once more, in old heroic pride, + His barbed courser to bestride; + His knightly table to restore, + And brave the tournaments of yore. + + + SONNET WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S 'MONASTICON' + + Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, + By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled, + Of painful pedantry the poring child, + Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, + Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. + Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smiled + On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage + His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styled, + Intent. While cloistered Piety displays + Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores + New manners, and the pomp of elder days, + Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. + Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways + Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers. + + + SONNET WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE + + Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle! + Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore, + To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, + Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile, + T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile: + Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, + Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: + Or Danish chiefs, enriched with savage spoil, + To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, + Reared the rude heap: or, in thy hallowed round, + Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line; + Or here those kings in solemn state were crowned: + Studious to trace thy wondrous origin, + We muse on many an ancient tale renowned. + + + SONNET TO THE RIVER LODON + + Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, + Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, + And thought my way was all through fairy ground, + Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun, + Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! + While pensive Memory traces back the round, + Which fills the varied interval between; + Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. + Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure + No more return, to cheer my evening road! + Yet still one joy remains: that not obscure + Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed, + From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; + Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed. + + + + + THOMAS GRAY + + + ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE + + Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, + That crown the watery glade, + Where grateful Science still adores + Her Henry's holy shade; + And ye, that from the stately brow + Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below + Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, + Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among + Wanders the hoary Thames along + His silver-winding way. + + Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! + Ah, fields beloved in vain! + Where once my careless childhood strayed, + A stranger yet to pain! + I feel the gales that from ye blow, + A momentary bliss bestow, + As waving fresh their gladsome wing, + My weary soul they seem to soothe, + And, redolent of joy and youth, + To breathe a second spring. + + Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen + Full many a sprightly race + Disporting on thy margent green + The paths of pleasure trace, + Who foremost now delight to cleave + With pliant arm thy glassy wave? + The captive linnet which enthrall? + What idle progeny succeed + To chase the rolling circle's speed, + Or urge the flying ball? + + While some on earnest business bent + Their murmuring labours ply + 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint + To sweeten liberty: + Some bold adventurers disdain + The limits of their little reign, + And unknown regions dare descry: + Still as they run they look behind, + They hear a voice in every wind, + And snatch a fearful joy. + + Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, + Less pleasing when possessed; + The tear forgot as soon as shed, + The sunshine of the breast: + Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, + Wild wit, invention ever-new, + And lively cheer of vigour born; + The thoughtless day, the easy night, + The spirits pure, the slumbers light, + That fly th' approach of morn. + + Alas! regardless of their doom, + The little victims play; + No sense have they of ills to come, + Nor care beyond to-day: + Yet see how all around 'em wait + The ministers of human fate, + And black Misfortune's baleful train! + Ah, shew them where in ambush stand + To seize their prey the murderous band! + Ah, tell them, they are men! + + These shall the fury Passions tear, + The vultures of the mind, + Disdainful, Anger, pallid Fear, + And Shame that skulks behind; + Or pining Love shall waste their youth, + Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, + That inly gnaws the secret heart, + And Envy wan, and faded Care, + Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, + And Sorrow's piercing dart. + + Ambition this shall tempt to rise, + Then whirl the wretch from high, + To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, + And grinning Infamy. + The stings of Falsehood those shall try, + And hard Unkindness' altered eye, + That mocks the tear it forced to flow; + And keen Remorse with blood defiled, + And moody Madness laughing wild + Amid severest woe. + + Lo, in the vale of years beneath + A grisly troop are seen, + The painful family of Death, + More hideous than their Queen: + This racks the joints, this fires the veins, + That every labouring sinew strains, + Those in the deeper vitals rage: + Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, + That numbs the soul with icy hand, + And slow-consuming Age. + + To each his sufferings; all are men, + Condemned alike to groan, + The tender for another's pain; + The unfeeling for his own. + Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, + Since sorrow never comes too late, + And happiness too swiftly flies? + Thought would destroy their paradise. + No more; where ignorance is bliss, + 'Tis folly to be wise. + + + HYMN TO ADVERSITY + + Daughter of Jove, relentless power, + Thou tamer of the human breast, + Whose iron scourge and torturing hour + The bad affright, afflict the best! + Bound in thy adamantine chain, + The proud are taught to taste of pain, + And purple tyrants vainly groan + With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. + + When first thy sire to send on earth + Virtue, his darling child, designed, + To thee he gave the heavenly birth, + And bade to form her infant mind. + Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore + With patience many a year she bore; + What sorrow was thou bad'st her know, + And from her own she learned to melt at other's woe. + + Scared at thy frown terrific, fly + Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, + Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, + And leave us leisure to be good: + Light they disperse, and with them go + The summer friend, the flattering foe; + By vain Prosperity received, + To her they TOW their truth, and are again believed. + + Wisdom in sable garb arrayed, + Immersed in rapturous thought profound, + And Melancholy, silent maid + With leaden eye, that loves the ground, + Still on thy solemn steps attend; + Warm Charity, the genial friend, + With Justice, to herself severe, + And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear, + + Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, + Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! + Hot in thy Gorgon terrors clad, + Nor circled with the vengeful band + (As by the impious thou art seen), + With thundering voice and threatening mien, + With screaming Horror's funeral cry, + Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty: + + Thy form benign, O goddess, wear, + Thy milder influence impart; + Thy philosophic train be there + To soften, not to wound, my heart; + The generous spark extinct revive, + Teach me to love and to forgive, + Exact nay own defects to scan, + What others are to feel, and know myself a man. + + + ELEGY + + WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, + The ploughman 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 tower + The moping owl does to the moon complain + Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, + Molest her ancient solitary reign. + + Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, + Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, + Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. + + The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, + The swallow twittering 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 bowed 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 power, + And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, + Await 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 Flattery 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 swayed, + 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 repressed their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene, + The dark unfathomed 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 listening 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 growing 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 learned to stray; + Along the cool sequestered vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. + + Yet even these bones from insult to protect, + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, + With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + + Their names, their years, spelt by th' unlettered 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 resigned, + Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, + Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? + + On some fond breast the parting soul relies, + Some pious drops the closing eye requires; + Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. + + For thee, who mindful of th' unhonoured 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, + Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; + Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, + Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. + + 'One morn I missed him on the customed hill, + Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 frowned not on his humble birth, + And Melancholy marked him for her own. + + Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; + Heaven did a recompense as largely send: + He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, + He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) 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._ + + + THE PROGRESS OF POESY + + I. 1 + + 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, + Through 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. + + I. 2 + + Oh sovereign of the willing soul, + Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, + Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares + And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. + On Thracia's hills the Lord of War + Has curbed the fury of his car + And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command. + Perching on the sceptred hand + Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king + With ruffled plumes and flagging wing; + Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie + The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye. + + I. 3 + + Thee the voice, the dance, obey, + Tempered 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. + + II. 1 + + 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 given in vain the heavenly Muse? + Night, and all her sickly dews, + Her spectres 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 glittering shafts of war, + + II. 2 + + 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 shivering native's dull abode. + And oft, beneath the odorous shade + Of Chili's boundless forests laid, + She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, + 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. + + II. 3 + + 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 labyrinths creep, + How do your tuneful echoes languish, + Mute but to the voice of Anguish? + Where each old poetic mountain + Inspiration breathed around, + Every shade and hallowed fountain + Murmured deep a solemn sound; + Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour + Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains: + Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, + And coward Vice that revels in her chains. + When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, + They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast. + + III. 1 + + Far from the sun and summer-gale, + In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, + What time, where lucid Avon strayed, + To him the mighty mother did unveil + Her awful face: the dauntless child + Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. + 'This pencil take,' she said, 'whose colours clear + Richly paint the vernal year. + 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.' + + III. 2 + + Nor second he that rode sublime + Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, + The secrets of th' abyss to spy. + He passed 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! + III. 3 + + 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? Though he inherit + Nor the pride nor ample pinion + That the Theban Eagle bear, + Sailing with supreme dominion + Through the azure deep of air, + Yet oft before his infant eyes would run + Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, + With orient hues unborrowed of the sun: + 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. + + + THE BARD + + I. 1 + + 'Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! + Confusion on thy banners wait; + Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing, + They mock the air with idle state. + Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, + Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail + To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, + From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' + Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride + Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, + As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side + He wound with toilsome march his long array. + Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance; + 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. + + I. 2 + + On a rock, whose haughty brow + Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. + Robed in the sable garb of woe, + With haggard eyes the poet stood + (Loose his heard and hoary hair + Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), + And with a master's hand and prophet's fire + Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: + 'Hark how each giant oak and desert cave + Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! + O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they wave, + Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe, + Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, + To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay. + + I. 3 + + 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, + That hushed the stormy main; + Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed; + Mountains, ye mourn in vain + Modred, whose magic song + Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head: + On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, + Smeared with gore and ghastly pale; + Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; + The famished eagle screams, and passes by. + Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, + Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, + Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, + Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- + No more I weep: they do not sleep! + On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, + I see them sit; they linger yet + Avengers of their native land: + With me in dreadful harmony they join, + And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. + + II. 1 + + '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 through 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 Heaven: what terrors round him wait! + Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, + And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. + + II. 2 + + '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 noontide 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, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. + + II. 3 + + '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 through the kindred squadrons mow their way. + Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, + With many a foul and midnight murther 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 thy thorny shade. + Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, + Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom! + + III. 1 + + '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.) + Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn + Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn! + In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, + They melt, they vanish from my eyes. + But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, + Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? + Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! + Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! + No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: + All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! + + III. 2 + + 'Girt with many a baron bold, + Sublime their starry fronts they rear; + And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old + In bearded majesty, appear. + In the midst a form divine! + Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line; + Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, + Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. + What strings symphonious tremble in the air, + What strains of vocal transport round her play! + Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear: + They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. + Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, + Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings. + + III. 3 + + 'The verse adorn again + Fierce War and faithful Love + And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed. + In buskined measures move + Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, + With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. + A voice, as of the cherub-choir, + Gales from blooming Eden bear; + And distant warblings lessen on my ear, + That, lost in long futurity, expire. + Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, + Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day! + To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, + And warms the nations with redoubled ray. + Enough for me; with joy I see + The different doom our Fates assign: + Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; + To triumph and to die are mine.' + He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height + Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. + + + THE FATAL SISTERS + + AN ODE FROM THE NORSE TONGUE + + How the storm begins to lower, + (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) + Iron-sleet of arrowy shower + Hurtles in the darkened air. + + Glittering lances are the loom, + Where the dusky warp we strain, + Weaving many a soldier's doom, + Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane. + + See the grisly texture grow, + ('Tis of human entrails made,) + And the weights, that play below, + Each a gasping warrior's head. + + Shafts for shuttles, dipped in gore, + Shoot the trembling cords along. + Sword, that once a monarch bore, + Keep the tissue close and strong. + + Mista black, terrific maid, + Sangrida, and Hilda see, + Join the wayward work to aid: + 'Tis the woof of victory. + + Ere the ruddy sun be set, + Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, + Blade with clattering buckler meet, + Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. + + (Weave the crimson web of war.) + Let us go, and let us fly, + Where our friends the conflict share, + Where they triumph, where they die. + + As the paths of fate we tread, + Wading through th' ensanguined field: + Gondula, and Geira, spread + O'er the youthful king your shield. + + We the reins to slaughter give, + Ours to kill, and ours to spare: + Spite of danger he shall live. + (Weave the crimson web of war.) + + They, whom once the desert-beach + Pent within its bleak domain, + Soon their ample sway shall stretch + O'er the plenty of the plain. + + Low the dauntless earl is laid, + Gored with many a gaping wound: + Fate demands a nobler head; + Soon a king shall bite the ground. + + Long his loss shall Erin weep, + Ne'er again his likeness see; + Long her strains in sorrow steep, + Strains of immortality! + + Horror covers all the heath, + Clouds of carnage blot the sun. + Sisters,--weave the web of death; + Sisters, cease, the work is done. + + Hail the task, and hail the hands! + Songs of joy and triumph sing! + Joy to the victorious bands; + Triumph to the younger king. + + Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, + Learn the tenor of our song. + Scotland, through each winding Tale + Far and wide the notes prolong. + + Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: + Each her thundering falchion wield; + Each bestride her sable steed. + Hurry, hurry to the field. + + +ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE + + Now the golden Morn aloft + Waves her dew-bespangled wing; + With vermeil cheek and whisper soft + She wooes the tardy Spring; + Till April starts, and calls around + The sleeping fragrance from the ground, + And lightly o'er the living scene + Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. + + New-born flocks, In rustic dance, + Frisking ply their feeble feet; + Forgetful of their wintry trance, + The birds his presence greet; + But chief the sky-lark warbles high + His trembling, thrilling ecstasy, + And, lessening from the dazzled sight, + Melts into air and liquid light. + + Rise, my soul! on wings of fire + Rise the rapturous choir among! + Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre, + And leads the general song. +[_Four lines lacking in the MS_.] + + Yesterday the sullen year + Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; + Mute was the music of the air, + The herd stood drooping by: + Their raptures now that wildly flow + No yesterday nor morrow know; + 'Tis man alone that joy descries + With forward and reverted eyes. + + Smiles on past Misfortune's brow + Soft Reflection's hand can trace, + And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw + A melancholy grace; + While Hope prolongs our happier hour, + Or deepest shades, that dimly lower + And blacken round our weary way, + Gilds with a gleam of distant day. + + Still where rosy Pleasure leads + See a kindred Grief pursue; + Behind the steps that Misery treads, + Approaching Comfort view: + The hues of bliss more brightly glow + Chastised by sabler tints of woe, + And, blended, form with artful strife + The strength and harmony of life. + + See the wretch that long has tossed + On the thorny bed of pain + At length repair his vigour lost + And breathe and walk again: + The meanest flowret of the vale, + The simplest note that swells the gale. + The common sun, the air, the skies, + To him are opening Paradise. + + Humble Quiet builds her cell + Near the source whence Pleasure flows; + She eyes the clear crystalline well, + And tastes it as it goes. + +[_The rest is lacking_.] + + + + + SAMUEL JOHNSON + + + From THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES + + IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL + + In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, + Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: + To him the church, the realm, their powers consign; + Through him the rays of regal bounty shine; + Turned by his nod the stream of honour flows; + His smile alone security bestows. + Still to new heights his restless wishes tower; + Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; + Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, + And rights submitted left him none to seize. + At length his sovereign frowns--the train of state + Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate: + Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye; + His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; + Now drops at once the pride of awful state-- + The golden canopy, the glittering plate, + The regal palace, the luxurious board, + The liveried army, and the menial lord. + With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, + He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. + Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, + And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. + + * * * * * + + When first the college rolls receive his name, + The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame; + Through all his veins the fever of renown + Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown; + O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, + And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. + Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth, + And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth! + Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat, + Till captive science yields her last retreat; + Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray, + And pour on misty doubt resistless day; + Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, + Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright; + Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain, + And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain; + Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, + Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart; + Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, + Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade; + Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, + Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee: + Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, + And pause awhile from letters, to be wise; + There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, + Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. + See nations slowly wise, and meanly just, + To buried merit raise the tardy bust! + + * * * * * + + On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, + How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide. + A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, + No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; + O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, + Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain. + No joys to him pacific sceptres yield-- + War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; + Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, + And one capitulate, and one resign: + Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; + 'Think nothing gained,' he cries, 'till naught remain! + On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, + And all be mine beneath the polar sky!' + The march begins in military state, + And nations on his eye suspended wait. + Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, + And Winter barricades the realms of frost. + He comes; nor want nor cold his course delay-- + Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day! + The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, + And shows his miseries in distant lands, + Condemned a needy supplicant to wait + While ladies interpose and slaves debate. + But did not Chance at length her error mend? + Did no subverted empire mark his end? + Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, + Or hostile millions press him to the ground? + His fall was destined to a barren strand, + A petty fortress, and a dubious hand. + He left the name at which the world grew pale, + To point a moral or adorn a tale. + + * * * * * + + But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime + Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime; + An age that melts with unperceived decay, + And glides in modest innocence away; + Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, + Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers; + The general favourite as the general friend: + Such age there is, and who shall wish its end? + Yet even on this her load Misfortune flings, + To press the weary minutes' flagging wings; + New sorrow rises as the day returns, + A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns, + Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, + Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear. + Year chases year, decay pursues decay, + Still drops some joy from withering life away; + New forms arise, and different views engage, + Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage, + Till pitying Nature signs the last release, + And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. + + * * * * * + + Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? + Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? + Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, + Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? + Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, + No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?-- + Enquirer, cease; petitions yet remain, + Which Heaven may hear; nor deem religion vain. + Still raise for good the supplicating voice, + But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice; + Safe in His power, whose eyes discern afar + The secret ambush of a specious prayer. + Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, + Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best. + Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires, + And strong devotion to the skies aspires, + Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, + Obedient passions, and a will resigned; + For love, which scarce collective man can fill; + For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill; + For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, + Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat: + These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain; + These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain; + With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, + And makes the happiness she does not find. + + + + + RICHARD JAGO + + + FROM THE GOLDFINCHES + + All in a garden, on a currant bush, + With wondrous art they built their airy seat; + In the next orchard lived a friendly thrush + Nor distant far a woodlark's soft retreat. + + Here blessed with ease, and in each other blessed, + With early songs they waked the neighbouring groves, + Till time matured their joys, and crowned their nest + With infant pledges of their faithful loves. + + And now what transport glowed in either's eye! + What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food! + What joy each other's likeness to descry; + And future sonnets in the chirping brood! + + But ah! what earthly happiness can last! + How does the fairest purpose often fail? + A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blast + Their flattering hopes, and leave them both to wail. + + The most ungentle of his tribe was he, + No generous precept ever touched his heart; + With concord false, and hideous prosody, + He scrawled his task, and blundered o'er his part. + + On mischief bent, he marked, with ravenous eyes, + Where wrapped in down the callow songsters lay; + Then rushing, rudely seized the glittering prize. + And bore it in his impious hands away! + + But how stall I describe, in numbers rude, + The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed, + When from her secret stand aghast she viewed + The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed? + + 'O grief of griefs!' with shrieking voice she cried, + 'What sight is this that I have lived to see! + O! that I had in youth's fair season died, + From love's false joys and bitter sorrows free.' + + + + + JOHN DALTON + + + From A DESCRIPTIVE POEM + + ... To nature's pride, + Sweet Keswick's vale, the Muse will guide: + The Muse who trod th' enchanted ground, + Who sailed the wondrous lake around, + With you will haste once more to hail + The beauteous brook of Borrodale. + + * * * * * + + Let other streams rejoice to roar + Down the rough rocks of dread Lodore, + Rush raving on with boisterous sweep, + And foaming rend the frighted deep; + Thy gentle genius shrinks away + From such a rude unequal fray; + Through thine own native dale where rise + Tremendous rocks amid the skies, + Thy waves with patience slowly wind, + Till they the smoothest channel find, + Soften the horrors of the scene, + And through confusion flow serene. + Horrors like these at first alarm, + But soon with savage grandeur charm, + And raise to noblest thought the mind: + Thus by the fall, Lodore, reclined, + The craggy cliff, impendent wood, + Whose shadows mix o'er half the flood, + The gloomy clouds which solemn sail, + Scarce lifted by the languid gale. + + * * * * * + + Channels by rocky torrents torn, + Rocks to the lake in thunder borne, + Or such as o'er our heads appear, + Suspended in their mid-career, + To start again at his command + Who rules fire, water, air, and land, + I view with wonder and delight, + A pleasing, though an awful sight. + + * * * * * + + And last, to fix our wandering eyes, + Thy roofs, O Keswick, brighter rise + The lake and lofty hills between, + Where Giant Skiddow shuts the scene. + Supreme of mountains, Skiddow, hail! + To whom all Britain sinks a vale! + Lo, his imperial brow I see + From foul usurping vapours free! + 'Twere glorious now his side to climb, + Boldly to scale his top sublime, + And thence--My Muse, these flights forbear, + Nor with wild raptures tire the fair. + + + + + JANE ELLIOT + + + THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST + + I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, + Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of 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; + The lasses are lanely, 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, + The 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 more 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. + + + + + CHARLES CHURCHILL + + + FROM THE ROSCIAD + + [QUIN, THE ACTOR] + + His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, + Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul. + Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage, + Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. + When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears, + Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers, + With the same cast of features he is seen + To chide the libertine and court the queen. + From the tame scene which without passion flows, + With just desert his reputation rose. + Nor less he pleased when, on some surly plan, + He was at once the actor and the man. + In Brute he shone unequalled: all agree + Garrick's not half so great a brute as he. + When Cato's laboured scenes are brought to view, + With equal praise the actor laboured too; + For still you'll find, trace passions to their root, + Small difference 'twixt the stoic and the brute. + In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, + He could not for a moment sink the man. + In whate'er cast his character was laid, + Self still, like oil, upon the surface played. + Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in: + Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff--still 'twas Quin. + + + + FROM THE GHOST + + [DR. JOHNSON] + + + Pomposo, insolent and loud, + Vain idol of a scribbling crowd, + Whose very name inspires an awe, + Whose every word is sense and law, + For what his greatness hath decreed, + Like laws of Persia and of Mede, + Sacred through all the realm of wit, + Must never of repeal admit; + Who, cursing flattery, is the tool + Of every fawning, flattering fool; + Who wit with jealous eye surveys, + And sickens at another's praise; + Who, proudly seized of learning's throne, + Now damns all learning but his own; + Who scorns those common wares to trade in, + Reasoning, convincing, and persuading, + But makes each sentence current pass + With 'puppy,' 'coxcomb,' 'scoundrel,' 'ass,' + For 'tis with him a certain rule, + The folly's proved when he calls 'fool'; + Who, to increase his native strength, + Draws words six syllables in length, + With which, assisted with a frown + By way of club, he knocks us down. + + + + + JAMES MACPHERSON + + ["TRANSLATIONS" FROM "OSSIAN, THE SON OF FINGAL"] + + FROM FINGAL, AN EPIC POEM + + [FINGAL'S ROMANTIC GENEROSITY TOWARD HIS CAPTIVE ENEMY] + + + 'King of Lochlin,' said Fingal, 'thy blood flows in the + veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle, because they + loved the strife of spears. But often did they feast in the + hall, and send round the joy of the shell. Let thy face + brighten with gladness, and thine ear delight in the harp. + Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy + valour forth; thy voice has been like the voice of thousands + when they engage in war. Raise, to-morrow, raise + thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of Agandecca! + Bright as the beam of noon, she comes on my mournful + soul. I have seen thy tears for the fair one. I spared + thee in the halls of Starno, when my sword was red with + slaughter, when my eye was full of tears for the maid. + Or dost thou choose the fight? The combat which thy + fathers gave to Trenmor is thine! that thou mayest depart + renowned, like the sun setting in the west!' + + 'King of the race of Morven!' said the chief of resounding + Lochlin, 'never will Swaran fight with thee, first of a + thousand heroes! I have seen thee in the halls of Starno: + few were thy years beyond my own. When shall I, I + said to my soul, lift the spear like the noble Fingal? We + have fought heretofore, O warrior, on the side of the + shaggy Malmor; after my waves had carried me to thy + halls, and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let + the bards send his name who overcame to future years, + for noble was the strife of Malmour! But many of the + ships of Lochlin have lost their youths on Lena. Take + these, thou king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran! + When thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells + shall be spread, and the combat offered on the vale.' + + 'Nor ship' replied the king, 'shall Fingal take, nor land + of many hills. The desert is enough to me, with all its + deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, thou noble + friend of Agandecca! Spread thy white sails to the beam + of the morning; return to the echoing hills of Gormal.' + 'Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,' said Swaran of the + dark-brown shield. 'In peace thou art the gale of spring. + In war, the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in + friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mourn + those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to + earth. Raise high the mossy stones of their fame: that + the children of the north hereafter may behold the place + where their fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he + leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and Swaran fought, + the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say, + and our fame shall last for ever!' + + 'Swaran,' said the king of hills, 'to-day our fame is + greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound + will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost + in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our + rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it + when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and + Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more. Give us the + song of other years. Let the night pass away on the sound, + and morning return with joy.' + + We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed + their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened, + like the full moon of heaven: when the clouds + vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst + of the sky. + + + + FROM THE SONGS OF SELMA + + [COLMA'S LAMENT] + + It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. + The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours + down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain, forlorn + on the hill of winds. + + Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, + arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love + rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung; + his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, + by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the + wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why + delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? + Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring + stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! + whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from + my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race + have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar! + + Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a + while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer + hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the + tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why + delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes + forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey + on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come + not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here + I must sit alone! + + Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and + my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they + give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is + tormented with fears! Ah, they are dead! Their swords + are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why + hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou + slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall + I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among + thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear + my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; + silent for ever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay. Oh! + from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy + steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be + afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of + the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on + the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm! + + I sit in my grief? I wait for morning in my tears! + Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till + Colma come. My life flies away like a dream! why should + I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the + stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the + hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in + the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter + shall hear from his booth. He shall fear, but love my + voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: + pleasant were her friends to Colma! + + + + [THE LAST WORDS OF OSSIAN] + + Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; + when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other + times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills and + heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona + [Ossian], the first among a thousand bards! But age is + now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear at times + the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But + memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! + They say as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon + shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise + his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy + on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his + strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. + My voice remains, like a blast that roars lonely on a + sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark + moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving + trees! + + + + + CHRISTOPHER SMART + + + FROM A SONG TO DAVID + + 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 assigned, + Where ask is have, where seek is find, + Where knock is open wide. + + Beauteous the fleet before the gale; + Beauteous the multitudes in mail, + Ranked arms and crested heads; + Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild, + Walk, water, meditated wild, + And all the bloomy beds; + + Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; + And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn + The virgin to her spouse; + Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, + When to the heaven of heavens they build + Their heart-directed vows: + + Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, + The shepherd King upon his knees, + For his momentous trust; + With wish of infinite conceit + For man, beast, mute, the small and great, + And prostrate dust to dust. + + Precious the bounteous widow's mite; + And precious, for extreme delight, + The largess from the churl; + Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, + And Alba's blest imperial rays, + And pure cerulean pearl; + + 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 hallowed sod: + + More precious that diviner part + Of David, even the Lord's own heart, + Great, beautiful, and new; + In all things where it was intent, + In all extremes, in each event, + Proof--answering true to true. + + Glorious the sun in mid career; + Glorious th' assembled fires appear; + Glorious the comet's train; + Glorious the trumpet and alarm; + Glorious th' Almighty's stretched-out arm; + Glorious th' enraptured main; + + Glorious the northern lights a-stream; + Glorious the song, when God's the theme; + Glorious the thunder's roar; + Glorious, Hosannah 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 called Thy son; + Thou that stupendous truth believed, + And now the matchless deed's achieved, + Determined, dared, and done. + + + + + OLIVER GOLDSMITH + + + FROM THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF + SOCIETY + + As some lone miser, visiting his store, + Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts It o'er, + Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, + Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: + Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, + Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies; + Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, + To see the hoard of human bliss so small, + And oft I wish amidst the scene to find + Some spot to real happiness consigned, + Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. + May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. + But where to find that happiest spot below, + Who can direct, when all pretend to know? + + * * * * * + + To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, + I turn; and France displays her bright domain. + Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, + Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, + How often have I led thy sportive choir, + With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire, + Where shading elms along the margin grew, + And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew! + And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, + But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's skill, + Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, + And dance forgetful of the noontide hour. + Alike all ages: dames of ancient days + Have led their children through the mirthful maze; + And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, + Has frisked beneath the burthen of threescore, + + So blessed a life these thoughtless realms display; + Thus idly busy rolls their world away. + + + Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, + For honour forms the social temper here: + Honour, that praise which real merit gains, + Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, + Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, + It shifts in splendid traffic round the land; + From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, + And all are taught an avarice of praise; + They pleased, are pleased; they give, to get, esteem, + Till, seeming blessed, they grow to what they seem. + + But while this softer art their bliss supplies, + It gives their follies also room to rise; + For praise, too dearly loved or warmly sought, + Enfeebles all internal strength of thought, + And the weak soul, within itself unblessed, + Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. + Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, + Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; + Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, + And trims her robes of frieze with copper-lace; + Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer, + To boast one splendid banquet once a year: + The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, + Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. + + * * * * * + + Vain, very vain, my weary search to find + That bliss which only centres in the mind. + Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, + To seek a good each government bestows? + In every government, though terrors reign, + Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, + How small, of all that human hearts endure, + That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! + Still to ourselves in every place consigned, + Our own felicity we make or find: + With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, + Glides the smooth current of domestic joy; + The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, + Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, + To men remote from power but rarely known, + Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own. + + + THE DESERTED VILLAGE + + Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain; + Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, + Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, + And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed: + Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, + Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, + How often have I loitered o'er thy green, + Where humble happiness endeared each scene! + How often have I paused on every charm, + The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, + The never-failing brook, the busy mill, + The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill, + The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade + For talking age and whispering lovers made! + How often have I blest the coming day, + When toil remitting lent its turn to play, + And all the village train, from labour free, + Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, + While many a pastime circled in the shade, + The young contending as the old surveyed; + And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, + And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. + And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, + Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; + The dancing pair that simply sought renown + By holding out to tire each other down; + The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, + While secret laughter tittered round the place; + The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, + The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: + These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, + With sweet succession, taught even toil to please: + These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed: + These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled. + + Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, + Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn + Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, + And desolation saddens all thy green: + One only master grasps the whole domain, + And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. + No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, + But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; + Along the glades, a solitary guest, + The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest; + Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, + And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; + Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, + And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; + And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, + Far, far away thy children leave the land. + + Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, + Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: + Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; + A breath can make them, as a breath has made: + But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, + When once destroyed, can never be supplied. + + A time there was, ere England's griefs began, + When every rood of ground maintained its man; + For him light labour spread her wholesome store, + Just gave what life required, but gave no more: + His best companions, innocence and health; + And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. + + But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train + Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; + Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, + Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, + And every want to opulence allied, + And every pang that folly pays to pride. + These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, + Those calm desires that asked but little room, + Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, + Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; + These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, + And rural mirth and manners are no more. + + Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, + Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. + Here, as I take my solitary rounds + Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, + And, many a year elapsed, return to view + Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, + Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, + Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. + + In all my wanderings round this world of care, + In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- + I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, + Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; + To husband out life's taper at the close, + And keep the flame from wasting by repose: + I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, + Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, + Around my fire an evening group to draw, + And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; + And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue + Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, + I still had hopes, my long vexations past, + Here to return--and die at home at last. + + O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, + Retreats from care, that never must be mine, + How happy he who crowns in shades like these + A youth of labour with an age of ease; + Who quits a world where strong temptations try, + And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! + For him no wretches, born to work and weep, + Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; + No surly porter stands in guilty state, + To spurn imploring famine from the gate; + But on he moves to meet his latter end, + Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; + Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, + While resignation gently slopes the way; + And, all his prospects brightening to the last, + His Heaven commences ere the world be past! + + Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close + Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. + There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, + The mingling notes came softened from below; + The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, + The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, + The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, + The playful children just let loose from school, + The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, + And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;-- + These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, + And filled each pause the nightingale had made. + + + But now the sounds of population fail, + No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, + No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, + For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. + All but yon widowed, solitary thing, + That feebly bends beside the plashy spring: + She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, + To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, + To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, + To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; + She only left of all the harmless train, + The sad historian of the pensive plain. + + Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, + And still where many a garden flower grows wild; + There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, + The village preacher's modest mansion rose. + A man he was to all the country dear, + And passing rich with forty pounds a year; + Remote from towns he ran his godly race, + Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; + Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, + By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; + Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, + More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. + His house was known to all the vagrant train; + He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain: + The long-remembered beggar was his guest, + Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; + The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, + Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; + The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, + Sate by his fire, and talked the night away, + Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, + Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. + Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, + And quite forget their vices in their woe; + Careless their merits or their faults to scan, + His pity gave ere charity began. + + Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, + And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; + But in his duty prompt at every call, + He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all; + + And, as a bird each fond endearment tries + To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, + He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, + Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. + + Beside the bed where parting life was laid, + And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, + The reverend champion stood. At his control + Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; + Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, + And his last faltering accents whispered praise. + + At church, with meek and unaffected grace, + His looks adorned the venerable place; + Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, + And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. + The service past, around the pious man, + With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; + Even children followed with endearing wile, + And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. + His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; + Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed: + To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, + But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. + As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, + Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, + Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, + Eternal sunshine settles on its head. + + Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, + With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, + There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, + The village master taught his little school. + A man severe he was, and stern to view; + I knew him well, and every truant knew; + Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace + The days' disasters in his morning face; + Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee + At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; + Full well the busy whisper circling round + Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. + Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, + The love he bore to learning was in fault: + The village all declared how much he knew; + 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; + Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, + And even the story ran that he could gauge; + In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, + For, even though vanquished, he could argue still; + While words of learned length and thundering sound + Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; + And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, + That one small head could carry all he knew. + + But past is all his fame. The very spot + Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. + Wear yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, + Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, + Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, + Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, + Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, + And news much older than their ale went round. + Imagination fondly stoops to trace + The parlour splendours of that festive place: + The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, + The varnished clock that clicked behind the door: + The chest contrived a double debt to pay, + A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; + The pictures placed for ornament and use, + The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; + The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, + With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; + While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, + Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. + + Vain transitory splendours could not all + Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? + Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart + An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. + Thither no more the peasant shall repair + To sweet oblivion of his daily care; + No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, + No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; + No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, + Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; + The host himself no longer shall be found + Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; + Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, + Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. + + Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, + These simple blessings of the lowly train; + To me more dear, congenial to my heart, + One native charm, than all the gloss of art. + Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, + The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; + Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, + Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. + But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, + With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed-- + In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, + The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; + And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, + The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. + + Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey + The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, + 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand + Between a splendid and an happy land. + Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, + And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; + Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, + And rich men flock from all the world around. + Yet count our gains! This wealth is but a name + That leaves our useful products still the same. + Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride + Takes up a space that many poor supplied; + Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, + Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: + The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth + Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; + His seat, where solitary sports are seen, + Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: + Around the world each needful product flies, + For all the luxuries the world supplies; + While thus the land adorned for pleasure all + In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. + + As some fair female unadorned and plain, + Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, + Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, + Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; + But when those charms are passed, for charms are frail, + When time advances, and when lovers fail, + She then, shines forth, solicitous to bless, + In all the glaring impotence of dress. + Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed: + In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, + But verging to decline, its splendours rise, + Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; + While, scourged by famine from the smiling land + The mournful peasant leads his humble band, + And while he sinks, without one arm to save, + The country blooms--a garden and a grave. + + Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, + To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? + If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, + He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, + Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, + And even the bare-worn common is denied. + + If to the city sped--what waits him there? + To see profusion that he must not share; + To see ten thousand baneful arts combined + To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; + To see those joys the sons of pleasure know + Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. + Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, + There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; + Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, + There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. + The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign + Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train: + Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, + The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. + Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! + Sure these denote one universal joy! + Are these thy serious thoughts?--Ah, turn thine eyes + Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. + She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed, + Has wept at tales of innocence distressed; + Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, + Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: + Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, + Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, + And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, + With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, + + + When idly first, ambitious of the town, + She left her wheel and robes of country brown. + + Do thine, sweet Auburn,--thine, the loveliest train,-- + Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? + Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, + At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! + + Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, + Where half the convex world intrudes between, + Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, + Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. + Far different there from all that charmed before + The various terrors of that horrid shore; + Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, + And fiercely shed intolerable day; + Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, + But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; + Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, + Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; + Where at each step the stranger fears to wake + The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; + Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, + And savage men more murderous still than they; + While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, + Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. + Far different these from every former scene, + The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, + The breezy covert of the warbling grove, + That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. + + Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, + That called them from their native walks away; + When the poor exiles, every pleasure passed, + Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, + And took a long farewell, and wished in vain + For seats like these beyond the western main, + And shuddering still to face the distant deep, + Returned and wept, and still returned to weep, + The good old sire the first prepared to go + To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; + But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, + He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. + His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, + The fond companion of his helpless years, + Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, + And left a lover's for a father's arms. + With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, + And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, + And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, + And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear, + Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief + In all the silent manliness of grief. + + O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, + How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! + How do thy potions, with insidious joy, + Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy! + Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, + Boast of a florid vigour not their own. + At every draught more large and large they grow, + A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; + Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, + Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round. + + Even now the devastation is begun, + And half the business of destruction done; + Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, + I see the rural Virtues leave the land. + Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, + That idly waiting flaps with every gale, + Downward they move, a melancholy band, + Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. + Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, + And kind connubial Tenderness, ate there; + And Piety with wishes placed above, + And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. + And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, + Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; + Unfit in these degenerate times of shame + To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; + Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, + My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; + Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, + That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; + Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, + Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! + Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, + On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, + Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, + Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, + Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, + Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; + Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; + Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; + Teach him, that states of native strength possessed, + Though very poor, may still be very blessed; + That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, + As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away; + While self-dependent power can time defy, + As rocks resist the billows and the sky. + + + FROM RETALIATION + + Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such + We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; + Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, + And to party gave up what was meant for mankind; + Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat + To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; + Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, + And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; + Though equal to all things, for all things unfit-- + Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit, + For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient, + And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient: + In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir, + To eat mutton cold and cut blocks with a razor. + + * * * * * + + Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, + The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; + A flattering painter, who made it his care + To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are: + His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, + And Comedy wonders at being so fine-- + Like a tragedy-queen he has dizened her out, + Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout; + His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd + Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud; + And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, + Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. + Say, where has our poet this malady caught, + Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? + Say, was it that, vainly directing his view + To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, + Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, + He grew lazy at last and drew from himself? + + * * * * * + + Here lies David Garrick: describe me, who can, + An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; + As an actor, confessed without rival to shine; + As a wit, if not first, in the very first line. + Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, + The man had his failings, a dupe to his art: + Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread, + And beplastered with rouge his own natural red; + On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting-- + 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. + With no reason on earth to go out of his way, + He turned and he varied full ten times a day: + Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick + If they were not his own by finessing and trick; + He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, + For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. + Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, + And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; + Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease, + Who peppered the highest was surest to please. + But let us be candid, and speak out our mind: + If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind; + Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, + What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave! + How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised, + While he was be-Rosciused and you were bepraised! + But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies + To act as an angel and mix with the skies! + Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill + Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; + + Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, + And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. + + * * * * * + + Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, + He has not left a better or wiser behind. + His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; + His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; + Still born to improve us in every part-- + His pencil oar faces, his manners our heart. + To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, + When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing; + When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, + He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. + + + + + JAMES BEATTIE + + + FROM THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS + OF GENIUS + + Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, + That a poor villager inspires my strain; + With thee let pageantry and power abide: + The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; + Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain + Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. + They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, + The parasite their influence never warms, + Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. + + Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, + Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. + Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, + While warbling larks on russet pinions float; + Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, + Where the grey linnets carol from the hill: + O let them ne'er, with artificial note, + To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, + But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will! + + * * * * * + + And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. + Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye. + Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy, + Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy; + Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy; + And now his look was most demurely sad; + And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why. + The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad; + Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. + + * * * * * + + In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight, + Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. + In darkness and in storm he found delight, + Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene + The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen. + Even sad vicissitude amused his soul; + And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, + And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, + A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control. + + * * * * * + + When the long-sounding curfew from afar + Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, + Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, + Lingering and listening, wandered down the vale. + There would he dream of graves, and corses pale, + And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng, + And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, + Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, + Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along. + + * * * * * + + Or when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, + Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, + To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, + Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; + And there let fancy rove at large, till sleep + A vision brought to his entranced sight. + And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep + Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, + With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night. + + * * * * * + + Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth. + Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device + Oft cheered the shepherds round their social hearth; + Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice + To purchase chat or laughter at the price + Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed + That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. + Ah! had they been of court or city breed, + Such, delicacy were right marvellous indeed. + + Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave, + He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view + The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave + High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue; + Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new, + Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, + More wildly great than ever pencil drew-- + Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, + And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. + + Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, + The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, + Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar + Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array + When sulphurous clouds rolled on th' autumnal day, + Even then he hastened from the haunts of man, + Along the trembling wilderness to stray, + What time the lightning's fierce career began, + And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. + + Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all + In sprightly dance the village youth were joined, + Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, + From the rude gambol far remote reclined, + Soothed, with the soft notes warbling in the wind. + Ah then all jollity seemed noise and folly + To the pure soul by fancy's fire refined! + Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy + When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy! + + + + + LADY ANNE LINDSAY + + + 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 gaid 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 toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; + Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e + Said, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!' + + My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; + But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; + His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee? + Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me! + + My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; + But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: + They gi'ed him my hand, though 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. + * * * * * + + + + + JEAN ADAMS + + + THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE + + And are ye sure the news is true, + And are ye sure he's weel? + Is this a time to think of wark? + Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. + Is this the time to think of wark, + When Colin's at the door? + Gi'e me my cloak! I'll to the quay + And see him come ashore. + + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck ava; + There's little pleasure in the house, + When our gudeman's awa'. + + Rise up and mak' a clean fireside; + Put on the muckle pot; + Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, + And Jock his Sunday coat: + And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, + Their hose as white as snaw; + It's a' to please my ain gudeman, + For he's been long awa'. + + There's twa fat hens upon the bauk, + Been fed this month and mair; + Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, + That Colin weel may fare; + And mak' the table neat and clean, + Gar ilka thing look braw; + It's a' for love of my gudeman, + For he's been long awa'. + + O gi'e me down my bigonet, + My bishop satin gown, + For I maun tell the bailie's wife + That Colin's come to town. + My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, + My hose o' pearl blue; + 'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman, + For he's baith leal and true. + + Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, + His breath's like caller air! + His very foot has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy with the thought,-- + In troth, I'm like to greet. + + The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, + That thrilled through my heart, + They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe, + Till death we'll never part: + But what puts parting in my head? + It may be far awa'; + The present moment is our ain, + The neist we never saw. + + Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, + I ha'e nae more to crave; + Could I but live to mak' him blest, + I'm blest above the lave: + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-- + In troth, I'm like to greet. + + + + + ROBERT FERGUSSON + + + THE DAFT DAYS + + Now mirk December's dowie face + Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace, + While, thro' his minimum of space, + The bleer-eyed sun, + Wi' blinkin' light and steeling pace, + His race doth run. + + From naked groves nae birdie sings; + To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings; + The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings + From Borean cave; + And dwyning Nature droops her wings, + Wi' visage grave. + + Mankind but scanty pleasure glean + Frae snawy hill or barren plain, + Whan Winter,'midst his nipping train, + Wi' frozen spear, + Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain, + And guides the weir. + + Auld Reikiel thou'rt the canty hole, + A bield for mony a caldrife soul, + What snugly at thine ingle loll, + Baith warm and couth, + While round they gar the bicker roll + To weet their mouth. + + When merry Yule Day comes, I trow, + You'll scantlins find a hungry mou; + Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou + O' gusty gear + And kickshaws, strangers to our view + Sin' fairn-year. + + Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra, + And fling your sorrows far awa'; + Then come and gie's the tither blaw + O' reaming ale, + Mair precious than the Well of Spa, + Our hearts to heal. + + Then, though at odds wi' a' the warl', + Amang oursells we'll never quarrel; + Though Discord gie a cankered snarl + To spoil our glee, + As lang's there's pith into the barrel + We'll drink and 'gree. + + Fiddlers, your pins in temper fix, + And roset weel your fiddlesticks; + But banish vile Italian tricks + From out your quorum, + Nor _fortes_ wi' _pianos_ mix-- + Gie's 'Tullochgorum'! + + For naught can cheer the heart sae weel + As can a canty Highland reel; + It even vivifies the heel + To skip and dance: + Lifeless is he wha canna feel + Its influence. + + Let mirth abound; let social cheer + Invest the dawning of the year; + Let blithesome innocence appear, + To crown our joy; + Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, + Our bliss destroy. + + And thou, great god of _aqua vitae!_ + Wha sways the empire of this city,-- + When fou we're sometimes caperneity,-- + Be thou prepared + To hedge us frae that black banditti, + The City Guard. + + + + + ANONYMOUS + + + ABSENCE + + When I think on the happy days + I spent wi' you, my dearie; + And now what lands between us lie, + How can I be but eerie! + + How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, + As ye were wae and weary! + It was na sae ye glinted by + When I was wi' my dearie. + + + + + JOHN LANGHORNE + + + FROM THE COUNTRY JUSTICE + + GENERAL MOTIVES FOR LENITY + + Be this, ye rural Magistrates, your plan: + Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. + He whom the mighty master of this ball + We fondly deem, or farcically call, + To own the patriarch's truth however loth, + Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth. + Frail in his genius, in his heart, too, frail, + Born but to err, and erring to bewail; + + Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, + And give to life one human weakness more? + Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; + Still mark the strong temptation and the need; + On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, + At least more lenient let thy justice fall. + + + APOLOGY FOR VAGRANTS + + For him who, lost to every hope of life, + Has long with fortune held unequal strife, + Known, to no human love, no human care, + The friendless, homeless object of despair; + For the poor vagrant, feel while he complains, + Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. + Alike, if folly or misfortune brought + Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; + Believe with social mercy and with me, + Folly's misfortune in the first degree. + + Perhaps on some inhospitable shore + The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore, + Who, then no more by golden prospects led, + Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed; + Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, + Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain, + Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, + The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, + Gave the sad presage of his future years, + The child of misery, baptized in tears! + + + * * * * * + + + + + AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY + + + ROCK OF AGES + + Rock of Ages, cleft for me, + Let me hide myself in Thee! + Let the water and the blood + From Thy riven side which flowed, + Be of sin the double cure, + Cleanse me from its guilt and power. + + Not the labors of my hands + Can fulfil Thy law's demands; + Could my zeal no respite know, + Could my tears forever flow, + All for sin could not atone; + Thou must save, and Thou alone. + + Nothing in my hand I bring; + Simply to Thy cross I cling; + Naked, come to Thee for dress; + Helpless, look to Thee for grace; + Foul, I to the fountain fly; + Wash me, Saviour, or I die! + + While I draw this fleeting breath, + When my eyestrings break in death, + When I soar through tracts unknown, + See Thee on Thy judgment-throne; + Book of Ages, cleft for me, + Let me hide myself in Thee! + + * * * * * + + + + + JOHN SKINNER + + + TULLOCHGORUM + + Come gie's a sang! Montgomery cried, + And lay your disputes all aside; + What signifies 't for folk to chide + For what's been done before 'em? + Let Whig and Tory all agree, + Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, + Let Whig and Tory all agree + To drop their Whig-mig-morum! + Let Whig and Tory all agree + To spend the night in mirth and glee, + And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me, + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + O, Tullochgorum's my delight; + It gars us a' in ane unite; + And ony sumph' that keeps up spite, + In conscience I abhor him: + For blythe and cheery we's be a', + Blythe and cheery, blythe and cheery, + Blythe and cheery we's be a', + And mak a happy quorum; + For blythe and cheery we's be a', + As lang as we hae breath to draw, + And dance, till we be like to fa', + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + There needs na be sae great a phrase + Wi' dringing dull Italian lays; + I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys + For half a hundred score o' 'em: + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Wi' a' their variorum; + They're douff and dowie at the best, + Their _allegros_ and a' the rest; + They canna please a Scottish taste, + Compared wi' Tullochgorum. + + Let warldly minds themselves oppress + Wi' fears of want and double cess, + And sullen sots themselves distress + Wi' keeping up decorum: + Shall we sae sour and sulky sit? + Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, + Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, + Like auld Philosophorum? + Shall we so sour and sulky sit, + Wi' neither sense nor mirth nor wit, + Nor ever rise to shake a fit + To the reel o' Tullochgorum? + + May choicest blessings still attend + Each honest, open-hearted friend; + And calm and quiet be his end, + And a' that's good watch o'er him! + May peace and plenty be his lot, + Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, + May peace and plenty be his lot, + And dainties a great store o' em! + May peace and plenty be his lot, + Unstained by any vicious spot, + And may he never want a groat + That's fond o' Tullochgorum! + + But for the dirty, yawning fool + Who wants to be Oppression's tool, + May envy gnaw his rotten soul, + And discontent devour him! + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + And nane say 'wae's me' for him! + May dool and sorrow be his chance, + Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, + Whae'er he be, that winna dance + The reel o' Tullochgorum! + + * * * * * + + + + THOMAS CHATTERTON + + + [SONGS FROM "AELLA, A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE, + WROTENN BIE THOMAS ROWLEIE"] + + [THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES + ATTE THE LYGHTE] + + FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE + + The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; + The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue; + Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte; + The nesh yonge coweslepe blendethe wyth the dewe; + The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte, + Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys brought. + + The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge; + The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne; + Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe; + Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne; + I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, + Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle. + + + SECONDE MYNSTRELLE + + So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse, + All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde; + Ynn Womman alleyne mannes pleasaunce lyes; + As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde. + Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see + Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charm for thee. + + + THYRDE MYNSTRELLE + + Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere, + With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe, + Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, + Beerynge uponne hys backe the riped shefe; + Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte; + Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte; + + Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie, + Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde; + When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die, + Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde; + Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre, + Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care. + + + SECONDE MYNSTRELLE + + Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde; + Angelles alleyne fromme chafe desyre bee free: + Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde, + Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot stylled bee; + Ne seynete yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere, + Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre; + + Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne, + Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire; + Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne, + Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre; + Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete + The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete. + + Albeytte wythout wommen menne were pheeres + To salvage kynde, and wulde botte lyve to slea, + Botte wommenne efte the spryghte of peace so cheres, + Tochelod yn Angel joie heie Angeles bee; + Go, take thee swythyn to thie bedde a wyfe; + Bee bante or blessed hie yn proovynge marryage lyfe. + + + [O, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE] + + O, synge untoe mie roundelaie! + O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee! + Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie; + Lycke a reynynge ryver bee: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, + Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, + Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte; + Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, + Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, + Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote; + O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Alle underre the wyllowe tree. + + Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, + In the briered delle belowe; + Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, + To the nyghte-mares as heie goe: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; + Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude, + Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, + Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys deathe-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, + Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, + Nee one hallie Seyncte to save + Al the celness of a mayde: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, + Alle under the wyllowe tree. + + Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres + Rounde his hallie corse to gre; + Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres, + Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne + Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; + Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, + Daunce bie nete, or feaste by dale: + Mie love ys dedde, + Gon to hys death-bedde, + Al under the wyllowe tree. + + Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, + Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. + I die! I comme! mie true love waytes.-- + Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. + + + AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE + + AS WROTEN BIE THE GODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464 + + In Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene, + And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie; + The apple rodded from its palie greene, + And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; + The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; + 'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode, of the yeare, + And eke the grounde was dighte in its most defte aumere. + + The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, + Deadde still the aire, and eke the welkea blue; + When from the sea arist in drear arraie + A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, + The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, + Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face, + And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace. + + Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side + Which dide unto Seynete Godwine's covent lede, + A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide, + Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede, + Longe bretful of the miseries of neede; + Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie? + He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie. + + Look in his glommed face, his spright there scanne: + Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade! + Haste to thie church-glebe-house, ashrewed manne; + Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dorture bedde: + Cale as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde + Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; + Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves. + + The gathered storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; + The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; + The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, + And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; + Dashde from the cloudes, the waters flott againe; + The welkin opes, the yellow levynne flies, + And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. + + Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound + Cheves slowie on, and then embollen clangs, + Shakes the hie spyre, and, losst, dispended, drowned, + Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges; + The windes are up, the lofty elmen swanges; + Again the levynne and the thunder poures, + And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers. + + Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, + The Abbote of Seyncte Godwyne's convente came: + His chapournette was drented with the reine, + And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame; + He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same. + The storme encreasen, and he drew aside + With the mist almes-craver neere to the holme to bide. + + His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, + With a gold button fastened neere his chynne; + His autremete was edged with golden twynne, + And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne-- + Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne; + The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, + For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. + + 'An almes, sir prieste!' the droppynge pilgrim saide; + 'O let me waite within your covente dore, + Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, + And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer. + Helpless and ould am I, alas! and poor; + No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; + All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche.' + + 'Varlet,' replyd the Abbatte, 'cease your dinne! + This is no season almes and prayers to give. + Mie porter never lets a faitour in; + None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.' + And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, + And shettynge on the ground his glairie raie: + The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. + Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde: + Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen, + Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; + His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; + A Limitoure he was of order seene, + And from the pathwaie side then turned bee, + Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree, + + 'An almes, sir priest!' the droppynge pilgrim sayde, + 'For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake!' + The Limitoure then loosened his pouche threade, + And did thereoute a groate of silver take: + The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. + 'Here, take this silver; it maie eathe thie care: + We are Goddes stewards all, nete of our owne we bare. + + 'But ah, unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me + Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. + Here, take my semecope--thou arte bare, I see; + 'Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.' + He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. + Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, + Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power! + + + + + THOMAS DAY + + + FROM THE DESOLATION OF AMERICA + + I see, I see, swift bursting through the shade, + The cruel soldier, and the reeking blade. + And there the bloody cross of Britain waves, + Pointing to deeds of death an host of slaves. + To them unheard the wretched tell their pain, + And every human sorrow sues in vain: + Their hardened bosoms never knew to melt; + Each woe unpitied, and each pang unfelt.-- + See! where they rush, and with a savage joy, + Unsheathe the sword, impatient to destroy. + Fierce as the tiger, bursting from the wood, + With famished jaws, insatiable of blood! + + Yet, yet a moment, the fell steel restrain; + Must Nature's sacred ties all plead in vain? + Ah! while your kindred blood remains unspilt, + And Heaven allows an awful pause from guilt, + Suspend the war, and recognize the bands, + Against whose lives you arm your impious hands!-- + Not these, the boast of Gallia's proud domains, + Nor the scorched squadrons of Iberian plains; + Unhappy men! no foreign war you wage, + In your own blood you glut your frantic rage; + And while you follow where oppression leads, + At every step, a friend, or brother, bleeds. + + * * * * * + + Devoted realm! what now avails thy claim, + To milder virtue, or sublimer flame? + Or what avails, unhappy land! to trace + The generous labours of thy patriot race? + Who, urged by fate, and fortitude their guide, + On the wild surge their desperate fortune tried; + Undaunted every toil and danger bore, + And fixed their standards on a savage shore; + What time they fled, with an averted eye, + The baneful influence of their native sky, + Where slowly rising through the dusky air, + The northern meteors shot their lurid glare. + In vain their country's genius sought to move, + With tender images of former love, + Sad rising to their view, in all her charms, + And weeping wooed them to her well-known arms. + The favoured clime, the soft domestic air, + And wealth and ease were all below their care, + Since there an hated tyrant met their eyes + And blasted every blessing of the skies. + + * * * * * + + And now, no more by nature's bounds confined + He[A] spreads his dragon pinions to the wind. + The genius of the West beholds him near, + And freedom trembles at her last barrier. + + In vain she deemed in this sequestered seat + To fix a refuge for her wandering feet; + To mark one altar sacred to her fame, + And save the ruins of the human name. + + * * * * * + + Lo! Britain bended to the servile yoke, + Her fire extinguished, and her spirit broke, + Beneath the pressure of [a tyrant's] sway, + Herself at once the spoiler and the prey, + Detest[s] the virtues she can boast no more + And envies every right to every shore! + At once to nature and to pity blind, + Wages abhorred war with humankind; + And wheresoe'er her ocean rolls his wave, + Provokes an enemy, or meets a slave. + + But free-born minds inspired with noble flame, + Attest their origin, and scorn the claim. + Beyond the sweets of pleasure and of rest, + The joys which captivate the vulgar breast; + Beyond the dearer ties of kindred blood; + Or Brittle life's too transitory good; + The sacred charge of liberty they prize, + That last, and noblest, present of the skies. + + * * * * * + + Yet, gracious Heaven! though clouds may intervene, + And transitory horrors shade the scene; + Though for an instant virtue sink depressed, + While vice exulting rears her bloody crest; + Thy sacred truth shall still inspire my mind, + To cast the terrors of my fate behind! + Thy power which nature's utmost hound pervades, + Beams through the void, and cheers destruction's shades, + Can blast the laurel on the victor's head, + And smooth the good man's agonizing bed, + To songs of triumph change the captive's groans, + And hurl the powers of darkness from their thrones! + + [Footnote A: The monster, tyranny.] + + + + + GEORGE CRABBE + + + From THE LIBRARY + + When the sad soul, by care and grief oppressed, + Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest; + When every object that appears in view, + Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too; + Where shall affliction from itself retire? + Where fade away and placidly expire? + Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain; + Care blasts the honours of the flowery plain: + Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, + Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream; + For when the soul is labouring in despair, + In vain the body breathes a purer air. + + * * * * * + + Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find; + The curious here, to feed a craving mind; + Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; + And here the poet meets his fav'ring Muse. + With awe, around these silent walks I tread; + These are the lasting mansions of the dead:-- + 'The dead!' methinks a thousand tongues reply, + 'These are the tombs of such as cannot die! + Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, + And laugh at all the little strife of time.' + + * * * * * + + Lo! all in silence, all in order stand, + And mighty folios first, a lordly band; + Then quartos their well-ordered ranks maintain, + And light octavos fill a spacious plain: + See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows, + A humbler band of duodecimos; + While undistinguished trifles swell the scene, + The last new play and frittered magazine. + + * * * * * + + But who are these, a tribe that soar above, + And tell more tender tales of modern love? + + A _novel_ train! the brood of old Romance, + Conceived by Folly on the coast of France, + That now with lighter thought and gentler fire, + Usurp the honours of their drooping sire: + And still fantastic, vain, and trifling, sing + Of many a soft and inconsistent thing,-- + Of rakes repenting, clogged in Hymen's chain, + Of nymph reclined by unpresuming swain, + Of captains, colonels, lords, and amorous knights, + That find in humbler nymphs such chaste delights. + Such heavenly charms, so gentle, yet so gay, + That all their former follies fly away: + Honour springs up, where'er their looks impart + A moment's sunshine to the hardened heart; + A virtue, just before the rover's jest, + Grows like a mushroom in his melting breast. + Much too they tell of cottages and shades. + Of balls, and routs, and midnight masquerades, + Where dangerous men and dangerous mirth reside, + And Virtue goes----on purpose to be tried. + These are the tales that wake the soul to life, + That charm the sprightly niece and forward wife, + That form the manners of a polished age, + And each pure easy moral of the stage. + + + FROM THE VILLAGE + + The village life, and every care that reigns + O'er youthful peasants and declining swains; + What labour yields, and what, that labour past, + Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; + What form the real picture of the poor, + Demand a song--the Muse can give no more. + + Fled are those times when, in harmonious strains, + The rustic poet praised his native plains; + No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse, + Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse: + Yet still for these we frame the tender strain; + Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, + And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal-- + The only pains, alas! they never feel. + + On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign, + If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, + Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong, + Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? + From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, + Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way? + Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains, + Because the Muses never knew their pains. + They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now + Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough, + And few amid the rural tribe have time + To number syllables and play with rhyme: + Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share + The poet's rapture and the peasant's care, + Or the great labours of the field degrade + With the new peril of a poorer trade? + + From this chief cause these idle praises spring-- + That themes so easy few forbear to sing, + For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask; + To sing of shepherds is an easy task: + The happy youth assumes the common strain, + A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain; + With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer, + But all, to look like her, is painted fair. + + I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms + For him that grazes or for him that farms; + But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace + The poor laborious natives of the place, + And see the mid-day sun with fervid ray + On their bare heads and dewy temples play, + While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts + Deplore their fortune yet sustain their parts, + Then shall I dare these real ills to hide + In tinsel trappings of poetic pride? + + No; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast, + Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast; + Where other cares than those the Muse relates, + And other shepherds dwell with other mates; + By such examples taught, I paint the cot + As Truth will paint it and as bards will not. + Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain: + To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; + O'ercome by labour and bowed down by time, + Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? + Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, + By winding myrtles round your ruined shed? + Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower, + Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? + + Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, + Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor; + From thence a length of burning sand appears, + Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; + Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, + Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye: + There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, + And to the ragged infant threaten war; + There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil; + There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; + Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, + The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; + O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, + And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; + With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, + And a sad splendour vainly shines around. + + * * * * * + + Here, wandering long, amid these frowning fields, + I sought the simple life that Nature yields: + Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurped her place, + And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; + Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe, + The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, + Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, + On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye, + Which to their coast directs its venturous way; + Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. + + As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, + And wait for favouring winds to leave the land; + While still for flight the ready wing is spread: + So waited I the favouring hour, and fled; + Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, + And cried, 'Ah! hapless they who still remain: + Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, + Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore; + + Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway + Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; + When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, + And begs a poor protection from the poor!' + + But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand + Gave a spare portion to the famished land; + Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain + Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain; + But yet in other scenes more fair in view, + Where Plenty smiles--alas! she smiles for few-- + And those who taste not, yet behold her store, + Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore-- + The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. + Or will you deem them amply paid in health, + Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth? + Go, then! and see them rising with the sun, + Through a long course of daily toil to run; + See them beneath the Dog-star's raging heat, + When the knees tremble and the temples beat; + Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er + The labour past, and toils to come explore; + See them alternate suns and showers engage, + And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; + Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, + When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; + Then own that labour may as fatal be + To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee. + + Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride + Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; + There may you see the youth of slender frame + Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; + Yet, urged along, and proudly both to yield, + He strives to join his fellows of the field; + Till long-contending, nature droops at last, + Declining health rejects his poor repast, + His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees, + And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. + + Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, + Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; + Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare, + Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share! + + Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, + Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; + Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such + As you who praise, would never deign to touch. + + Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, + Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; + Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share, + Go look within, and ask if peace be there; + If peace be his, that drooping weary sire; + Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; + Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand + Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand, + + Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these + Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; + For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age + Can with no cares except its own engage; + Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see + The bare arms broken from the withering tree, + On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough, + Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. + + He once was chief in all the rustic trade; + His steady hand the straightest furrow made; + Full many a prize he won, and still is proud + To find the triumphs of his youth allowed; + A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes. + He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs; + For now he journeys to his grave in pain; + The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain: + Alternate masters now their slave command, + Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, + And, when his age attempts its task in vain, + With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. + + Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, + His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep; + Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow + O'er his white locks and bury them in snow, + When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn, + He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn:-- + + 'Why do I live, when I desire to be + At once from life and life's long labour free? + Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away, + Without the sorrows of a slow decay; + I, like you withered leaf, remain behind, + Nipped by the frost, and shivering in the wind; + There it abides till younger buds come on + As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; + Then from the rising generation thrust, + It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. + + 'These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, + Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; + To me the children of my youth are lords, + Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words: + Wants of their own demand their care; and who + Feels his own want and succours others too? + A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, + None need my help, and none relieve my woe; + Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, + And men forget the wretch they would not aid.' + + Thus groan the old, till by disease oppressed, + They taste a final woe, and then they rest. + + Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, + Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; + There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, + And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; + There children dwell who know no parents' care; + Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! + Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, + Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; + Dejected widows with unheeded tears, + And crippled age with more than childhood fears; + The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! + The moping idiot, and the madman gay. + Here too the sick their final doom receive, + Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, + Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, + Mixed with the clamours of the crowd below; + Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, + And the cold charities of man to man: + Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, + And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; + But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, + And pride embitters what it can't deny. + + Say, ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes, + Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; + Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance + With timid eye to read the distant glance; + Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease + To name the nameless, ever-new, disease; + Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, + Which real pain, and that alone, can cure; + How would ye bear in real pain to lie, + Despised, neglected, left alone to die? + How would, ye bear to draw your latest breath + Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? + + Such is that room which one rude beam divides, + And naked rafters form the sloping sides; + Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, + And lath and mud are all that lie between, + Save one dull pane that, coarsely patched, gives way + To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: + Here on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, + The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; + For him no hand the cordial cup applies, + Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; + No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, + Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. + + But soon a load and hasty summons calls, + Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; + Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, + All pride and business, bustle and conceit; + With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe, + With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, + He bids the gazing throng around him fly, + And carries fate and physic in his eye: + A potent quack, long versed in human ills, + Who first insults the victim whom he kills; + Whose murderous hand a drowsy Bench protect, + And whose most tender mercy is neglect. + Paid by the parish for attendance here, + He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer; + In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies, + Impatience marked in his averted eyes; + And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, + Without reply he rushes on the door: + His drooping patient, long inured to pain, + And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain; + He ceases now the feeble help to crave + Of man; and silent sinks into the grave. + + But ere his death some pious doubts arise, + Some simple fears, which 'bold bad' men despise; + Fain would he ask the parish-priest to prove + His title certain to the joys above: + For this he sends the murm'ring nurse, who calls + The holy stranger to these dismal walls: + And doth not he, the pious man, appear, + He, 'passing rich with forty pounds a year?' + Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock, + And far unlike him, feeds this little flock: + A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task + As much as God or man can fairly ask; + The rest he gives to loves and labours light, + To fields the morning, and to feasts the night; + None better skilled the noisy pack to guide, + To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide; + A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, + And, skilled at whist, devotes the night to play: + Then, while such honours bloom around his head, + Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed, + To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal + To combat fears that e'en the pious feel? + + * * * * * + + And hark! the riots of the green begin, + That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn; + What time the weekly pay was vanished all, + And the slow hostess scored the threatening wall; + What time they asked, their friendly feast to close, + A final cup, and that will make them foes; + When blows ensue that break the arm of toil, + And rustic battle ends the boobies' broil. + + Save when to yonder hall they bend their way, + Where the grave justice ends the grievous fray; + He who recites, to keep the poor in awe, + The law's vast volume--for he knows the law:-- + To him with anger or with shame repair + The injured peasant and deluded fair. + Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears, + Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears; + And while she stands abashed, with conscious eye, + Some favourite female of her judge glides by, + Who views with scornful glance the strumpet's fate, + And thanks the stars that made her keeper great; + Near her the swain, about to bear for life + One certain, evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife; + But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath, + Consents to wed, and so secures them both. + + Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate, + Why make the poor as guilty as the great? + To show the great, those mightier sons of pride, + How near in vice the lowest are allied; + Such are their natures and their passions such, + But these disguise too little, those too much: + So shall the man of power and pleasure see + In his own slave as vile a wretch as he; + In his luxurious lord the servant find + His own low pleasures and degenerate mind; + And each in all the kindred vices trace + Of a poor, blind, bewildered, erring race; + Who, a short time in varied fortune past, + Die, and are equal in the dust at last. + + + + + JOHN NEWTON + + + A VISION OF LIFE IN DEATH + + In evil long I took delight, + Unawed by shame or fear, + Till a new object struck my sight, + And stopped my wild career; + I saw One hanging on a Tree + In agonies and Blood, + Who fixed His languid eyes on me, + As near His cross I stood. + + Sure never till my latest breath + Can I forget that look: + It seemed to charge me with His death, + Though not a word he spoke: + My conscience felt and owned the guilt, + And plunged me in despair; + I saw my sins His blood had spilt, + And helped to nail Him there. + + Alas! I know not what I did! + But now my tears are vain: + Where shall my trembling soul be hid? + For I the Lord have slain! + A second look He gave, which said, + 'I freely all forgive; + The blood is for thy ransom paid; + I die, that thou may'st live.' + + Thus, while His death my sin displays + In all its blackest hue, + Such is the mystery of grace, + It seals my pardon too. + With pleasing grief and mournful joy, + My spirit now is filled + That I should such a life destroy,-- + Yet live by Him I killed. + + + + + WILLIAM COWPER + + From TABLE TALK + + [THE POET AND RELIGION] + + Pity Religion has so seldom found + A skilful guide into poetic ground! + The flowers would spring where'er she deigned to stray, + And every muse attend her in her way. + Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, + And many a compliment politely penned, + But unattired in that becoming vest + Religion weaves for her, and half undressed, + Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, + A wintry figure, like a withered thorn. + + The shelves are full, all other themes are sped, + Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread; + Satire has long since done his best, and curst + And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst; + Fancy has sported all her powers away + In tales, in trifles, and in children's play; + And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, + Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. + 'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, + Touched with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre, + And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, + With more than mortal music on his tongue, + That He who died below, and reigns above, + Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. + + + From CONVERSATION + + [THE DUBIOUS AND THE POSITIVE] + + Dubious is such a scrupulous good man,-- + Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. + He would not with a peremptory tone + Assert the nose upon his face his own; + With hesitation admirably slow, + He humbly hopes--presumes--it may be so. + His evidence, if he were called by law + To swear to some enormity he saw, + For want of prominence and just relief, + Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. + Through constant dread of giving truth offence, + He ties up all his hearers in suspense; + Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not; + What he remembers seems to have forgot; + His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, + Centering at last in having none at all. + Yet though he tease and baulk your listening ear, + He makes one useful point exceeding clear; + Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme + A sceptic in philosophy may seem, + Reduced to practice, his beloved rule + Would only prove him a consummate fool; + Useless in him alike both brain and speech, + Fate having placed all truth above his reach; + His ambiguities his total sum, + He might as well be blind and deaf and dumb. + + Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, + The positive pronounce without dismay, + Their want of light and intellect supplied + By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride: + Without the means of knowing right from wrong, + They always are decisive, clear, and strong; + Where others toil with philosophic force, + Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course, + Flings at your head conviction in the lump, + And gains remote conclusions at a jump; + Their own defect, invisible to them, + Seen in another, they at once condemn, + And, though self-idolized in every case, + Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. + The cause is plain and not to be denied, + The proud are always most provoked by pride; + Few competitions but engender spite, + And those the most where neither has a right. + + + TO A YOUNG LADY + + Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, + Apt emblem of a virtuous maid-- + Silent and chaste she steals along, + Far from the world's gay busy throng: + With gentle yet prevailing force, + Intent upon her destined course; + Graceful and useful all she does. + Blessing and blest where'er she goes; + Pure-bosomed as that watery glass + And Heaven reflected in her face. + + + THE SHRUBBERY + + O happy shades! to me unblest! + Friendly to peace, but not to me! + How ill the scene that offers rest, + And heart that cannot rest, agree! + + This glassy stream, that spreading pine, + Those alders quivering to the breeze, + Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, + And please, if anything could please. + + But fixed unalterable Care + Foregoes not what she feels within, + Shows the same sadness everywhere, + And slights the season and the scene. + + For all that pleased in wood or lawn + While Peace possessed these silent bowers, + Her animating smile withdrawn, + Has lost its beauties and its powers. + + The saint or moralist should tread + This moss-grown alley, musing, slow, + They seek like me the secret shade, + But not, like me, to nourish woe! + + Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste + Alike admonish not to roam; + These tell me of enjoyments past, + And those of sorrows yet to come. + + + From THE TASK + + [Love of Familiar Scenes] + + Scenes that soothed + Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find + Still soothing and of power to charm me still. + And witness, dear companion of my walks, + Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive + Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, + Confirmed by long experience of thy worth + And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire, + Witness a joy that them hast doubled long. + Thou knowest my praise of nature most sincere, + And that my raptures are not conjured up + To serve occasions of poetic pomp, + But genuine, and art partner of them all. + + How oft upon yon eminence our pace + Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne + The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, + While admiration feeding at the eye, + And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. + Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned + The distant plough slow moving, and beside + His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, + The sturdy swain diminished to a boy. + Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain + Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, + Conducts the eye along his sinuous course + Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, + Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms, + That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; + While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, + That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, + The sloping land recedes into the clouds; + Displaying on its varied side the grace + Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, + Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells + Just undulates upon the listening ear; + Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. + Scenes must be beautiful which, daily viewed, + Please daily, and whose novelty survives + Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: + Praise justly due to those that I describe. + + + [MAN'S INHUMANITY] + + Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, + Some boundless contiguity of shade, + Where rumour of oppression and deceit, + Of unsuccessful or successful war, + Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, + My soul is sick, with every day's report + Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. + There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, + It does not feel for man; the natural bond + Of brotherhood is severed as the flax + That falls asunder at the touch of fire. + He finds his fellow guilty of a skin + + Not coloured like his own, and, having power + T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause + Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey, + Lands intersected by a narrow frith. + Abhor each other. Mountains interposed + Make enemies of nations who had else + Like kindred drops been mingled into one. + Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; + And worse than all, and most to be deplored, + As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, + Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat + With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, + Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. + Then what is man? And what man seeing this, + And having human feelings, does not blush + And hang his head, to think himself a man? + I would not have a slave to till my ground, + To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, + And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth + That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. + No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's + Just estimation prized above all price, + I had much rather be myself the slave + And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. + We have no slaves at home: then why abroad? + And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave + That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. + Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs + Receive our air, that moment they are free; + They touch our country, and their shackles fall. + That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud + And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, + And let it circulate through every vein + Of all your empire; that where Britain's power + Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. + + + [LOVE OF ENGLAND] + + England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, + My country! and, while yet a nook is left + Where English minds and manners may be found, + Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime + + Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed + With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, + I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies + And fields without a flower, for warmer France + With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves + Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. + To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime + Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire + Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; + But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake + Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart + As any thunderer there. And I can feel + Thy follies too, and with a just disdain + Frown at effeminates, whose very looks + Reflect dishonour on the land I love. + How, in the name of soldiership and sense, + Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth + And tender as a girl, all-essenced o'er + With odours, and as profligate as sweet, + Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, + And love when they should fight,--when such as these + Presume to lay their hand upon the ark + Of her magnificent and awful cause? + Time was when it was praise and boast enough + In every clime, and travel where we might, + That we were born her children; praise enough + To fill the ambition of a private man, + That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, + And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. + Farewell those honours, and farewell with them + The hope of such hereafter! They have fallen + Each in his field of glory, one in arms, + And one in council--Wolfe upon the lap + Of smiling Victory that moment won, + And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame! + They made us many soldiers. Chatham still + Consulting England's happiness at home, + Secured it by an unforgiving frown + If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, + Put so much of his heart into his act, + That his example had a magnet's force, + And all were swift to follow whom all loved. + + Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! + Or all that we have left is empty talk + Of old achievements, and despair of new. + + + [COWPER, THE RELIGIOUS RECLUSE] + + I was a stricken deer that left the herd + Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed + My panting side was charged, when I withdrew + To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. + There was I found by One who had Himself + Been hurt by th' archers. In His side He bore, + And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars. + With gentle force soliciting the darts, + He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live. + Since then, with few associates, in remote + And silent woods I wander, far from those + My former partners of the peopled scene, + With few associates, and not wishing more. + Here much I ruminate, as much I may, + With other views of men and manners now + Than once, and others of a life to come. + I see that all are wanderers, gone astray + Each in his own delusions; they are lost + In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed + And never won; dream after dream ensues, + And still they dream that they shall still succeed, + And still are disappointed: rings the world + With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind. + And add two-thirds of the remaining half, + And find the total of their hopes and fears + Dreams, empty dreams. + + + [THE ARRIVAL OF THE POST] + + Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge, + That with its wearisome but needful length + Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon + Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright, + He comes, the herald of a noisy world, + With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, + News from all nations lumbering at his back, + True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, + + Yet careless what he brings, his one concern + Is to conduct it to the destined inn, + And, having dropped th' expected bag, pass on. + He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, + Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief + Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, + To him indifferent whether grief or joy. + Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, + Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet + With tears that trickled down the writers cheeks + Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, + Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains + Or nymphs responsive, equally affect + His horse and him, unconscious of them all. + But oh th' important budget, ushered in + With such heart-shaking music, who can say + What are its tidings? Have our troops awaked, + Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, + Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave? + Is India free, and does she wear her plumed + And jewelled turban with a smile of peace, + Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, + The popular harangue, the tart reply, + The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, + And the loud laugh--I long to know them all; + I burn to set th' imprisoned wranglers free, + And give them voice and utterance once again. + + Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, + Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round; + And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn + Throws up a steamy column, and the cups + That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, + So let us welcome peaceful evening in. + + + [THE BASTILE] + + Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more + To France than all her losses and defeats + Old or of later date, by sea or land, + Her house of bondage worse than that of old + Which God avenged on Pharaoh--the Bastile! + Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, + Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, + That monarchs have supplied from age to age + With music such as suits their sovereign ears-- + The sighs and groans of miserable men, + There's not an English heart that would not leap + To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know + That even our enemies, so oft employed + In forging chains for us, themselves were free: + For he that values liberty, confines + His zeal for her predominance within + No narrow bounds; her cause engages him + Wherever pleaded; 'tis the cause of man. + There dwell the most forlorn of human kind, + Immured though unaccused, condemned untried. + Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. + There, like the visionary emblem seen + By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, + And filleted about with hoops of brass, + Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. + To count the hour-bell and expect no change; + And ever as the sullen sound is heard, + Still to reflect that though a joyless note + To him whose moments all have one dull pace, + Ten thousand rovers in the world at large + Account it music--that it summons some + To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; + The wearied hireling finds it a release + From labour; and the lover, who has chid + Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke + Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight: + To fly for refuge from distracting thought + To such amusements as ingenious woe + Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools-- + To read engraven on the muddy walls, + In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, + A sad memorial, and subjoin his own; + To turn purveyor to an overgorged + And bloated spider, till the pampered pest + Is made familiar, watches his approach, + Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend; + To wear out time in numbering to and fro + The studs that thick emboss his iron door, + Then downward and then upward, then aslant + And then alternate, with a sickly hope + By dint of change to give his tasteless task + Some relish, till, the sum exactly found + In all directions, he begins again:-- + Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around + With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel + And beg for exile or the pangs of death? + That man should thus encroach on fellow-man, + Abridge him of his just and native rights, + Eradicate him, tear him from his hold + Upon th' endearments of domestic life + And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, + And doom him for perhaps an heedless word + To barrenness and solitude and tears, + Moves indignation; makes the name of king + (Of king whom such prerogative can please) + As dreadful as the Manichean god, + Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. + + + [MEDITATION IN WINTER] + + The night was winter in his roughest mood, + The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, + Upon the southern side of the slant hills, + And where the woods fence off the northern blast, + The season smiles, resigning all its rage, + And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue + Without a cloud, and white without a speck + The dazzling splendour of the scene below. + Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, + And through the trees I view the embattled tower + Whence all the music. I again perceive + The soothing influence of the wafted strains, + And settle in soft musings as I tread + The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, + Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. + The roof, though moveable through all its length + As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, + And intercepting in their silent fall + The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. + + No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. + The redbreast warbles still, but is content + With slender notes, and more than half suppressed: + Pleased with, his solitude, and flitting light + From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes + From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, + That tinkle in the withered leaves below. + Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, + Charms more than silence. Meditation here + May think down hours to moments. Here the heart + May give a useful lesson to the head, + And learning wiser grow without his books. + Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, + Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells + In heads replete with thoughts of other men, + Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. + Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, + The mere materials with which wisdom builds, + 'Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, + Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. + Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; + Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. + Books are not seldom talismans and spells, + By which the magic art of shrewder wits + Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. + Some to the fascination of a name + Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style + Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds + Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. + While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear + The insupportable fatigue of thought, + And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice, + The total grist unsifted, husks and all. + But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course + Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, + And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs, + And lanes in which the primrose ere her time + Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, + Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth, + Not shy as in the world, and to be won + By slow solicitation, seize at once + The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. + + + [KINDNESS TO ANIMALS] + + I would not enter on my list of friends, + Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, + Yet wanting sensibility, the man + Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. + An inadvertent, step may crush the snail + That crawls at evening in the public path; + But he that has humanity, forewarned, + Will tread aside and let the reptile live. + The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, + And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, + A visitor unwelcome, into scenes + Sacred to neatness and repose--th' alcove, + The chamber, or refectory,--may die: + A necessary act incurs no blame. + Not so when, held within their proper bounds + And guiltless of offence, they range the air, + Or take their pastime in the spacious field: + There they are privileged; and he that hunts + Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, + Disturbs th' economy of Nature's realm, + Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. + + + ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE + + O that those lips had language! Life has passed + With me but roughly since I heard thee last. + Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, + The same that oft in childhood solaced me; + Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, + 'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!' + The meek intelligence of those dear eyes + (Blest be the art that can immortalize, + The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim + To quench it) here shines on me still the same. + + Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, + O welcome guest, though unexpected here! + Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, + Affectionate, a mother lost so long, + I will obey, not willingly alone, + But gladly, as the precept were her own: + And, while that face renews my filial grief, + Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, + Shall steep me in Elysian revery, + A momentary dream that thou art she. + + My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, + Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? + Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, + Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? + Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; + Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- + Ah, that maternal smile! it answers 'Yes,' + I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, + I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, + And, turning from my nursery window, drew + A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! + But was it such? It was: where thou art gone + Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. + May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, + The parting word shall pass my lips no more! + Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, + Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. + What ardently I wished I long believed, + And, disappointed still, was still deceived, + By expectation every day beguiled, + Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. + Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, + Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, + I learnt at last submission to my lot, + But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. + + Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more: + Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; + And where the gardener Robin, day by day, + Drew me to school along the public way, + Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped + In scarlet, mantle warm, and velvet-capped, + 'Tis now become a history little known + That once we called the pastoral house our own. + Short-lived possession! But the record fair + That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, + Still outlives many a storm that has effaced + A thousand other themes less deeply traced. + Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, + That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; + Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, + The biscuit or confectionary plum; + The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed + By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; + All this, and, more endearing still than all, + Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, + Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks + That humour interposed too often makes; + All this, still legible on memory's page, + And still to be so to my latest age, + Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay + Such honours to thee as my numbers may, + Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, + Not scorned in heaven though little noticed here. + + Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours + When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, + The violet, the pink, the jessamine, + I pricked them into paper with a pin + (And thou wast happier than myself the while, + Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), + Could those few pleasant days again appear, + Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? + I would not trust my heart--the dear delight + Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. + But no--what here we call our life is such, + So little to be loved, and thou so much, + That I should ill requite thee to constrain + Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. + + Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, + The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed, + Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, + Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, + There sits quiescent on the floods, that show + Her beauteous form reflected clear below, + While airs impregnated with incense play + Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, + So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore + 'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,' + And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide + Of life long since has anchored by thy side. + + But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, + Always from port withheld, always distressed, + Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, + Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, + And day by day some current's thwarting force + Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. + Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he, + That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. + My boast is not that I deduce my birth + From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; + But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- + The son of parents passed into the skies! + + And now, farewell. Time unrevoked has run + His wonted course, yet what I wished is done: + By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, + I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again, + To have renewed the joys that once were mine, + Without the sin of violating thine; + And while the wings of Fancy still are free, + And I can view this mimic show of thee, + Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- + Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. + + + TO MARY + + The twentieth year is well-nigh past, + Since first our sky was overcast; + Ah, would that this might be the last! + My Mary! + + Thy spirits have a fainter flow, + 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 playedst 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 uttered 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 pressed, press gently mine, + My Mary! + + Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, + That now at every step thou movest + Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, + My Mary! + + And still to love, though pressed with ill, + In wintry age to feel no chill, + With me is to be lovely still, + My Mary! + + But ah! by constant heed I know, + 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! + + + THE CASTAWAY + + Obscurest night involved the sky, + The Atlantic billows roared, + When such a destined wretch as I, + Washed headlong from on board, + Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, + His floating home forever left. + + No-braver chief could Albion boast + Than he with whom he went, + Nor ever ship left Albion's coast + With warmer wishes sent. + He loved them both, but both in vain, + Nor him beheld, nor her again, + + Not long beneath the whelming brine, + Expert to swim, he lay; + Nor soon he felt his strength decline, + Or courage die away; + But waged with death a lasting strife, + Supported by despair of life. + + He shouted: nor his friends had failed + To check the vessel's course, + But so the furious blast prevailed, + That, pitiless perforce, + They left their outcast mate behind, + And scudded still before the wind. + + Some succour yet they could afford; + And such as storms allow, + The cask, the coop, the floated cord, + Delayed not to bestow. + But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, + Whate'er they gave, should visit more. + + Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he + Their haste himself condemn, + Aware that flight, in such a sea, + Alone could rescue them; + Yet bitter felt it still to die + Deserted, and his friends so nigh. + + He long survives, who lives an hour + In ocean, self-upheld; + And so long he, with unspent power, + His destiny repelled; + And ever, as the minutes flew, + Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!' + + At length, his transient respite past, + His comrades, who before + Had heard his voice in every blast, + Could catch the sound no more: + For then, by toil subdued, he drank + The stifling wave, and then he sank. + + No poet wept him; but the page + Of narrative sincere, + That tells his name, his worth, his age, + Is wet with Anson's tear: + And tears by bards or heroes shed + Alike immortalize the dead. + + I therefore purpose not, or dream, + Descanting on his fate, + To give the melancholy theme + A more enduring date: + But misery still delights to trace + Its semblance in another's case. + + No voice divine the storm allayed, + No light propitious shone, + When, snatched from all effectual aid, + We perished, each alone: + But I beneath a rougher sea, + And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. + + + + + WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES + + + EVENING + + Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend, + Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, + The lonely battlement, the farthest hill + And wood, I think of those who have no friend; + Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led, + From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, + Retiring, wander to the ringdove's haunts + Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed + Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye + Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind + Might rest beyond the murmurs of mankind, + Nor hear the hourly moans of misery! + Alas for man! that Hope's fair views the while + Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! + + + DOVER CLIFFS + + On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood + Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet + Hear not the surge that has for ages beat, + How many a lonely wanderer has stood! + And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, + And o'er the distant billows the still eve + Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave + To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; + Of social scenes, from which he wept to part! + Oh! if, like me, he knew how fruitless all + The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, + Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, + And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide-- + The world his country, and his God his guide. + + + + + ROBERT BURNS + + + MARY MORISON + + O Mary, at thy window be; + It is the wished, the trysted hour! + Those smiles and glances let me see + That make the miser's treasure poor! + How blythely wad I bide the stoure, + 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 sighed, and said amang them a', + 'Ye are na 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 wilt na gie, + At least be pity to me shown! + A thought ungentle canna be + The thought o' Mary Morison. + + + THE HOLY FAIR + + Upon a simmer Sunday morn, + When Nature's face is fair, + I walked forth to view the corn, + An' snuff the caller air. + The rising sun, owre Galston muirs, + Wi' glorious light was glintin; + The hares were hirplin down the furs, + The lav'rocks they were chantin + Fu' sweet that day. + + As lightsomely I glowered abroad, + To see a scene sae gay, + Three hizzies, early at the road, + Cam skelpin up the way. + Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, + But ane wi' lyart lining; + The third, that gaed a wee a-back, + Was in the fashion shining + Fu' gay that day. + + The twa appeared like sisters twin, + In feature, form, an' claes; + Their visage withered, lang an'thin, + An' sour as onie slaes: + The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, + As light as onie lambie, + An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, + As soon as e'er she saw me, + Fu' kind that day. + + Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass, + I think ye seem to ken me; + I'm sure I've seen that bonie face, + But yet I canna name ye.' + Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, + An'taks me by the han's, + 'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck + Of a' the Ten Comman's + A screed some day. + + 'My name is Fun--your cronie dear, + The nearest friend ye hae; + An'this is Superstition here, + An'that's Hypocrisy. + I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, + To spend an hour in daffin: + Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, + We will get famous laughin + At them this day.' + + Quoth I, 'Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't: + I'll get my Sunday's sark on, + An' meet you on the holy spot; + Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!' + Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, + An' soon I made me ready; + For roads were clad frae side to side + Wi' monie a wearie body, + In droves that day. + + Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, + Gaed hoddin by their cotters; + There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, + Are springin owre the gutters. + The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, + In silks an' scarlets glitter; + Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, + An' farls baked wi' butter, + Fu' crump that day. + + When by the plate we set our nose, + Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, + A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, + An' we maun draw our tippence. + Then in we go to see the show: + On every side they're gath'rin, + Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, + An' some are busy bleth'rin + Right loud that day. + + Here stands a shed to fend the showers, + An' screen our countra gentry, + There Racer Jess, and twa-three whores, + Are blinkin' at the entry. + Here sits a raw of tittlin' jads, + Wi' heavin breasts an' bare neck; + An'there a batch o' wabster lads. + Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, + For fun this day. + + Here some are thinkin on their sins, + An' some upo' their claes; + Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, + Anither sighs and prays; + On this hand sits a chosen swatch, + Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces; + On that a set o' chaps, at watch, + Thrang winkln on the lasses + To chairs that day. + + O happy is that man an' blest + (Nae wonder that it pride him!) + Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, + Conies clinkin down beside him! + Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back, + He sweetly does compose him; + Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, + An's loof upon her bosom, + Unkend that day. + + Now a' the congregation o'er + Is silent expectation; + For Moodie speels the holy door + Wi' tidings o' damnation. + Should Hornie, as in ancient days, + 'Mang sons o' God present him, + The vera sight o' Moodie's face + To 's ain het hame had sent him + Wi' fright that day. + + Hear how he clears the points o' faith + Wi' rattlin an wi' thumpin! + Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, + He's stampin an' he's jumpin! + His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, + His eldritch squeel an' gestures, + O how they fire the heart devout-- + Like cantharidian plaisters, + On sic a day! + + But hark! the tent has changed its voice; + There's peace an' rest nae langer; + For a' the real judges rise, + They canna sit for anger: + Smith opens out his cauld harangues + On practice and on morals; + An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, + To gie the jars an' barrels + A lift that day. + + What signifies his barren shine + Of moral pow'rs an' reason? + His English style an' gesture fine + Are a' clean out o' season. + Like Socrates or Antonine, + Or some auld pagan heathen, + The moral man he does define, + But ne'er a word o' faith in + That's right that day. + + In guid time comes an antidote + Against sic poisoned nostrum; + For Peebles, frae the water-fit, + Ascends the holy rostrum: + See, up he's got the word o' God, + An' meek an' mim has viewed it, + While Common Sense has taen the road, + An' aff, an' up the Cowgate + Fast, fast that day. + + Wee Miller niest the guard relieves, + An' orthodoxy raibles, + Tho' in his heart he weel believes + An'thinks it auld wives' fables; + But faith! the birkie wants a manse, + So cannilie he hums them, + Altho' his carnal wit an' sense + Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him + At times that day, + + Now butt an' ben the change-house fills + Wi' yill-caup commentators; + Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, + An'there the pint-stowp clatters; + While thick an'thrang, an' loud an' lang, + Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture, + They raise a din that in the end + Is like to breed a rupture + O' wrath that day. + + Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair + Than either school or college; + It kindles wit, it waukens lear, + It pangs us fou o' knowledge. + Be 't whisky-gill or penny-wheep, + Or onie stronger potion, + It never fails, on drinkin deep, + To kittle up our notion, + By night or day. + + The lads an' lasses, blythely bent + To mind baith saul an' body, + Sit round the table weel content, + An' steer about the toddy. + On this ane's dress an'that ane's leuk + They're makin observations; + While some are cozie i' the neuk, + An' formin assignations + To meet some day. + + But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, + Till a' the hills are rairin, + And echoes back return the shouts; + Black Russell is na spairin: + His piercin words, like Highlan' swords, + Divide the joints an' marrow; + His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, + Our verra 'sauls does harrow' + Wi' fright that day! + + A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit, + Filled fou o' lowin brunstane, + Whase ragin flame an' scorchin heat + Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! + The half-asleep start up wi' fear, + An'think they hear it roarin, + When presently it does appear + 'Twas but some neebor snorin, + Asleep that day. + + 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell + How monie stories passed, + An' how they crouded to the yill, + When they were a' dismissed; + How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, + Amang the furms an' benches, + An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, + Was dealt about in lunches + An' dawds that day. + + In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, + An' sits down by the fire, + Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; + The lasses they are shyer; + The auld guidmen about the grace + Frae side to side they bother, + Till some ane by his bonnet lays + And gi'es them 't, like a tether, + Fu' lang that day. + + Waesueks for him that gets nae lass, + Or lasses that hae naething! + Sma' need has he to say a grace, + Or melvie his braw claithing! + O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel + How bonie lads ye wanted, + An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel + Let lasses be affronted + On sic a day! + + Now Clinkumbell, w' rattlin tow, + Begins to jow an' croon; + Some swagger hame the best they dow, + Some wait the afternoon, + At slaps the billies halt a blink, + Till lasses strip their shoon; + Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, + They're a' in famous tune + For crack that day. + + How monie hearts this day converts + O' sinners and o' lasses! + Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaen + As saft as onie flesh is. + There's some are fou o' love divine, + There's some are fou o' brandy; + An' monie jobs that day begin, + May end in houghmagandie + Some ither day. + + + TO A LOUSE + + ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH + + Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? + Your impudence protects you sairly; + I canna say but ye strunt rarely + Ower gauze and lace, + Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely + On sic a place, + + Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, + Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner, + How daur ye set your fit upon her, + Sae fine a lady! + Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner + On some poor body. + + Swith! in some beggar's hauffet squattle; + There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattle + Wi' ither kindred jumping cattle, + In shoals and nations, + Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle + Your thick plantations. + + Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight, + Below the fatt'rils, snug an'tight; + Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right + Till ye've got on it, + The vera tapmost, tow'ring height + O' Miss's bonnet. + + My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, + As plump an' grey as onie grozet; + O for some rank, mercurial rozet + Or fell red smeddum! + I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't + Wad dress your droddum! + + I wad na been surprised to spy + You on an auld wife's flainen toy, + Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, + On's wyliecoat; + But Miss's fine Lunardi--fie! + How daur ye do't! + + O Jenny, dinna toss your head, + An' set your beauties a' abread! + Ye little ken what cursed speed + The blastie's makin! + Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread, + Are notice takin! + + O wad some Power the giftie gie us + To see oursels as ithers see us! + It wad frae monie a blunder free us, + An' foolish notion; + What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, + An' ev'n devotion! + + + FROM EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK + + I am nae poet, in a sense, + But just a rhymer like by chance, + An' hae to learning nae pretence; + Yet what the matter? + Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, + I jingle at her. + + Your critic-folk may cock their nose, + And say, 'How can you e'er propose, + You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, + To mak a sang?' + But, by your leaves, my learned foes, + Ye're maybe wrang. + + What's a' your jargon o' your schools, + Your Latin names for horns an' stools? + If honest Nature made you fools, + What sairs your grammers? + Ye'd better taen up spades and shools + Or knappin-hammers. + + A set o' dull, conceited hashes + Confuse their brains in college classes; + They gang in stirks, and come out asses, + Plain truth to speak; + An' syne they think to climb Parnassus + By dint o' Greek! + + Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, + That's a' the learning I desire; + Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire + At pleugh or cart, + My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, + May touch the heart. + + + THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT + + My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! + No mercenary bard his homage pays; + With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, + My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise: + To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, + The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; + The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, + What Aiken in a cottage would have been; + Ah, though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! + + November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; + The shortening winter-day is near a close; + The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; + The blackening trains o' craws to their repose: + The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes-- + This night his weekly moil is at an end,-- + Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, + Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, + And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. + + At length his lonely cot appears in view, + Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; + Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through + To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. + His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, + His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, + The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, + Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, + And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. + + Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, + At service out amang the farmers roun'; + Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin. + A cannie errand to a neebor town. + Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, + In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, + Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, + Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, + To help her parents dear if they in hardship be. + + With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, + And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; + The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; + Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. + The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; + Anticipation forward points the view. + The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, + Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; + The father mixes a' wi' admonition due: + + Their master's and their mistress's command + The younkers a' are warned to obey, + And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, + And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: + 'And O be sure to fear the Lord alway, + And mind your duty duly, morn and night; + Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, + Implore His counsel and assisting might: + They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' + + But hark! a rap comes gently to the door. + Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, + Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, + To do some errands and convoy her hame. + The wily mother sees the conscious flame + Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; + With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name, + While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; + Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. + + With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben: + A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; + Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen; + The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. + The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, + But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; + The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy + What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave, + Weel-pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. + + Oh happy love, where love like this is found! + Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! + I've paced much this weary, mortal round, + And sage experience bids me this declare: + 'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, + One cordial in this melancholy vale, + 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair + In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, + Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.' + + Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, + A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! + That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, + Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? + Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! + Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? + Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, + Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? + Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? + + But now the supper crowns their simple hoard: + The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: + The soupe their only hawkie does afford, + That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood. + The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, + To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuek, fell; + And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; + The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell + How 'twas a towmond auld sin' lint was i' the bell. + + The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face + They round the ingle form a circle wide; + The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, + The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride; + His bonnet reverently is laid aside, + His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; + Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, + He wales a portion with judicious care, + And 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air. + + They chant their artless notes in simple guise; + They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: + Perhaps 'Dundee's' wild-warbling measures rise, + Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the name; + Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heavenward flame, + The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. + Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; + The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; + Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. + + The priest-like father reads the sacred page; + How Abram was the friend of God on high; + Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage + With Amalek's ungracious progeny; + Or how the royal bard did groaning lie + Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; + Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; + Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; + Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. + + Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme: + How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; + How He Who bore in Heaven the second name + Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; + How His first followers and servants sped; + The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; + How he, who lone in Patmos banished, + Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, + And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. + + Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, + The saint, the father, and the husband prays; + Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' + That thus they all shall meet in future days, + There ever bask in uncreated rays, + No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, + Together hymning their Creator's praise, + In such society, yet still more dear, + While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. + + Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, + In all the pomp of method and of art, + When men display to congregations wide + Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart! + The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, + The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; + But haply, in some cottage far apart, + May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, + And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. + + Then homeward all take off their several way; + The youngling cottagers retire to rest; + The parent-pair their secret homage pay, + And proffer up to Heaven the warm request + And He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, + And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, + Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, + For them and for their little ones provide, + But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. + + From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, + That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: + Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, + 'An honest man's the noblest work of God.' + And certes in fair virtue's heavenly road, + The cottage leaves the palace far behind: + What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, + Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, + Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! + + O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! + For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! + Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil + Be blest with health and peace and sweet content! + And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent + From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! + Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, + A virtuous populace may rise the while, + And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. + + O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tide + That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, + Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, + Or nobly die, the second glorious part! + (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, + His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) + Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert, + But still the patriot and the patriot-bard + In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! + + + TO A MOUSE + + ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, + NOVEMBER, 1785 + + Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, + O what a panic's in thy breastie! + Thou need na start awa sae hasty, + Wi' bickering brattle! + I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, + Wi' murdering pattle! + + I'm truly sorry man's dominion + Has broken Nature's social union, + An' justifies that ill opinion + Which makes thee startle + At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, + An' fellow-mortal! + + I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; + What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! + A daimen icker in a thrave + 'S a sma' request; + I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, + An' never miss 't! + + Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! + Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! + An' naething now to big a new ane, + O' foggage green! + An' bleak December's win's ensuin, + Baith snell an' keen! + + Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, + An' weary winter comin fast, + An' cozie here, beneath the blast, + Thou thought to dwell-- + Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed + Out thro' thy cell. + + That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble + Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! + Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, + But house or hald, + To thole the winter's sleety dribble, + An' cranreuch cauld! + + But mousie, thou art no thy lane + In proving foresight may be vain: + The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men + Gang aft agley, + An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain + For promised joy! + + Still, thou art bleat compared wi' me! + The present only toucheth thee: + But och! I backward cast my e'e, + On prospects drear! + An' forward, tho' I canna see, + I guess an' fear! + + + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY + + ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 + + Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, + Thou's met me in an evil hour, + For I maun crush amang the stoure + Thy slender stem; + To spare thee now is past my pow'r, + Thou bonie gem. + + Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, + The bonie lark, companion meet, + Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, + Wi' spreckled breast, + When upward springing, blythe, to greet + The purpling east. + + Cauld blew the bitter-biting north + Upon thy early, humble birth; + Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth + Amid the storm, + Scarce reared above the parent-earth + Thy tender form. + + The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, + High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; + But thou, beneath the random bield + O' clod or stane, + Adorns the histie stibble-field, + Unseen, alane. + + There, in thy scanty mantle clad, + Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, + Thou lifts thy unassuming head + In humble guise; + But now the share uptears thy bed, + And low thou lies! + + Such is the fate of artless maid, + Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! + By love's simplicity betray'd, + And guileless trust, + Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid, + Low i' the dust. + + Such is the fate of simple bard, + On life's rough ocean luckless starred! + Unskilful he to note the card + Of prudent lore, + Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, + And whelm him o'er! + + Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, + Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, + By human pride or cunning driv'n + To mis'ry's brink; + Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, + He, ruined, sink! + + Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, + That fate is thine--no distant date; + Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, + Full on thy bloom, + Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight + Shall be thy doom! + + + EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND + + I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend + A something to have sent you, + Tho' it should serve nae ither end + Than just a kind memento. + But how the subject-theme may gang, + Let time and chance determine; + Perhaps it may turn out a sang, + Perhaps turn out a sermon. + + Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; + And, Andrew dear, believe me, + Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, + And muckle they may grieve ye: + For care and trouble set your thought, + Ev'n when your end's attained; + And a' your views may come to nought, + Where ev'ry nerve is strained. + + I'll no say men are villains a'; + The real, harden'd wicked, + Wha hae nae check but human law, + Are to a few restricket; + But, och! mankind are unco weak, + An' little to be trusted; + If self the wavering balance shake, + It's rarely right adjusted! + + Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, + Their fate we shouldna censure, + For still th' important end of life + They equally may answer; + A man may hae an honest heart, + Tho' poortith hourly stare him; + A man may tak a neebor's part, + Yet hae nae cash to spare him. + + Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, + When wi a bosom crony; + But still keep something to yoursel + Ye scarcely tell to ony. + Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can + Frae critical dissection; + But keek thro' ev'ry other man, + Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. + + The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, + Luxuriantly indulge it; + But never tempt th' illicit rove, + Tho' naething should divulge it; + I ware the quantum o' the sin, + The hazard of concealing; + But, och! it hardens a' within, + And petrifies the feeling! + + To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, + Assiduous wait upon her; + And gather gear by ev'ry wile + That's justified by honour; + Not for to hide it in a hedge, + Nor for a train attendant; + But for the glorious privilege + Of being independent. + + The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, + To haud the wretch in order; + But where ye feel your honour grip, + Let that aye be your border; + Its slightest touches, instant pause;-- + Debar a' side-pretences; + And resolutely keep its laws, + Uncaring consequences. + + The great Creator to revere, + Must sure become the creature; + But still the preaching cant forbear, + And ev'n the rigid feature; + Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, + Be complaisance extended; + An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange + For Deity offended! + + When ranting round in pleasure's ring, + Religion may be blinded; + Or, if she gie a random sting, + It may be little minded; + But when on life we're tempest-driv'n-- + A conscience but a canker, + A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n + Is sure a noble anchor! + + Adieu, dear amiable Youth! + Your heart can ne'er be wanting! + May prudence, fortitude, and truth, + Erect your brow undaunting! + In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' + Still daily to grow wiser; + And may you better reck the rede, + Than ever did th' adviser! + + + A BARD'S EPITAPH + + Is there a whim-inspired fool, + Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, + Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool? + Let him draw near; + And owre this grassy heap sing dool, + And drap a tear. + + Is there a bard of rustic song, + Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, + That weekly this area throng?-- + Oh, pass not by! + But with a frater-feeling strong + Here heave a sigh. + + Is there a man whose judgment clear + Can others teach the course to steer, + Yet runs himself life's mad career + Wild as the wave?-- + Here pause--and thro' the starting tear + Survey this grave. + + The poor inhabitant below + Was quick to learn and wise to know, + And keenly felt the friendly glow + And softer flame; + But thoughtless follies laid him low, + And stain'd his name! + + Reader, attend! whether thy soul + Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, + Or darkling grubs this earthly hole + In low pursuit; + Know, prudent, cautious self-control + Is wisdom's root. + + + ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS + + O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, + Sae pious and sae holy, + Ye've nought to do but mark and tell + Your neebour's fauts and folly! + Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, + Supplied wi' store o' water, + The heapet happer's ebbing still, + And still the clap plays clatter,-- + + Hear me, ye venerable core, + As counsel for poor mortals + That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door + For glaikit Folly's portals; + I for their thoughtless, careless sakes + Would here propone defences-- + Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, + Their failings and mischances. + + Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, + And shudder at the niffer; + But cast a moment's fair regard, + What maks the mighty differ? + Discount what scant occasion gave, + That purity ye pride in, + And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) + Your better art o' hidin. + + Think, when your castigated pulse + Gies now and then a wallop, + What ragings must his veins convulse + That still eternal gallop: + Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, + Right on ye scud your sea-way; + But in the teeth o' baith to sail, + It maks an unco leeway. + + See Social Life and Glee sit down, + All joyous and unthinking, + Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown + Debauchery and Drinking: + O would they stay to calculate + Th' eternal consequences, + Or--your more dreaded hell to state-- + Damnation of expenses! + + Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, + Tied up in godly laces, + Before ye gie poor Frailty names, + Suppose a change o' cases: + A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, + A treach'rous inclination-- + But, let me whisper i' your lug, + Ye're aiblins nae temptation. + + Then gently scan your brother man, + Still gentler sister woman; + Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, + To step aside is human: + One point must still be greatly dark, + The moving _why_ they do it; + And just as lamely can ye mark + How far perhaps they rue it. + + Who made the heart, 'tis He alone + Decidedly can try us; + He knows each chord, its various tone, + Each spring, its various bias: + Then at the balance, let's be mute, + We never can adjust it; + What's done we partly may compute, + But know not what's resisted. + + + JOHN ANDEKSON, MY JO + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + When we were first acquent, + Your locks were like the raven, + Your bonie brow was brent: + But now your brow is beld, John, + Your locks are like the snaw; + But blessings on your frosty pow, + John Anderson, my jo! + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + We clamb the hill thegither; + And monie a cantie day, John, + We've had wi' ane anither: + Now we maun totter down, John, + And hand in hand we'll go, + And sleep thegither at the foot, + John Anderson, my jo! + + + THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS + + The lovely lass of Inverness, + Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; + For e'en to 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 mony a heart thou hast made sair + That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!' + + + A RED, RED ROSE + + O, my luv is like a red, red rose, + That's newly sprung in June: + O, my luv is like the melodie + That's sweetly played in tune. + + As fair art thou, my bonie 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; + And 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 awhile! + And I will come again, my luve, + Tho' it were ten thousand mile! + + + AULD LANG SYNE + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to mind? + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And auld lang syne? + + _Chorus:_ + + For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne, + We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, + For auld lang syne! + + And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, + And surely I'll be mine; + And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet + For auld lang syne! + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pou'd the gowans fine; + But we've wander'd monie a weary fit + Sin' auld lang syne. + + We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, + Frae morning sun till dine; + But seas between us braid hae roar'd + Sin' auld lang syne. + + And there'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! + + + SWEET AFTON + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes! + Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise! + My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream! + + Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, + Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, + Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, + I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair! + + How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, + Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills! + There daily I wander as noon rises high, + My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. + + How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, + Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! + There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, + The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. + + Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, + And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! + How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, + As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave! + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes! + Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! + My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream! + + + THE HAPPY TRIO + + O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, + And Bob and Allan cam to see; + Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, + Ye wad na found in Christendie. + + _Chorus_: + + We are na fou, we're nae that fou, + But just a drappie in our e'e; + The cock may craw, the day may daw, + And ay we'll taste the barley bree! + + Here are we met, three merry boys, + Three merry boys, I trow, are we; + And mony a night we've merry been, + And mony mae we hope to be! + + It is the moon, I ken her horn, + That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; + She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, + But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee! + + Wha first shall rise to gang awa, + A cuckold, coward loun is he! + Wha first beside his chair shall fa', + He is the King amang us three! + + + TO MARY IN HEAVEN + + Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, + That lov'st to greet the early morn, + Again thou usher'st in the day + My Mary from my soul was torn, + O Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + That sacred hour can I forget, + Can I forget the hallowed grove, + Where by the winding Ayr we met + To live one day of parting love? + Eternity cannot efface + Those records dear of transports past, + Thy image at our last embrace-- + Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! + + Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, + O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; + The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar + Twined amorous round the raptured scene: + The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, + The birds sang love on every spray, + Till too, too soon the glowing west + Proclaimed the speed of winged day. + + Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, + And fondly broods with miser care! + Time but th' impression stronger makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear. + My Mary, dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + + TAM O' SHANTER: A TALE + + Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. + --GAWIN DOUGLAS. + + When chapman billies leave the street, + And drouthy neebors neebors meet, + As market-days are wearing late, + An' folk begin to tak the gate, + While we sit bousing at the nappy, + An' getting fou and unco happy, + We think na on the lang Scots miles, + The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, + That lie between us and our hame, + Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, + Gathering her brows like gathering storm, + Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. + + This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, + As he frae Ayr ae night did canter + (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses + For honest men and bonie lasses). + + O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise + As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! + She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, + A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum, + That frae November till October + Ae market-day thou was nae sober; + That ilka melder wi' the miller + Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; + That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on + The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; + That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, + Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. + She prophesied that, late or soon, + Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, + Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk + By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk. + + Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet + To think how monie counsels sweet, + How monie lengthened, sage advices, + The husband frae the wife despises! + + But to our tale. Ae market-night + Tam had got planted unco right, + Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, + Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; + And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, + His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie: + Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; + They had been fou for weeks thegither. + The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, + And ay the ale was growing better; + The landlady and Tam grew gracious, + Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious; + The souter tauld his queerest stories, + The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; + The storm without might rair and rustle, + Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. + + Care, mad to see a man sae happy, + E'en drowned himself amang the nappy. + As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, + The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure: + Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, + O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! + + But pleasures are like poppies spread-- + You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; + Or like the snow falls in the river, + A moment white--then melts forever; + Or like the borealis race, + That flit ere you can point their place; + Or like the rainbow's lovely form, + Evanishing amid the storm. + Nae man can tether time or tide: + The hour approaches Tam maun ride; + That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, + That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in, + And sic a night he taks the road in + As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. + + The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last: + The rattling showers rose on the blast; + The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; + Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: + That night, a child might understand, + The Deil had business on his hand. + + Weel-mounted on his gray mare Meg, + A better never lifted leg, + Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, + Despising wind and rain and fire; + Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, + Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, + While glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, + Lest bogles catch him unawares: + Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, + Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. + + By this time he was cross the ford, + Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; + And past the birks and meikle stane, + Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; + And thro' the whins and by the cairn, + Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; + And near the thorn, aboon the well, + Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. + Before him Doon pours all his floods; + The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; + The lightnings flash from pole to pole; + Near and more near the thunders roll; + When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, + Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze: + Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, + And loud resounded mirth and dancing. + + Inspiring bold John Barleycorn, + What dangers thou canst make us scorn! + Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; + Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil! + The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, + Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. + But Maggie stood, right sair astonished, + Till, by the heel and hand admonished, + She ventured forward on the light; + And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! + + Warlocks and witches in a dance; + Nae cotillion, brent new frae France, + But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, + Put life and mettle in their heels. + A winnock-bunker in the east, + There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast; + A towsie tyke, black, grim, and large, + To gie them music was his charge: + He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, + Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. + Coffins stood round, like open presses, + That shawed the dead in their last dresses, + And, by some devilish cantraip sleight, + Each in its cauld hand held a light: + By which heroic Tam was able + To note, upon the haly table, + A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns; + Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; + A thief, new-cutted frae a rape-- + Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; + Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; + Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; + A garter which a babe had strangled; + A knife a father's throat had mangled, + Whom, his ain son o' life bereft-- + The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; + Wi' mair of horrible and awfu', + Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. + + As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, + The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: + The piper loud and louder blew, + The dancers quick and quicker flew; + They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, + Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, + And coost her duddies to the wark, + And linket at it in her sark! + + Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, + A' plump and strapping in their teens! + Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, + Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! + Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, + That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, + I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, + For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! + + But withered beldams, auld and droll, + Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, + Louping and flinging on a crummock, + I wonder didna turn thy stomach! + + But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie: + There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, + That night enlisted in the core, + Lang after kend on Carrick shore + (For monie a beast to dead she shot, + An' perished monie a bonie boat, + And shook baith meikle corn and bear, + And kept the country-side in fear). + Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, + That while a lassie she had worn, + In longitude tho' sorely scanty, + It was her best, and she was vauntie.-- + Ah, little kend thy reverend grannie + That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, + Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), + Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! + + But here my Muse her wing maun cour; + Sic flights are far beyond her power: + To sing how Nannie lap and flang + (A souple jad she was and strang), + And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, + And thought his very een enriched. + Even Satan glowered and fidged fu' fain, + And hotched and blew wi' might and main; + Till first ae caper, syne anither, + Tam tint his reason a' thegither, + And roars out, 'Weel done, Cutty-sark!' + And in an instant all was dark; + And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, + When out the hellish legion sallied. + + As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, + When plundering herds assail their byke; + As open pussie's mortal foes, + When, pop! she starts before their nose; + As eager runs the market-crowd, + When 'Catch the thief' resounds aloud; + So Maggie runs, the witches follow, + Wi' monie an eldritch skriech and hollo. + + Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! + In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! + In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! + Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! + Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, + And win the key-stane of the brig; + There at them thou thy tail may toss-- + A running stream they dare na cross! + But ere the key-stane she could make, + The fient a tail she had to shake! + For Nannie, far before the rest, + Hard upon noble Maggie prest, + And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; + But little wist she Maggie's mettle! + Ae spring brought off her master hale, + But left behind her ain grey tail: + The carlin claught her by the rump, + And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. + + Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, + Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: + Whene'er to drink you are inclined, + Or cutty sarks run in your mind, + Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear; + Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. + + + AE FOND KISS + + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! + Ae farewell, and then forever! + 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 forever. + 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 farewell, alas, forever! + Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; + Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. + + + DUNCAN GRAY + + Duncan Gray cam here to woo + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!), + On blythe Yule Night when we were fou + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Maggie coost her head fu' high, + Looked asklent and unco skeigh, + Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!); + Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Duncan sighed baith out and in, + Grat his een baith bleer't an' blin', + Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Time and chance are but a tide + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Slighted love is sair to bide + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + 'Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he, + 'For a haughty hizzie die? + She may gae to--France for me!'-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + How it comes let doctors tell + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Meg grew sick as he grew hale + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!); + Something in her bosom wrings, + For relief a sigh she brings; + And O her een, they spak sic things!-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + Duncan was a lad o' grace + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). + Maggie's was a piteous case + (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): + Duncan could na be her death, + Swelling pity smoored his wrath; + Now they're crouse and canty baith-- + Ha, ha, the wooing o't! + + + 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 Summer first unfald her robes, + And there the langest tarry! + For there I took the last fareweel + O' my sweet Highland Mary. + + How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, + How rich the hawthorn's blossom, + As, underneath their fragrant shade, + I clasped 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 locked embrace, + Our parting was fu' tender; + And, pledging aft to meet again, + We tore oursels asunder. + But O 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 kissed sae fondly! + And closed for ay 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! + + + SCOTS, WHA HAE + + Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, + Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, + Welcome to your gory bed, + Or to victorie! + + Now's the day, and now's the hour! + See the front o' battle lour! + See approach proud Edward's power-- + Chains and slaverie! + + Wha will be a traitor knave? + Wha can fill a coward's grave? + Wha sae base as be a slave? + Let him turn and flee! + + Wha for Scotland's king and law + Freedom's sword will strongly draw, + Freeman stand or freeman fa', + Let him follow me! + + By Oppression's woes and pains! + By your sons in servile chains! + We will drain our dearest veins, + But they shall be free! + + Lay the proud usurpers low! + Tyrants fall in every foe! + Liberty's in every blow! + Let us do or die! + + + IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY + + [A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT] + + Is there for honest poverty + That hings his head, an' a' that? + The coward slave, we pass him by,-- + We dare be poor for a' that! + For a' that, an' a' that, + Our toils obscure, an' a' that: + The rank is but the guinea's stamp; + The man's the gowd for a' that. + + What though on hamely fare we dine, + Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that? + Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,-- + A man's a man for a' that, + For a' that, an' a' that, + Their tinsel show, an' a' that: + The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, + Is king o' men for a' that. + + Ye see yon birkie ca'd 'a lord,' + Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; + Tho' hundreds worship at his word, + He's but a cuif for a' that, + For a' that, an' a' that, + His ribband, star, an' a' that: + The man o' independent mind, + He looks an' laughs at a' that. + + A prince can mak a belted knight, + A marquis, duke, an' a' that! + But an honest man's aboon his might; + Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! + For a' that, an' a' that, + Their dignities, an' a' that: + The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth + Are higher rank than a' that. + + Then let us pray that come it may + (As come it will for a' that), + That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, + Shall bear the gree, an' a' that: + For a' that, an' a' that, + It's comin yet for a' that, + That man to man, the world o'er, + Shall brithers be for a' that. + + + LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER + + Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, + And sair wi' his love he did deave me: + I said there was naething I hated like men; + The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, + The deuce gae wi'm to believe me! + + He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een, + And vowed for my love he was dyin: + I said he might die when he liket for Jean; + The Lord forgie me for lyin, for lyin, + The Lord forgie me for lyin! + + A weel-stoeket mailen, himsel for the laird, + And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: + I never loot on that I kenned it or cared; + But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, + But thought I might hae waur offers. + + But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less-- + The Deil tak his taste to gae near her!-- + He up the Gate Slack to my black cousin Bess: + Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her, could bear her! + Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her! + + But a' the niest week as I petted wi' care, + I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, + And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? + I glowered as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, + I glowered as I'd seen a warlock. + + But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, + Lest neebours might say I was saucy: + My wooer he capered as he'd been in drink, + And vowed I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, + And vowed I was his dear lassie! + + I spiered for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, + Gin she had recovered her hearin, + And how her new shoon fit her auld shachled feet-- + But, heavens, how he fell a swearin, a swearin! + But, heavens, how he fell a swearin! + + He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, + Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; + So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow! + + + O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST + + O, wert thou in the cauld blast, + On yonder lea, on yonder lea, + My plaidie to the angry airt, + I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; + + Or did misfortune's bitter storms + Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, + Thy bield should be my bosom, + To share it a', to share it a'. + + Or were I in the wildest waste, + Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, + The desert were a paradise + If thou wert there, if thou wert there; + Or were I monarch of the globe, + Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, + The brightest jewel in my crown + Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. + + + + + ERASMUS DARWIN + + + FROM THE BOTANIC GARDEN + + [PROCUL ESTE, PROFANI] + + Stay your rude steps! whose throbbing breasts infold + The legion-fiends of glory or of gold! + Stay! whose false lips seductive simpers part, + While cunning nestles in the harlot-heart!-- + For you no Dryads dress the roseate bower, + For you no Nymphs their sparkling vases pour; + Unmarked by you, light Graces swim the green, + And hovering Cupids aim their shafts, unseen. + + But thou! whose mind the well-attempered ray + Of taste and virtue lights with purer day; + Whose finer sense each soft vibration owns + With sweet responsive sympathy of tones; + (So the fair flower expands its lucid form + To meet the sun, and shuts it to the storm); + For thee my borders nurse the fragrant wreath, + My fountains murmur, and my zephyrs breathe; + + Slow slides the painted snail, the gilded fly + Smooths his fine down, to charm thy curious eye; + On twinkling fins my pearly nations play, + Or win with sinuous train their trackless way; + My plumy pairs, in gay embroidery dressed, + Form with ingenious bill the pensile nest, + To love's sweet notes attune the listening dell, + And Echo sounds her soft symphonious shell. + + And if with thee some hapless maid should stray, + Disastrous love companion of her way, + Oh, lead her timid steps to yonder glade, + Whose arching cliffs depending alders shade; + There, as meek evening wakes her temperate breeze, + And moonbeams glimmer through the trembling trees, + The rills that gurgle round shall soothe her ear, + The weeping rocks shall number tear for tear; + There as sad Philomel, alike forlorn, + Sings to the night from her accustomed thorn; + While at sweet intervals each falling note + Sighs in the gale, and whispers round the grot; + The sister-woe shall calm her aching breast, + And softer slumbers steal her cares to rest. + + [THE SENSITIVE PLANT] + + Weak with nice sense, the chaste Mimosa stands, + From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands; + Oft as light clouds o'erpass the summer-glade, + Alarmed she trembles at the moving shade; + And feels, alive through all her tender form, + The whispered murmurs of the gathering storm; + Shuts her sweet eyelids to approaching night, + And hails with freshened charms the rising light. + Veiled, with gay decency and modest pride, + Slow to the mosque she moves, an eastern bride, + There her soft vows unceasing love record, + Queen of the bright seraglio of her lord. + + + + + WILLIAM BLAKE + + + TO WINTER + + 'O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: + The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark + Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, + Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.' + + He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep + Rides heavy; his storms are unchained, sheathed + In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, + For he hath reared his sceptre o'er the world. + + Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings + To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: + He withers all in silence, and in his hand + Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. + + He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner + Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st + With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster + Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla. + + + SONG + + Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year + Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car; + Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, + And rising glories beam around my head. + + My feet are winged, while o'er the dewy lawn, + I meet my maiden risen like the morn: + O bless those holy feet, like angels' feet; + O bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light. + + Like as an angel glittering in the sky + In times of innocence and holy joy; + The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song + To hear the music of an angel's tongue. + + So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; + So when we walk, nothing impure comes near; + Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat; + Each village seems the haunt of holy feet. + + But that sweet village where my black-eyed maid + Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade, + Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire + Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire. + + + 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 enjoyed in you! + The languid strings do scarcely move! + The sound is forced, the notes are few! + + + INTRODUCTION TO SONGS 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 sang 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 vanished from my sight, + And I plucked a hollow reed, + + And I made a rural pen, + And I stained the water clear, + And I wrote my happy songs + Every child may joy to hear. + + + THE LAMB + + Little Lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee? + Gave thee life and bid thee feed + By the stream and o'er the mead; + Gave thee clothing of delight, + Softest clothing, woolly, bright; + Gave thee such a tender voice, + Making all the vales rejoice? + Little Lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee? + + Little Lamb, I'll tell thee; + Little Lamb, I'll tell thee: + He is called by thy name, + For He calls himself a Lamb. + He is meek, and He is mild; + He became a little child. + I a child, and thou a lamb, + We are called by His name. + Little Lamb, God bless thee! + Little Lamb, God bless thee! + + + 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 on 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 + Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove. + + 'For when our souls have learned 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. + + + A CRADLE SONG + + Sweet dreams, form a shade + O'er my lovely infant's head; + Sweet dreams of pleasant streams + By happy, silent, moony beams. + + Sweet sleep, with soft down + Weave thy brows an infant crown. + Sweet sleep, Angel mild, + Hover o'er my happy child. + + Sweet smiles, in the night + Hover over my delight; + Sweet smiles, mother's smiles, + All the livelong night beguiles. + + Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, + Chase not slumber from thy eyes. + Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, + All the dovelike moans beguiles. + + Sleep, sleep, happy child, + All creation slept and smiled; + Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, + While o'er thee thy mother weep. + + Sweet babe, in thy face + Holy image I can trace. + Sweet babe, once like thee, + Thy Maker lay and wept for me, + + Wept for me, for thee, for all, + When He was an infant small. + Thou His image ever see, + Heavenly face that smiles on thee, + + Smiles on thee, on me, on all; + Who became an infant small. + Infant smiles are His own smiles; + Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. + + + HOLY THURSDAY + + 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, + The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green, + Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, + Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow. + + O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! + Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own. + The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, + Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. + + Now like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song, + Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among, + Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor; + Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. + + + THE DIVINE IMAGE + + To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + All pray in their distress; + And to these virtues of delight + Return their thankfulness. + + For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + Is God, our Father dear, + And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love + Is man, His child and care. + + For Mercy has a human heart, + Pity a human face, + And Love, the human form divine, + And Peace, the human dress. + + Then every man, of every clime, + That prays in his distress, + Prays to the human form divine, + Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. + + And all must love the human form, + In heathen, Turk, or Jew; + Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell + There God is dwelling too. + + + ON ANOTHER'S SORROW + + Can I see another's woe, + And not be in sorrow too? + Can I see another's grief, + And not seek for kind relief? + + Can I see a falling tear, + And not feel my sorrow's share? + Can a father see his child + Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? + + Can a mother sit and hear + An infant groan, an infant fear? + No, no! never can it be! + Never, never can it be! + + And can He who smiles on all + Hear the wren with sorrows small, + Hear the small bird's grief and care, + Hear the woes that infants bear, + + And not sit beside the nest, + Pouring pity in their breast; + And not sit the cradle near, + Weeping tear on infant's tear; + + And not sit both night and day, + Wiping all our tears away? + O, no! never can it be! + Never, never can it be! + + He doth give His joy to all; + He becomes an infant small; + He becomes a man of woe; + He doth feel the sorrow too. + + Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, + And thy Maker is not by; + Think not thou canst weep a tear, + And thy Maker is not near. + + O! He gives to us His joy + That our grief He may destroy; + Till our grief is fled and gone + He doth sit by us and moan. + + + THE BOOK OF THEL + + _Thel's Motto + Does the Eagle know what is in the pit: + Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? + Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod, + Or Love in a golden bowl?_ + + I + + The daughters of [the] Seraphim led round their sunny flocks-- + All but the youngest: she in paleness sought the secret air, + To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day: + Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard, + And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew:-- + + 'O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water? + Why fade these children of the spring, born but to smile and fall? + Ah! Thel is like a watery bow, and like a parting cloud; + Like a reflection in a glass; like shadows in the water; + Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant's face; + Like the dove's voice; like transient day; like music in the air. + Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head, + And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice + Of Him that walketh in the garden in the evening time.' + + The Lily of the Valley, breathing in the humble grass, + Answered the lovely maid and said: 'I am a wat'ry weed, + And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales; + So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. + Yet I am visited from heaven, and He that smiles on all + Walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads His hand, + Saying, "Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lily flower, + Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks; + For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna, + Till summer's heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs, + To flourish in eternal vales." Then why should Thel complain? + Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?' + + She ceased, and smiled in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine. + + Thel answered: 'O thou little Virgin of the peaceful valley, + Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'er-tired; + Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells thy milky garments, + He crops thy flowers while thou sittest smiling in his face, + Wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all contagious taints. + Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume, + Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs, + Revives the milked cow, and tames the fire-breathing steed. + But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun: + I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?' + + 'Queen of the vales,' the Lily answered, 'ask the tender Cloud, + And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky, + And why it scatters its bright beauty through the humid air. + Descend, O little Cloud, and hover before the eyes of Thel.' + + The Cloud descended, and the Lily bowed her modest head, + And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass. + + II + + 'O little Cloud,' the Virgin said, I charge thee tell to me + Why thou complainest not, when in one hour thou fade away; + Then we shall seek thee, but not find. Ah! Thel is like to thee: + I pass away; yet I complain, and no one hears my voice.' + + The Cloud then showed his golden head, and his bright form emerged, + Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel. + 'O Virgin, know'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs + Where Luvah doth renew his horses? Look'st thou on my youth, + And fearest thou, because I vanish and am seen no more, + Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away, + It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy: + Unseen descending, weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers, + And court the fair-eyed dew, to take me to her shining tent: + The weeping virgin, trembling, kneels before the risen sun, + Till we arise, linked in a golden band and never part, + But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers.' + + 'Dost thou, O little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee, + For I walk through the vales of Har, and smell the sweetest flowers, + But I feed not the little flowers; I hear the warbling birds, + But I feed not the warbling birds; they fly and seek their food: + But Thel delights in these no more, because I fade away; + And all shall say, "Without a use this shining woman lived, + Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?"' + + The Cloud reclined upon his airy throne, and answered thus:-- + + 'Then if thou art the food of worms, O Virgin of the skies, + How great thy use, how great thy blessing! Everything that lives + Lives not alone nor for itself. Fear not, and I will call + The weak Worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice. + Come forth, Worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive Queen.' + + The helpless Worm arose, and sat upon the Lily's leaf, + And the bright Cloud sailed on, to find his partner in the vale. + + III + + Then Thel astonished viewed the Worm upon its dewy bed. + + 'Art thou a Worm? Image of weakness, art thou but a Worm? + I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lily's leaf. + Ah! weep not, little voice, thou canst not speak, but thou canst weep. + Is this a Worm? I see thee lay helpless and naked, weeping, + And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother's smiles.' + The Clod of Clay heard the Worm's voice, and raised her pitying head; + She bowed over the weeping infant, and her life exhaled + In milky fondness: then on Thel she fixed her humble eyes. + + 'O Beauty of the vales of Har! we live not for ourselves. + Thou seest me, the meanest thing, and so I am indeed. + My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark; + But He that loves the lowly pours His oil upon my head, + And kisses me, and binds His nuptial bands around my breast, + And says: "Thou mother of my children, I have loved thee, + And I have given thee a crown that none can take away." + But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know; + + I ponder, and I cannot ponder; yet I live and love.' + The daughter of beauty wiped her pitying tears with her white veil, + And said: 'Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep. + That God would love a worm I knew, and punish the evil foot + That wilful bruised its helpless form; but that He cherished it + With milk and oil, I never knew, and therefore did I weep; + And I complained in the mild air, because I fade away, + And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot.' + + 'Queen of the vales,' the matron Clay answered, 'I heard thy sighs, + And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have called them down. + Wilt thou, O queen, enter my house? 'Tis given thee to enter, + And to return: fear nothing; enter with thy virgin feet.' + + IV + + The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar; + Thel entered in, and saw the secrets of the land unknown. + She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous root + Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists: + A land of sorrows and of tears where never smile was seen. + + She wandered in the land of clouds through valleys dark, listening + Dolours and lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy grave + She stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground, + Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down, + And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit. + + 'Why cannot the ear be closed to its own destruction? + Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile? + Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn, + Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie, + Or an eye of gifts and graces showering fruits and coined gold? + + Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind? + Why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? + Why a nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and affright? + Why a tender curb upon the youthful, burning boy? + Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?' + + The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek + Fled back unhindered till she came into the vales of Har. + + + From THE FRENCH REVOLUTION + + [DEMOCRACY AND PEACE] + + Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in his + hand; + A cold orb of disdain revolved round him, and covered his soul with + snows eternal. + Great Henry's soul shuddered, a whirlwind and fire tore furious from + his angry bosom; + He indignant departed on horses of Heaven. Then the Abbe de Sieyes + raised his feet + On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm, + the Abbe followed + The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father that bows to + his son, + Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of + the people bowed + Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewed. + + 'Hear, O heavens of France! the voice of the people, arising from + valley and hill, + O'erclouded with power. Hear the voice of valleys, the voice of meek + cities, + Mourning oppressed on village and field, till the village and field is + a waste. + For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of + trumpets consume + The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to the + deadly slaughter. + + When the heavens were sealed with a stone, and the terrible sun closed + in an orb, and the moon + Rent from the nations, and each star appointed for watchers of night, + The millions of spirits immortal were bound in the ruins of sulphur + heaven + To wander enslaved; black, depressed in dark ignorance, kept in awe with + the whip + To worship terrors, bred from the blood of revenge and breath of desire + In bestial forms, or more terrible men; till the dawn of our peaceful + morning, + Till dawn, till morning, till the breaking of clouds, and swelling of + winds, and the universal voice; + Till man raise his darkened limbs out of the caves of night. His eyes + and his heart + Expand--Where is Space? where, O sun, is thy dwelling? where thy tent, + O faint slumbrous Moon? + Then the valleys of France shall cry to the soldier: "Throw down thy + sword and musket, + And run and embrace the meek peasant." Her nobles shall hear and shall + weep, and put off + The red robe of terror, the crown of oppression, the shoes of contempt, + and unbuckle + The girdle of war from the desolate earth. Then the Priest in his + thunderous cloud + Shall weep, bending to earth, embracing the valleys, and putting his + hand to the plough, + Shall say, "No more I curse thee; but now I will bless thee: no more in + deadly black + Devour thy labour; nor lift up a cloud in thy heavens, O laborious + plough; + That the wild raging millions, that wander in forests, and howl in + law-blasted wastes, + Strength maddened with slavery, honesty bound in the dens of + superstition, + May sing in the village, and shout in the harvest, and woo in pleasant + gardens + Their once savage loves, now beaming with knowledge, with gentle awe + adorned; + And the saw, and the hammer, the chisel, the pencil, the pen, and the + instruments + Of heavenly song sound in the wilds once forbidden, to teach the + laborious ploughman + And shepherd, delivered from clouds of war, from pestilence, from + night-fear, from murder, + From falling, from stifling, from hunger, from cold, from slander, + discontent, and sloth, + That walk in beasts and birds of night, driven back by the sandy desert, + Like pestilent fogs round cities of men; and the happy earth sing in its + course, + The mild peaceable nations be opened to heaven, and men walk with their + fathers in bliss." + Then hear the first voice of the morning: "Depart, O clouds of night, + and no more + Return; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors depart, nor around + our peaceable city + Breathe fires; but ten miles from Paris let all be peace, nor a soldier + be seen!"' + + + From A SONG OF LIBERTY + + The Eternal Female groaned! It was heard over all the earth. + + Albion's coast is sick, silent. The American meadows faint! + + Shadows of Prophecy shiver along by the lakes and the + rivers, and mutter across the ocean. France, rend down, + thy dungeon! + + * * * * * + + Look up! look up! O citizen of London, enlarge thy + countenance! O Jew, leave counting gold! return to thy + oil and wine. O African! black African! Go, winged + thought, widen his forehead! + + * * * * * + + With thunder and fire, leading his starry hosts through + the waste wilderness, he promulgates his ten commands, + glancing his beamy eyelids over the deep in dark dismay. + + Where the son of fire in his eastern cloud, while the + morning plumes her golden breast, + + Spurning the clouds written with curses, stamps the + stony law to dust, loosing the eternal horses from the dens + of night, crying: _Empire is no more! and now the lion + and wolf shall cease_. + + CHORUS + + Let the Priests of the Raven of dawn no longer, in + deadly black, with hoarse note curse the sons of joy! Nor + his accepted brethren--whom, tyrant, he calls free--lay + the bound or build the roof! Nor pale Religion's lechery + call that virginity that wishes but acts not! + + For everything that lives is holy! + + + THE FLY + + Little Fly, + Thy summer's play + My thoughtless hand + Has brushed away. + + Am not I + A fly like thee? + Or art not thou + A man like me? + + For I dance, + And drink, and sing, + Till some blind hand + Shall brush my wing. + + If thought is life + And strength and breath, + And the want + Of thought is death; + + Then am I + A happy fly, + If I live + Or if I die. + + + 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 watered 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? + + + HOLY THURSDAY + + Is this a holy thing to see + In a rich and fruitful land, + Babes reduced to misery, + Fed with cold and usurous hand? + + Is that trembling cry a song? + Can it be a song of joy? + And so many children poor? + It is a land of poverty! + + And their sun does never shine, + And their fields are bleak and bare, + And their ways are filled with thorns: + It is eternal winter there. + + For where'er the sun does shine, + And where'er the rain does fall, + Babe can never hunger there, + Nor poverty the mind appal. + + + THE GARDEN OF LOVE + + I went to the Garden of Love, + And saw what I never had seen: + A chapel was built in the midst, + Where I used to play on the green. + + And the gates of this chapel were shut, + And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; + So I turned to the Garden of Love, + That so many sweet flowers bore; + + And I saw it was filled with graves, + And tombstones where flowers should be; + And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, + And binding with briars my joys and desires. + + + A LITTLE BOY LOST + + 'Nought loves another as itself, + Nor venerates another so, + Nor is it possible to Thought + A greater than itself to know: + + 'And, Father, how can I love you + Or any of my brothers more? + I love you like the little bird + That picks up crumbs around the door.' + + The Priest sat by and heard the child, + In trembling zeal he seized his hair: + He led him by his little coat, + And all admired the priestly care. + + And standing on the altar high, + 'Lo! what a fiend is here!' said he, + 'One who sets reason up for judge + Of our most holy Mystery.' + + The weeping child could not be heard, + The weeping parents wept in vain; + They stripped him to his little shirt, + And bound him in an iron chain; + + And burned him in a holy place, + Where many had been burned before: + The weeping parents wept in vain. + Are such things done on Albion's shore? + + + THE SCHOOLBOY + + I love to rise in a summer morn + When the birds sing on every tree; + The distant huntsman winds his horn, + And the skylark sings with me. + O! what sweet company. + + But to go to school in a summer morn, + O! it drives all joy away; + Under a cruel eye outworn, + The little ones spend the day + In sighing and dismay. + + Ah! then at times I drooping sit, + And spend many an anxious hour, + Nor in my book can I take delight, + Nor sit in learning's bower, + Worn through with the dreary shower. + + How can the bird that is born for joy + Sit in a cage and sing? + How can a child, when fears annoy, + But droop his tender wing, + And forget, his youthful spring? + + O! father and mother, if buds are nipped + And blossoms blown away, + And if the tender plants are stripped + Of their joy in the springing day, + By sorrow--and care's dismay, + + How shall the summer arise in joy, + Or the summer fruits appear? + Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, + Or bless the mellowing year, + When the blasts of winter appear? + + + LONDON + + I wander through each chartered street, + Near where the chartered Thames does flow, + And mark in every face I meet + Marks of weakness, marks of woe. + + In every cry of every man, + In every infant's cry of fear, + In every voice, in every ban, + The mind-forged manacles I hear. + + How the chimney-sweeper's cry + Every blackening church appals; + And the hapless soldier's sigh + Runs in blood down palace walls + + But most through midnight streets I hear + How the youthful harlot's curse + Blasts the new-born infant's tear, + And blights with plagues the marriage hearse. + + + From AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE + + _To see a World in a grain of sand, + And a Heaven in a wild flower, + Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, + And Eternity in an hour_. + + A robin redbreast in a cage + Puts all Heaven in a rage. + A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons + Shudders hell through all its regions. + A dog starved at his master's gate + Predicts the ruin of the state. + A horse misused upon the road + Calls to Heaven for human blood. + Each outcry of the hunted hare + A fibre from the brain does tear. + A skylark wounded in the wing, + A cherubim does cease to sing. + The game-cock clipped and armed for fight + Does the rising sun affright. + Every wolf's and lion's howl + Raises from hell a human soul. + The wild deer, wandering here and there, + Keeps the human soul from care. + The lamb misused breeds public strife, + And yet forgives the butcher's knife. + The bat that flits at close of eve + Has left the brain that won't believe. + The owl that calls upon the night + Speaks the unbeliever's fright. + He who shall hurt the little wren + Shall never be beloved by men. + He who the ox to wrath has moved + Shall never be by woman loved. + The wanton boy that kills the fly + Shall feel the spider's enmity. + He who torments the chafer's sprite + Weaves a bower in endless night. + The caterpillar on the leaf + Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. + Kill not the moth nor butterfly, + For the Last Judgment draweth nigh. + He who shall train the horse to war + Shall never pass the polar bar. + The beggar's dog and widow's cat, + Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat. + + * * * * * + + The babe that weeps the rod beneath + Writes revenge in realms of death. + The beggar's rags fluttering in air, + Does to rags the heavens tear. + The soldier, armed with sword and gun, + Palsied strikes the summer's sun. + The poor man's farthing is worth more + Than all the gold on Afric's shore. + One mite wrung from the labourer's hands + Shall buy and sell the miser's lands; + Or, if protected from on high, + Does that whole nation sell and buy. + He who mocks the infant's faith + Shall be mocked in age and death. + He who shall teach the child to doubt + The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. + He who respects the infant's faith + Triumphs over hell and death. + + + FROM MILTON + + And did those feet in ancient time + Walk upon England's mountains green? + And was the holy Lamb of God + On England's pleasant pastures seen? + + And did the countenance divine + Shine forth upon our clouded hills? + And was Jerusalem builded here + Among these dark Satanic mills? + + Bring me my bow of burning gold! + Bring me my arrows of desire! + Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! + Bring me my chariot of fire! + + I will not cease from mental fight, + Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, + Till we have built Jerusalem + In England's green and pleasant land. + + [REASON AND IMAGINATION] + + The negation is the Spectre, the reasoning power in man: + This is a false body, an incrustation over my immortal + Spirit, a selfhood which must be put off and annihilated alway. + To cleanse the face of my spirit by self-examination, + To bathe in the waters of life, to wash off the not human, + I come in self-annihilation and the grandeur of inspiration; + To cast off rational demonstration by faith in the Saviour, + To cast off the rotten rags of memory by inspiration, + To cast off Bacon, Locke, and Newton from Albion's covering, + To take off his filthy garments and clothe him with imagination; + To cast aside from poetry all that is not inspiration, + That it no longer shall dare to mock with the aspersion of madness + Cast on the inspired by the tame high finisher of paltry blots + Indefinite or paltry rhymes, or paltry harmonies, + Who creeps into state government like a caterpillar to destroy; + To cast off the idiot questioner, who is always questioning, + But never capable of answering; who sits with a sly grin + Silent plotting when to question, like a thief in a cave; + Who publishes doubt and calls it knowledge; whose science is despair, + Whose pretence to knowledge is envy, whose whole science is + To destroy the wisdom of ages, to gratify ravenous envy + That rages round him like a wolf, day and night, without rest. + He smiles with condescension; he talks of benevolence and virtue, + And those who act with, benevolence and virtue they murder time on time. + These are the destroyers of Jerusalem! these are the murderers + Of Jesus! who deny the faith and mock at eternal life, + Who pretend to poetry that they may destroy imagination + By imitation of nature's images drawn from remembrance. + These are the sexual garments, the abomination of desolation, + Hiding the human lineaments, as with an ark and curtains + Which Jesus rent, and now shall wholly purge away with fire, + Till generation is swallowed up in regeneration. + + + FROM JERUSALEM + + [TO THE DEISTS] + + I saw a Monk of Charlemaine + Arise before my sight: + I talked with the Grey Monk as we stood + In beams of infernal light. + + Gibbon arose with a lash of steel, + And Voltaire with a racking wheel; + The schools, in clouds of learning rolled, + Arose with war in iron and gold. + + 'Thou lazy Monk!' they sound afar, + 'In vain condemning glorious war; + And in your cell you shall ever dwell: + Rise, War, and bind him in his cell!' + + The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side, + His hands and feet were wounded wide, + His body bent, his arms and knees + Like to the roots of ancient trees. + + When Satan first the black bow bent + And the moral law from the Gospel rent, + He forged the law into a sword, + And spilled the blood of mercy's Lord. + + Titus! Constantine! Charlemaine! + O Voltaire! Rousseau! Gibbon! Vain + Your Grecian mocks and Roman sword + Against this image of his Lord; + + For a tear is an intellectual thing; + And a sigh is the sword of an angel king; + And the bitter groan of a martyr's woe + Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow. + + * * * * * + + + + + GEORGE CANNING + + + From THE PROGRESS OF MAN + + [MATRIMONY IN OTAHEITE] + + There laughs the sky, there zephyrs frolic train, + And light-winged loves, and blameless pleasures reign: + There, when two souls congenial ties unite, + No hireling bonzes chant the mystic rite; + Free every thought, each action unconfined, + And light those fetters which no rivets bind. + There in each grove, each sloping bank along, + And flowers and shrubs, and odorous herbs among, + Each shepherd clasped, with undisguised delight, + His yielding fair one--in the captain's sight; + Each yielding fair, as chance or fancy led, + Preferred new lovers to her sylvan bed. + Learn hence each nymph, whose free aspiring mind + Europe's cold laws, and colder customs bind; + O! learn what Nature's genial laws decree! + What Otaheite is, let Britain be! + + * * * * * + + Of whist or cribbage mark th' amusing game; + The partners changing, but the sport the same: + Else would the gamester's anxious ardour cool, + Dull every deal, and stagnant every pool. + --Yet must one man, with one unceasing wife, + Play the long rubber of connubial life. + Yes! human laws, and laws esteemed divine, + The generous passion straighten and confine; + And, as a stream, when art constrains its course, + Pours its fierce torrent with augmented force, + So passion, narrowed to one channel small, + Unlike the former,--does not flow at all. + For Love then only flaps his purple wings + When uncontrolled by priestcraft or by kings. + + + FROM THE NEW MORALITY + + [ANTI-PATRIOTISM AND SENTIMENTALITY] + + With unsparing hand, + Oh, lash these vile impostures from the land! + + First, stern Philanthropy,--not she who dries + The orphan's tears, and wipes the widow's eyes; + Not she who, sainted Charity her guide, + Of British bounty pours the annual tide,-- + But French Philanthropy,--whose boundless mind + Glows with the general love of all mankind; + Philanthropy, beneath whose baneful sway + Each patriot passion sinks, and dies away. + Taught in her school t' imbibe thy mawkish strain, + Condorcet! filtered through the dregs of Paine, + Each pert adept disowns a Briton's part, + And plucks the name of England from his heart. + What! shall a name, a word, a sound, control + Th' aspiring thought, and cramp th' expansive soul? + Shall one half-peopled island's rocky round + A love that glows for all creation bound? + And social charities contract the plan + Framed for thy freedom, universal man? + No--through th' extended globe his feelings run + As broad and general as th' unbounded sun! + No narrow bigot he: his reasoned view + Thy interests, England, ranks with thine, Peru! + France at our doors, he seeks no danger nigh, + But heaves for Turkey's woes th' impartial sigh; + A steady patriot of the world alone, + The friend of every country but his own. + Next comes a gentler virtue.--Ah, beware + Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare. + Visit her not too roughly; the warm sigh + Breathes on her lips; the tear-drop gems her eye. + Sweet Sensibility, who dwells inshrined + In the fine foldings of the feeling mind; + With delicate Mimosa's sense endued, + Who shrinks, instinctive, from a hand too rude; + Or, like the anagillis, prescient flower, + Shuts her soft petals at th' approaching shower. + + Sweet child of sickly fancy! her of yore + From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore; + And while 'midst lakes and mountains wild he ran, + Full of himself, and shunned the haunts of man, + Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine steep + To lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep; + Taught her to cherish still in either eye, + Of tender tears a plentiful supply, + And pour them in the brooks that babbled by: + Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong, + False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong; + For the crushed beetle first, the widowed dove, + And all the warbled sorrows of the grove, + Next for poor suffering guilt,--and last of all, + For parents, friends, a king and country's fall. + + Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief, + With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief, + Droop in soft sorrow o'er a faded flower, + O'er a dead jackass pour the pearly shower: + But hear, unmoved, of Loire's ensanguined flood + Choked up with slain; of Lyons drenched in blood; + Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame, + Foul crimes, but sicklied o'er with freedom's name,-- + Altars and thrones subverted, social life + Trampled to earth, the husband from the wife, + Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn; + Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn + In friendless exile; of the wise and good + Staining the daily scaffold with their blood. + Of savage cruelties that scare the mind, + The rage of madness with hell's lusts combined, + Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast, + They hear--and hope, that all is for the best! + + + + + CAROLINA, LADY NAIRNE + + + 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 oh! we grudged her sair + To the land o' the leal. + But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, + And joy's a-comin' fast, John, + The joy that's aye to last + In the land o' the leal. + + Sae dear that joy was bought, John, + Sae free the battle fought, John, + That sinfu' man e'er brought + To the land o' the leal. + Oh! dry your glistening e'e, John, + My soul langs to be free, John, + And angels beckon me + To the land o' the leal. + + Oh! hand 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. + + + +GLOSSARY: + + +A', all. +Abeigh, off. +Aboon, above. +Abarde, went on. +Abread, abroad. +Acquent, acquainted. +Ae, one. +Aff, off. +Aften, often. +Agley, askew. +Aiblins, maybe. +Ain, own. +Airt, direction, quarter. +Aith, oath. +Alane, alone. +Alang, along. +Albeytie, albeit. +Alestake, alehouse sign. +Alleyne, alone. +Almer, beggar. +Amaist, almost. +Amang, aming, among. +An, if. +Ance, once. +Ane, one. +Arist, arose. +Ashrewed, accursed. +Asklent, askance. +Asteer, astir. +Astonied, stunned. +Atte, at. +Attene, at one. +Auld, old. +Aumere, mantle. +Autremete, robe. +Ava, at all. +Awa, away. +Aynewarde, backward. + +Bairn, child. +Baith, both. +Bake, biscuit. +Bandsters, binder of sheaves. +Bane, bone. +Bante, cursed. +Barefit, Barefeet. +Bauk, cross-beam. +Bauldly, boldly. +Bear, barley. +Bederoll, string of beads. +Beet, fan, kindle. +Beld, bald. +Bell, flower. +Belyve, by and by. +Ben, inner roon, parlour, inside. +Bicker, bowl. +Bickering, hurrying. +Bield, shelter. +Big, build. +Bigonet, linen cap. +Bittle, fellow. +Birk, birch. +Birkie, conceited fellow. +Bizz, buzz. +Black-bonnet, elder. +Blake, bleak. +Blastit, damned. +Blaw, blow, draught. +Bleer't, bleared. +Bleeze, blaze. +Blellum, babbler. +Blethering, gabbling. +Blin, blind. +Blink, glance, moment. +Bloshes, blushes. +Bluid, blood. +Boddynge, budding. +Bogollis, hobgoblins. +Bogle, bogie. +Bonie, pretty. +Bonilie, prettily. +Bonnet, cap. +Bore, chink. +Botte, but. +Bra, fine. +Brae, hillside. +Braid, broad. +Braid-claith, broadcloth. +Brak, broke. +Braste, burst. +Brattle, scamper, clatter. +Braw, brawlie, fine. +Bree, liquor. +Breeks, breeches. +Brectful, brimful. +Brent, straight. +Brig, bridge. +Brither, brother. +Brogues, breeches. +Brownyis, brownies. +Browster, brewer. +Brunstane, brimstone. +Bught, pen, inclosure. +Buke, book. +Burdies, girls. +Burn, brook. +Busk, dress, make ready. +Bustine, fustion. +But, butt, outer room, kitchen without. +Byke, hive. + +Ca', call, drive. +Cadgy, cheerful, gay. +Cairn, heap of stones. +Caldrife, cool, spiritless. +Cale, cold. +Caller, cool. +Canna, cannot. +Cannie, careful, crafty. +Cannilie, craftily. +Cantie, canty, cheerful, jolly. +Cantraip, magic, witchcraft. +Capernoity, ill-natured. +Carlin, old woman. +Cates, dainties. +Cauld, cold. +Caup, cup. +Celness, coldness. +Cess, excise, tax. +Chafe, chafing. +Change-house, tavern. +Chapman, peddler. +Chapournelie, hat. +Chelandri, goldfinch. +Cheres, cheers. +Cheves, moves. +Chirm, chirp. +Church-giebe-house, grave. +Claes, clothes. +Claithing, clothing. +Clamb, climbed. +Claught, catch up. +Clinkin, smartly. +Clinkumbell, the bell-ringer. +Clymmynge, noisy. +Cockernony, woman's hair gathered up with a band. +Cofte, bought. +Cog, basin. +Cood, cud. +Coost, cast. +Corbie, raven. +Core, company. +Cotter, tenant of a cottage. +Coulier, ploughshare. +Cour, stoop. +Couth, couthy, sociable, affable. +Crack, chat, instant. +Craig, rock. +Cranreuch, hoar-frost. +Craw, crow. +Creeshic, greasy. +Croon, loll, murmur. +Crouche, crucifix. +Croun, crown. +Crouse, proud, lively. +Crowdie, porridge, breakfast. +Crowlin, crawling. +Crummock, crooked staff. +Crump, crisp. +Cryne, hair. +Curchie, curtsy. +Cutty, short. + + +Daffing, frolicking. +Daft, foolish. +Dail, board, plank. +Daimen, rare, occasional. +Daur, dare, +Daw, dawn, +Dawd, lump. +Deave, deafen. +Dee die. +Defeat, defeated. +Defte, neat. +Deil, devil. +Dente, fasten. +Dheere, there. +Die, dye. +Differ, difference. +Dine, noon. +Dirl, vibrate, ring. +Dit, shut. +Domes, volumes. +Donsie, reckless. +Dool, pain, grief. +Dorture, slumber. +Douce, grave, prudent. +Douff, dull, sad. +Dow, can. +Dowie, drooping, gloomy. +Drappie, small drop. +Drenche, drink. +Drented, drenched. +Dringing, droning. +Droddum, breach. +Drouthy, thirsty. +Drowsyhed, drowsiness. +Drumlie, muddy. +Dub, puddle. +Duddie, ragged. +Duddies, rags. +Dwyning, failing, pining. +Dyke, wall. +Dynne, noise. + +E'e, eye. +Een, eyes. +Eerie, uncanny, timorous. +Efte, often. +Eftsoons, forthwith. +Eldritch, unearthly. +Embollen, swollen. +Enlefed, leafed out. +Ermelin, Ermine. +Ettle, aim. +Eydent, diligent. + +F'a, befall, fall. +Fairin', a gift from a fair. +Fairn-year, last year. +Faitour, vagabond. +Fand, found. +Farl, meal cake. +Fash, bother. +Fatt'rils, falderals, finery. +Faut, fault. +Feck, bulk. +Fell, deadly, pungent. +Fend, keep off. +Ferlie, ferly, wonder. +Fetive, festive. +Fidge, fidget. +Fient, fiend, devil. +Fiere, chum. +Fit, foot. +Flainen, flannen, flannel. +Flang, kicked. +Fleech, wheedle. +Flet, remonstrated. +Flitchering, fluttering. +Fling, waving. +Flott, fly. +Flourettes, flowers. +Foggage, coarse grass. +Forswat, sunburned. +Forwindm dried up. +Fou, very, drunk, full. +Fourth, fouth, abundance, plenty. +Frae, from. +Fructyle, fruitful. +Fu', full, very. +Furm, long seat. +Fyke, fuss. +Fyle, soil. + +Gab, mouth. +Gabbing, talking. +Gae, go. +Gaed, gaid, went. +Gallard, frightened. +Gane, gone. +Gang, go. +Gar, make. +Gart, made. +Gash, shrewd, self-complacent. +Gat, got. +Gate, way. +Gaun, gawn, going. +Gawsie, buxom, jolly. +Gear, things, goods. +Geck, mock. +Ghaist, ghost. +Ghastness, ghastliness. +Gibbet-airn, gibbet-iron. +Gie, gi'e, give. +Gie's, give us, give me. +Giftie, gift. +Gill, glass of whisky. +Gin, if, by. +Glaikil, foolish. +Glint, flash. +Glommed, gloomy. +Gloure, glory. +Gowan, wild daisy.' +Gowd, gold. +Gowk, fool. +Grane, groan. +Grat, wept. +Gre, grow. +Gree, prize. +'Gree, agree. +Greet, weep. +Grein, long for. +Grozet, gooseberry. +Gude, guid, good. +Gudeman, Guidman, husband. +Guidwife, married woman, mistress of the house. +Guidwillie, full of good will. +Gusty, savory. +Guylteynge, gilding. + +Ha', hall. +Hae, have. +Haffets, temples, sidelocks. +Hafftins, half. +Hafftins-wise, about half. +Hairst, harvest-time. +Hald, holding, possession. +Halesome, wholesome. +Hallan, partition. +Hallie, holy. +Halline, gladness. +Haly, holy. +Hamely, homely. +Hap-step-an'-loup, hop, step and jump. +Harn, coarse linen, + +Hartsome, hearty, +Hash, stupid, fellow, dolt. +Haud, hold, keep. +Hawkie, cow. +Hawslock, throat-lock, choicest wool. +Heapet, heaped. +Heie, they. +Het, hot. +Hie, high, highly. +Hight, was called. +Hiltring, hiding. +Hing, hang. +Hinny, honey, sweet. +Hirple, hop. +Histie, bare, dry. +Hizzie, girl, jade. +Hoddin, jogging. +Hoddin grey, undyed woolen. +Holme, evergreen oak. +Hornie, the Devil. +Hotch, jerk. +Houghmagandie, fornication, disgrace. +Houlet, owl. +Hound, incite to pursuit. +Hum, humbug. +Hurdies, buttocks. + +Icker, ear of grain. +Ilka, each, every. +Ingle, fireside. + +Jad, jade. +jape, surplice. +Jauds, jades. +Jaw, strike, dash. +Jo, sweetheart. +Joicie, juicy. +Jow, swing. + +Kebbuck, cheese. +Kebbuck-heel, last bit of cheese. +Keek, peep. +Kelpie, water-spirit. +Ken, know. +Kend, known. +Kennin, trifle. +Kest, cast. +Kiaugh, fret. +Kickshaws, delicacies. +Killit, tucked up. +Kirk, church. +Kiste, coffin. +Kittle, tickle. +Knapping-hammer, hammer for breaking stone. +Kye, kine, cattle. +Kynde, nature, species, womankind. + +Lade, load. +Laird, lord, land-owner. +Laith, loath. +Laithfu' sheepish, bashful. +Landscip, landscape. +Lane, lone. +Lang, long. +Lap, leaped. +Lave, rest. +Lav'rock, lark. +Lear, learning. +Leel, loyal. +Lee-lang, live-long. +Leeze me on, commend me to. +Leglen, leglin, milk-pail. +Lemes, gleams. +Leugh, laughed. +Leuk, look. +Levynne, lightning. +Lift, sky. +Lilt, sing merrily. +Limitour, begging friar. +Linkan, tripping. +Linket, tripped. +Linn, waterfall. +Lint, flax. +Loan, loaning, lane, path. +Loo'ed, loved. +Loof, palm. +Loot, let. +Loun, clown, rascal. +Loup, leap. +Loverds, lords. +Lowe, flame. +Lowin, flaming. +Lowings, flashes. +Lowp, leap. +Lug, ear. +Lunardi, balloon, bonnet. +Luv, love. +Lyart, gray, gray-haired. + +Mailen, farm. +Mair, more. +Mantels, mantles. +Mar, more. +Maun, must. +Maut, malt. +Mees, meadows. +Meikle, big. +Melder, grinding of grain. +Melvie, soil with meal. +Mim, prim. +Mirk, dark. +Misca'd, miscalled. +Mist, poor. +Mittie, mighty. +Moe, more. +Mole, soft. +Moneynge, moaning. +Monie, mony, many. +Mou, mouth. +Muckle, much, great. +Muir, heath. + +Na, nae, no, not. +Naething, nothing. +Naig, nag. +Nappy, ale. +Ne, no. +Neebor, neighbour. +Neidher, neither. +Neist, next. +Nesh, tender. +Nete, night, naught. +Neuk, nook, corner. +Niffer, exchange. +No, not. + +Onie, ony, any. +Ouphant, elfin. +Owr, owre, ower, over. + +Paidle, paddle, wade. +Pall, appal. +Pang, cram. +Parritch, porridge. +Pattle, plough-staff. +Peed, pied. +Pencte, painted. +Penny-wheep, small beer. +Peres, pears. +Perishe, destroy. +Pet, be in a pet. +Pheeres, mates. +Pint-stowp, two-Quart measure, flagon. +Plaidie, shawl used as cloak. +Plaister, plaster. +Pleugh, plough. +Pou, pull, pluck. +Poorith, poverty. +Pow, pate. +Prankt, gayly adorned. +Press, cupboard. +Propine, propone, present. +Pund, pound. +Pussie, hare. +Pyke, peaked. + +Quean, lass. +Quorum, company. + +Raible, rattle off. +Rair, roar. +Rant, song, lay. +Rape, rope. +Raw, row. +Reaming, foaming. +Reck, observe. +Rede, counsel. +Red up, cleared up. +Reek, smoke. +Reike, (smoky), Edinburgh. +Restricket, restricted. +Reveled, ravelled, trouble-some. +Reynynge, running. +Reytes, water-flags, iris. +Rig, ridge. +Rigwoodie, lean, tough. +Rin, run. +Rodde, roddie, ruddy. +Rodded, grew red. +Rode, skin. +Roset, rozet, rosin. +Rowan, rolling. +Rudde, ruddy. +Runkled, wrinkled. + +Sabbing, sobbing. +Sae, so. +Saftly, softly. +Sair, serve, sore, sorely. +Sang, song. +Sark, shirt, chemise. +Saul, soul. +Saunt, saint. +Saut, salt. +Scantlins, scarcely. +Scoured, ran. +Screed, rip, rent. +Sede, seed. +Semescope, jacket. +Sets, patterns. +Seventeen-hunder, very fine (linen). +Shachled, feeble, shapeless. +Shaw, show. +Shiel, shelter. +Shool, shovel. +Shoon, shoes. +Shouther, shoulder. +Sic, such. +Siller, silver, money. +Sin', since. +Skeigh, skittish. +Skellum, good-for-nothing. +Skelp, run quickly. +Skiffing, moving along lightly. +Skirl, squeal, scream. +Skriech, screech. +Slaes, sloes. +Slap, gap in a fence. +Slea, slay. +Sleekit, sleek. +Slid, smooth. +Smeddum, powder. +Smethe, smoke. +Smoor, smother. +Smothe, vapor. +Snaw, snow. +Snell, bitter. +Snooded, bound up with a fillet. +Snool, cringe. +Solan, gannet. +Soote, sweet. +Souter, cobbler. +Spak, spoke. +Spean, wean. +Speel, climb. +Spier, ask, inquire. +Spraing, stripe. +Sprattle, scramble. +Spreckled, speckled. +Spryte, spirit. +Squattle, squat. +Stacher, stagger, totter. +Stane, stone. +Steer, stir. +Steyned, stained. +Stibble, stubble. +Still, ever. +Stirk, young steer. +Stole, robe. +Stonen, stony. +Stote, stout. +Stoure, dust, struggle. +Stown, stolen. +Strang, strong. +Strath, river-valley. +Strathspeys, dances for two persons. +Straughte, stretched. +Strunt, strut. +Sugh, sough, moan. +Sumph', blockhead. +Swanges, swings. +Swankie, strapping youth. +Swatch, sample. +Swats, foaming new ale. +Swith, shoo! begone! +Swote, sweet. +Swythyn, quickly. +Syne, since, then. + +Taen, taken. +Tapmost, topmost. +Tauld, told. +Tent, watch. +Tere, muscle. +Thae, those. +Thieveless, useless. +Thilk, that same. +Thir, these. +Thole, endure. +Thrang, throng, thronging, busy. +Thrave, twenty-four sheaves. +Thraw, twist. +Thrawart, perverse. +Tint, lost. +Tippeny, twopenny (ale). +Tither, the other. +Tittlin', whispering. +Tochelod, dowered? dipped? +Tod, fox. +Tout, toot, blast. +Tow, rope. +Townmond, twelvemonth. +Towsie, shaggy. +Toy, cap. +Transmugrify'd, changed, metamorphosed. +Tryste, appointment, fair. +Twa, tway, two. +Tyke, cur, dog. + +Unco, uncommon, very. +Uncos, news, wonders. +Unfald, unfold. +Ungentle, mean. +Unhailie, unhappy. +Unkend, unknown, disregarded. +Usquabae, whiskey. + +Vauntie, proud. +Vera, verra, very. +Vest, robe. +View, appearance. +Virgine, the Virgin (in the zodiac). + +Wabster, weaver. +Wad, would. +Wae, woe, sad. +Waff, stray, wandering. +Wale, choice. +Wark, work. +Warld, world. +Warlock, wizard. +Wa's, walls. +Water-fit, river's mouth. +Waught, draught. +Wauking, waking. +Wawlie, goodly. +Wear up, gather in. +Wede, passed, faded. +Weede, attire. +Weel, well. +Weel-hained, carefully saved. +Ween, believe. +Weet, wet. +Weir, war. +Wha, who. +Wham, whom. +Whang, large piece, slice. +Whare, where. +Whase, whose. +Whestling, whistling. +Whig-mig-morum, talking politics. +Whinging, whining. +Whunstane, hard rock, millstone. +Whyles, sometimes. +Winna, will not. +Winnock-bunker, window-seat. +Woddie, woody. +Wonner, wonder. +Woo, wool. +Wood, mad +Wordy, worthy. +Wrack, wreck. +Wraith, spectre. +Wrang, wrong. +Wyle, lure, entice. + +Yanne, than. +Yatte, that. +Yolent, blended. +Yer, your. +Yestreen, last night. +Yill, ale. +Ymolten, molted. +Yunutile, useless. +Younkers, youngsters. +Yites, its. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Poets of the Eighteenth Century +by Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH POETS *** + +***** This file should be named 10161.txt or 10161.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/1/6/10161/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Jayam Subramanian and PG +Distributed Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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